your stubbornness? You seem determined to punish me, when all I want is your sympathy for my sincere feelings toward you and my never-ending concern for you.'
What could she say to him? She wanted to talk to him but she did not know how, especially since the last thing she had said had been an insulting rebuke. Now her thoughts were disturbed by the sight of her factory friends coming toward her. In mock confusion she exclaimed, 'Oh, my friends…'
He looked up and saw the girls approaching, staring at him with great curiosity. Disguising her delight, Hamida spoke again, her tone full of reproach, 'You have disgraced me!'
Pleased that she remained by his side speaking to him as one friend to another, he replied scornfully, 'Have nothing to do with them. Don't take any notice of them.'
The girls were very close now, exchanging meaningful glances with Hamida, who recalled some of the adventures they had told her. Whispering and giggling, the girls passed, and the man continued with mischievous cunning: 'Are those your friends? No, you are not a bit like them, nor are they like you. It amazes me that they enjoy their freedom while you stay cooped up at home. How is it they can swagger about in nice clothes while you have to wear this shabby black cloak. How can this be, my dear? Is it just fate? What a patient, tolerant girl you are!'
Her face went quite red, and she seemed to be listening to her heart talking. Her eyes flashed the fire of the emotions burning within her. He went on, with complete confidence: 'Why, you are as beautiful as the stars.'
She seized this opportunity to say something back to him. With all her natural boldness, she smiled and asked, really not knowing what he meant, 'The stars?'
He smiled gently and answered, 'Yes, don't you go to the cinema? They call beautiful film actresses stars.'
She occasionally went to the Olympia cinema with her foster mother to see Egyptian films and now she understood what he meant. His words delighted her and her cheeks flushed.
Silence reigned for a few steps, then he asked, 'Tell me, what's your name?'
Without hesitation, she replied, 'Hamida.'
'And this lovelorn fellow you see before you is called Ibrahim Faraj. In cases like ours, names are the last things known, usually exchanged only after the two people are quite sure they are really one. Isn't that so, my lovely friend?'
If only she were as skillful with words as she was in battle, for example. He was speaking tenderly but somehow she was unable to talk back that way. This annoyed her, for, unlike some girls, she was not satisfied with a merely negative role. Her nature craved something more than waiting in humble silence. Since she found it so difficult to express her obscure feelings, her emotional stress increased and all she could do was stare at him. To add to her frustration they were approaching the end of the street. She had lost track of the time and suddenly ahead was Queen Farida Square. Hiding her regrets, she said, 'Now we will go back.'
'Go back?' he answered in astonishment.
'This is the end of the road.'
'But the world doesn't come to an end with Mousky Street,' he protested. 'Why can't we stroll around the square?'
'I don't want to be late, as my mother will be worried.'
'If you'd like, we can take a taxi and cover a great distance in a few seconds,' he pointed out temptingly.
A taxi! The word rang strangely in her ears. In her whole life she had only ridden in a horse-drawn carriage and the magic of the word 'taxi' took time to die away. But how could she possibly ride in a taxi with a strange man? She was overcome by a powerful desire for adventure. She was amazed at her capacity for reckless adventures, and it was difficult to say what most influenced her thoughts at this moment, whether it was the man who so stirred her or the adventure itself. Perhaps the two were really one. She glanced at him looking cunningly in her direction, a trace of that infuriating smile of his on his lips. Her feelings changed abruptly. 'I don't want to be late.'
Slightly disappointed, he asked, trying to appear sad, 'Are you afraid?'
'I'm not afraid of anything,' she replied indignantly, her anger increasing.
His face lit up, as though now he understood many things. Gaily he said, 'I'll call a taxi.'
She made no objection and fixed her gaze on the approaching taxi. It stopped and he opened the door for her. Her heart pounding, and clutching her cloak, she bent down and entered. The man followed her, saying to himself delightedly, 'We have saved ourselves two or three days groundwork already.' Hamida heard him say, 'Sharif Pasha Street.' Sharif Pasha! Not Midaq Alley, or Sanadiqiya, Ghouriya, or even Mousky, but Sharif Pasha Street! But why this particular street?
'Where are you going?' she asked.
'We will have a little run around and then go back,' he said, his shoulder touching hers.
The taxi started and she tried to forget everything for a while, even the man sitting so close to her. Her eyes were bewildered by the dazzling lights as a splendid, laughing new world appeared through the windows. The movement of the taxi had an effect on both her mind and her body and a delightful feeling of intoxication stole over her. She seemed to be riding in an airplane, high, high above everything. Her eyes shone with delight and her mouth dropped open.
The taxi moved slowly, making its way through the sea of carriages, motorcars, trams, and people. Her thoughts traveled with it. Now her willpower deserted her and her emotions were as intoxicated as her heart, her blood, and all her feelings danced within her. She was suddenly aware of his voice whispering in her ear, 'Just look at the fine ladies in their superb clothes!' Yes, they were swaying and dancing along like luminous stars… how beautiful they were, how wonderful.
Only now did she remember her own old cloak and slippers and her heart sank. She woke from her sweet dream as though at the sting of a scorpion. She bit her lips in annoyance and was overcome by a fighting spirit of rebelliousness. She noticed he had snuggled close to her, and she began to sense the effect of his touch creeping over her. This enraged her, and she pushed him away more forcibly than she intended. He glanced at her to see what was the matter and then took her hand and gently placed it between his own. He was encouraged by her permissiveness and searched for her lips with his mouth. She seemed to resist and drew her head back slightly. However, he did not find this a sufficient restraint and pressed his lips to hers. She trembled violently and felt an insane desire to bite his lips until they bled. The same insane desire, indeed, as whenever she got into a fight. However, he drew away before she could obey her instinct. Rage burned within her, urging her to throw herself at him and dig her nails into his neck, but suddenly she was soothed by his polite voice. 'This is Sharif Pasha Street… and that's my house a little way ahead. Would you like to see it?'
Her nerves on edge, she looked where he pointed and saw several blocks of skyscraper apartments, and she had no idea which one he meant. He told the driver to stop and said to her, 'It's in this building…'
She could see a towering building with an entrance wider than Midaq Alley. Turning away from it in bewilderment, she asked almost inaudibly, 'Which floor is it on?'
'The second,' he replied, smiling. 'You won't suffer any hardship by condescending to visit it.'
She shot him a critical, angry look and he went on: 'How quickly you get angry! Well, anyway, do let me ask you why it would be wrong. Have I not visited you many times since I first saw you? Why can't you visit me, just once?'
What did the man want? Did he think he had fallen on easy prey? Had the kiss she had permitted given him an appetite for better, more dangerous things? Had his conceit and self-confidence blinded him? And was it love that made her lose her senses? Fury flamed within her, and she gathered all her strength for the challenging battle ahead. She wished she could obey her instinct to go wherever he wished just to show him how mistaken he was and bring him back to his senses. Yes, her rebellious nature told her to plunge straight onto the battlefield. Could she possibly make the challenge and then refuse to accept it? What angered her were not the moral issues involved or her shyness; these could never infuriate her. No, what hurt was the slight to her pride and her belief in her own strength and her uncontrollable desire to use insulting language and have a good fight. Indeed, the desire for adventure which had led her to enter the taxi was still with her. The man looked at her closely, saying to himself thoughtfully, 'My darling girl is that dangerous type that explodes when touched. I must be very careful in handling her.'
He spoke again, politely expressing his hope: 'I would very much like to offer you a glass of lemonade.'
