He looked at the letters on the screen, crushed by disappointment. He thought: Zeinab was five years younger; she must have been married for quite some time. The telephone must be in her husband’s name, if she were still alive. He felt a lump in his throat: Was she dead? Suppose she had died, how could that concern him? Wasn’t it ironic that he should grieve for her death thirty years after he had left her? He remembered that there was a professional directory that gave work numbers. He found it and typed her full name then clicked on “search.” A few moments later his heart almost jumped for joy. Her name appeared with “Planning Controller, Ministry of Economy” next to it, then her office numbers. Has Zeinab now become a high-ranking government official? Has she kept her revolutionary ideas or had she turned into an ordinary woman, a government employee who punches the clock, curries favor with her bosses, engages in office intrigues against her colleagues, then rushes home to cook before husband and children return? What did Zeinab look like now? Has time been kind to her and left her some of the old charm? Or has she turned into a fat, veiled woman like the tens of thousands crowding Cairo streets that he saw on television? How sad that would make him. “I still cherish you in my memory, Zeinab, as you sat next to me in the Orman garden! How beautiful you were! Can we go back as we were, Zeinab? There must be a way of going back.”
It was now ten in the morning Cairo time, a good time to call. Perhaps she went to the office a little late, like big shots. He waited another half hour to make sure she would be there, and then he called. He exerted an extraordinary effort to control his emotions. The secretary answered in a soft voice. He asked her about Ustaza Zeinab. She asked for his name. His voice was choking with emotions as he said, “I am an old colleague of hers and I am calling from America.”
“Just a moment,” she said and left him with a musical tune that kept playing endlessly. Finally the music stopped and her voice came on. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. It is Muhammad Salah, Zeinab.”
CHAPTER 28
Not a day passed without Tariq Haseeb dipping into the spring of happiness. He would finish his studying, take a hot bath, and as soon as he looked at his naked body in the mirror and imagined what he would do in a few moments, his desire would blaze. He would comb his hair from right to left to hide his baldness then spray some expensive Pino Silvestre cologne on his neck and upper chest. Then he would bolt out of his apartment, take the elevator to Shaymaa’s apartment, ring the bell, and she would open the door so quickly he would think she had been waiting for him behind it. He would rush to her, embrace her, and shower her with kisses. She would whisper in a soft, chiding voice, “Enough, Tariq.”
“No.”
“Do we have to meet every day?”
“Of course.”
“Isn’t what we do on Saturday enough?”
“I want you every minute.”
“We have to watch it. Finals are approaching.”
“This time we will do better on the tests than before.”
“God willing.”
The daily love encounter didn’t last more than half an hour. Tariq called it “the quick salute to love,” after which he would return to his apartment, take another bath, and sleep like a baby. On Saturdays, the “salute” was not quick; they lived like a real couple. They did their shopping for the week, then went to the movies, then went back to Shaymaa’s apartment, where he would put on the pajamas that he had left there especially. He would get to the bed before her and watch television until she finished her bath. He would feel breathless with desire when he saw her approaching slowly, her face rosy from the hot water. In bed she would take off all her clothes except her panties (which they agreed to consider a red line that should never be crossed under any circumstances). She would cleave to him as a wife anxious to please her husband. When they were done with their peculiar way of lovemaking, they would have an affectionate, pleasant, comfortable conversation during which they didn’t feel the passage of time. Sometimes they spent the whole day in bed, sleeping naked, with her panties on—the red line, of course—in each other’s arms, and then they would wake up, eat, and drink tea and make love more than once.
At the beginning Shaymaa was assailed several times by heavy pangs of conscience. Her prayers became irregular, then she stopped performing them entirely. She had frightening nightmares. Her father appeared to her more than once yelling at her then giving her sound beatings while her mother, in the background, cried in agony but could do nothing to protect her from the beating. Gradually she reached a comforting logical resolution. She went to the Arabic section at the Chicago Public Library and verified the noble hadiths that Tariq spoke of. She found them in al-Bukhari. The canonical punishment was for zina only: what did zina mean? “The flesh entering the flesh like the kohl applicator entering the kohl jar.” There was an authenticated story about a man who had committed zina and he went to the Prophet, peace be upon him, to apply the penalty of the canon law on him. The Prophet, out of mercy on him, pretended not to pay attention; perhaps the man would think it through or run away, but the man insisted that the Prophet punish him. The Prophet then
