I listened as the women took turns supplying the details of the story while they worked. One of them said that our relative then passed out, and when she awoke the cat was gone and all the kitchen utensils were scattered around on the floor. She remained unsettled for a long time, and rumor had it that whenever she entered a room things jumped around and fell to the floor, and that she spent the rest of her life in fear of the dark woman returning to punish her. Since that day, all the women in the family hated cats but treated them with utter respect and never shooed them away, by way of apology to the cat woman.
One of the men sitting with my father talked about his daughter and his wife, who was helping in the kitchen, stressing proudly that his daughter was getting the best education available and that he never denied her anything. “How old is your daughter, Mustafa?” asked my father, and Mustafa, still full of pride, replied, “She’s ten, Uncle.” He then called loudly to his wife. When she came out of the kitchen holding a towel, he reproached her with affected tenderness: “Haven’t you done enough? Come sit with us and have a rest. Or will you spend the entire time on your feet every time we come here?”
I thought his attitude was pretentious and in bad taste—all the women were in the kitchen to help the old woman. Later my father would say that it was how some of the men in his family acted when they tried to appear cultured and progressive. He said that man probably considered his wife and kid to be part of his possessions, like a good shirt. He wanted them to look good in front of others, but couldn’t care less when they were at home. He told me that when he was younger, relatives like this one—but from his generation—caused him a lot of anxiety: it seemed to be an inherited pattern and he used to fear he would find himself repeating it.
We finally all sat around the long dining room, the women having prepared the food and set the table; I had timidly helped with the final preparations. Conversation flowed, with the old woman at the head of the table, my father next to her, and me next to him. The food was delicious. I still remember the taste. I have traveled a lot and eaten in many places, but have never, before or since, experienced that taste. The pretentious man kept putting food into his wife’s mouth with the same fake tenderness. His child was spoiled and annoying, talking in a loud voice and only stopping when the old woman gave her a look that would have shut me up! The old woman was both gentle and intimidating. She was a dominant presence and appeared to have control over everyone. But when she was out of earshot, the women would joke among themselves, “The old dear seems to have lost it.”
By early evening, we were in the car and driving back to Cairo. My father glued his face to the window and watched the road again. I could feel that he was drained by the visit. He didn’t say much, except to ask me if I’d had a nice day. I said yes, and agreed that we must visit the countryside every now and then and not stay away too long; that it was important to be present and keep our connection with the rest of the family so they wouldn’t forget us. He replied that, yes, we definitely should visit again soon. But his tone told me that he knew this was going to be the last time.
19
Zayn was exactly fifty when we met. I was twenty. He wrote poetry, and was sensitive and gentle and very attentive. He didn’t look particularly old, he wasn’t wrinkled or flabby, but he was fifty. Thirty years lay between us. The literature student who wore her hair in a bun and did nothing but glare at everyone—a temperamental, insolent bookworm was what everyone saw—fell in love with a poet thirty years her senior. It seemed a willful clinging to a cliché that would follow a predictable route and could only end one way. But Zayn was charming. He was sensitive and innocent, and I’ve always found the innocence of men hard to resist. I fell in love with Zayn, and he fell in love with me.
I don’t remember the first time we met. Was it at a gathering at a downtown café? Or did we meet on a colorful sidewalk in Argentina while khaki tanks roamed the streets around us? Or was it in an American pub, where he spotted me among the late-night dancers? Or maybe we met by a waterfall in Zimbabwe as we watched the creatures of the wild make their way along the riverbank. Or on a beach in Essaouira, the sea endless before us. We could have met anywhere. All I know is that we had finally found each other and I didn’t want us to ever part.
Zayn was an amazing human being, full of beautiful stories and sad poetry. We would sit together on the small sofa at his place, I resting my head on his thigh as he read me his poetry.
Standing on my balcony
On the calm weekend morning
I used to see her
Hanging her children’s clothes
Her husband’s yellow formality
His freshly washed white shirts
On lines of light and song
She radiated the purity of her content heart
As she came or went
Now after a bad summer
I see her
All withered eyes and limbs
Hanging black clothes on lines of silence and tears
I closed my eyes and whispered, “Zayn, could you talk about something other than death?” He
