marry her. She had asked herself if she really wanted to marry him. The answer, in the negative, had come immediately. Marriage would have confined her to the home, exhausting her with the duties of a wife, housekeeper, and mother; all those tasks she knew she was not created for. She now saw how farsighted he had been.
Despite this, Hamida still felt strangely restless and dissatisfied. Not entirely ruled by her sexual instincts, she longed for emotional power. It was perhaps because she knew she had not achieved control over her lover that her attachment to him increased, along with her feeling of resentment and disillusion.
This, then, was her state of mind as she stood before the mirror. Suddenly she saw his reflection as he hurried toward her; his face wore the look of a merchant who was just about to engage in a profitable transaction. He no longer bore the tender look of a man pleased with his new conquest. It was true he had encountered no resistance to the seduction. Many times since then she recalled that for a full fortnight she was saturated in what she believed to be his full capacity for love. Then his commercial instincts overcame her lover and he gradually revealed himself as the sex merchant he was.
He himself had never known love, and it seemed strange to the romantically inclined girl that his whole life should be built on this sentiment. Whenever a new girl fell into his net, he played the part of the ardent lover — until she succumbed; after that he continued to court her for a short time. From then on he had made sure of his influence by making her dependent upon him emotionally and financially; often he even threatened to expose her to the police. When his mission was accomplished he dropped his role of lover for that of the flesh merchant.
Hamida concluded that his sudden indifference to her was the result of his constantly being surrounded by girls eager for his attention. She was obsessed with mixed feelings of love, hostility, and suspicion as she stood looking at his reflection in the mirror.
To give the impression that he was in a hurry, Ibrahim Faraj said quickly, 'Have you finished, my darling?'
She determined to show her disapproval of his preoccupation with her trade by ignoring him. She sadly recalled those days and nights when he spoke only of his love and admiration for her. Now he spoke only of the work and profit. It was this work, together with the tyranny of her own emotions, which now prevented her emancipation. She no longer had that freedom for which she had risked her whole life.
Hamida only felt a sense of powerful independence when she was soliciting on the streets or in a tavern. The rest of the time she was tortured by a sense of imprisonment and humiliation. If only she were sure of his affection, if only he knew the humiliation of loving her, then she could feel victorious. Hostility toward him was her only escape from her predicament.
Faraj was aware of her animosity, but he hoped she would become accustomed to his coldness, so that she would offer a minimum of resistance to the separation he planned. He thought it best to move slowly before delivering the decisive blow.
'Come, my darling, time is money.' His tone was gentle but businesslike.
'When will you stop using those vulgar terms?' she asked, turning suddenly toward him.
'When will you, my darling, stop talking nonsense?'
'So now you think you can talk to me that way?' she shrieked.
Putting on a bored expression, he answered, 'That's right… Are we off on that old subject again? Must I say 'I love you' every time we meet? Can't what we feel be love without interfering with our work by talking about it constantly? I wish your brains were as sharp as your tongue and that you would dedicate your life, as I do mine, to our work and put it before everything else.'
She stood listening, her face pale, to his ice-cold words, without a trace of feeling. This was merely a repetition of what she had now heard countless times from him. She recalled how cleverly he had planned all this by first criticizing her. One day he had examined her hands and said, 'Why don't you take better care of your hands; let your nails grow and put polish on them. Your hands are a weak point, you know.'
On another occasion he said after a stormy quarrel, 'Be careful. You have a serious flaw I've not noticed before — your voice, my darling. Scream from your mouth, not from your larynx. It's a most ugly sound. It must be worked on. Those traces of Midaq Alley must be removed. Remember, your clients now come to see you in the best section of Cairo.'
These words had hurt and humiliated her more than any she had ever heard in her life. Whenever she brought up the matter of her love for him he would avoid a discussion and soothe her with flattery about her work. Recently he had even dropped his false show of affection, and once he told her, 'Get to work, my dear, 'love' is only a silly word.'
Damn him! Indignantly she commented, 'You have no right to talk like that to me. You know perfectly well that I work hard and make more money for you than all the other girls put together. So just remember that! I'm fed up with all your cunning. Just tell me honestly whether you still love me or not.'
Now, he told himself, was the time to tell her. His almond-shaped eyes looked intently into her face as his mind worked furiously. He decided to choose peace for the time being. Doing his best to humor her, he said, 'We're on that same old subject, as usual…'
'Tell me,' exploded Hamida. 'Do you think I'll die of grief if you deny me your love?'
The time was not right. If she asked him that question when she returned from work in the early morning, he would have more room to maneuver. Now if he told her the truth, he would risk losing the entire profits for the day.
'I love you, darling…' he said softly, moving toward her.
How filthy it sounded coming from him now. Utter mortification swept over her and she felt she would never be able to stop despising herself, even if he were to guarantee to come back to her arms. For a fleeting moment she felt that his love was something worth sacrificing the world for, but a feeling of spitefulness welled up quickly within her and she stepped a few paces nearer to him, her eyes glinting like the diamond brooch pinned to her turban. Determined to carry on the argument to its ultimate end, Hamida went on: 'So you really love me? Then let's get married!'
His eyes revealed his astonishment, and he looked at her only half believing what he had heard. 'Would marriage change our situation?' he asked in reply.
'Yes, it would. Let's get married and get out of this kind of life.'
His patience quite exhausted, he made a firm decision. He would deal with this matter with the candor and severity it deserved and so carry out what had long been running through his mind, even though it would probably mean the loss of the night's profits. He broke into loud, sarcastic laughter and said, 'A brilliant idea, my darling! We'll get married and live like lords. Ibrahim Faraj and His Wife and Children, Incorporated! But really, what is marriage? I seem to have forgotten all about it, just like the other social graces. Let me think for a moment… Marriage… is a very serious thing, I seem to remember. It unites a man and a woman. There is a marriage official, a religious contract, and all kinds of rites… When did you learn that, Faraj? In the Qur'an or in school? I've forgotten where. Tell me, my darling, are people still getting married?'
Hamida was now trembling from head to foot. Suddenly she could restrain herself no longer. In one swift leap she reached for his throat. He anticipated her sudden action and met her attack with complete calm. Seizing her arms, he forced them apart and then released her, the mocking smile still on his lips. Hamida raised her arm and slapped his face with all her strength. His smile faded, and an evil, threatening look came into his eyes. She stared back at him challengingly, impatiently waiting for the battle to begin. He was well aware that to engage in physical combat with her would only mean a strengthening of the ties he wished to sever and so he withdrew without defending himself. He retreated a step, turned his back on her, and walked off, saying, 'Please come to work, my darling.'
Hamida refused to believe her eyes as she stood there looking at the door through which he had disappeared. She knew what his retreat meant. She was suddenly consumed with an irresistible urge to kill this man.
Hamida felt she must leave that house at once. Walking heavily toward the door, she realized that she was leaving that room, their room, for the last time. She turned around as though to say farewell to it. Suddenly she felt as though she would faint. Oh God! How had everything come to an end so quickly? This mirror, how often she had looked into it so full of happiness. And the bed, which harbored so much lovemaking and so many dreams. That settee where she had often been in his arms, listening to his advice amidst caresses. There was the dressing table with a picture of them both in evening dress. In one swift dash she fled from the room.
The hot air of the street almost scorched her and she could scarcely breathe. She walked along saying to herself, 'I'll murder him!' That would be a consolation, if she didn't have to pay for his life with her own. She knew
