Khan Al-Khalili

13

It was after midnight when he returned home. He shut himself in his room, feeling annoyed. Would it not be better, he wondered, to stop opening the window and instead to lock his own heart in the face of this new emotion that was rapidly turning into agony? Surely dying in peace was better than living a life of agony and torture? But in spite of everything, by the following morning he had forgotten all about his concerns. From then on he kept his daily appointment by the windowsill every afternoon. He no longer doubted for a single moment that the girl was well aware that her new neighbor was deliberately appearing at the window every afternoon and directing that bashful, timid glance at her. What, one wonders, was her heart telling her? Was she laughing at his appearance, scoffing at his middle age? Or did his shyness and apathy merely aggravate her? The amazing thing was that, as days passed, he still kept the same appointment, adhering rigidly to the time, and feeling incapable of doing anything else until he had taken a timid glance upward to the balcony. But no sooner did their eyes meet than he would immediately look away, eyelids twitching.

He was beset too by the image of Ahmad Rashid. His jealous heart wondered whether he too was the recipient of such lovely looks from the girl, or was he, Ahmad Rashid, the beneficiary of something even lovelier and more charming? Even so, those happy afternoon moments managed to take his mind off such lingering doubts. He now started to calm his own fears. He convinced himself that if she were in love with the young lawyer she would hardly be bestowing such charming glances on him one afternoon after another; and that gave him back his hope. He realized, however, that it was not normal to settle for such exchanged glances and that he had to adopt a new approach. But could he do it? Was he actually capable of launching himself into life again just as he had managed to run away from it for all of twenty years? Why didn’t he stare at her until she was the one to look bashfully away, if only just once? Why didn’t he greet her with a smile? The very idea of staring at her and then smiling made him blush and sent him into such a dither that he was utterly incapable of doing anything. Good grief, could a middle-aged man really be that fearful of a youngster? Does a forty-year-old run away from some girl aged sixteen? How often had he told himself in the past that shyness was a disease that would disappear as one got older? But in his case it had lingered and turned into a brand new middle-aged disease.

Why did God create people like him who could not handle life? In this moment of despair he came up with a new tactic: people who were scared of staring and smiling, he told himself, could always write. Why didn’t he try writing to her? The idea appealed to him, and he gave the matter serious thought. All he would have to do was to write a few words on a piece of paper, fold it up carefully, and toss it up to the balcony. That was fine. But how was he to begin? Should he say, “My beloved Nawal”? No, that would be too familiar. How about “Dear Nawal”? No, mentioning the name was still forward of him. So just “My dear”? That was more in line with his sense of decorum. But then what? Letters usually began with greetings, so he could do that, but then what? Should he declare his love to her? No, that was something to keep under wraps for the time being. He should begin by expressions of admiration, but how was he supposed to compose the right expressions, the apposite phrases? What kind of style would impress her? What choice of words would have the right impact on her? And, even supposing he managed to solve all those issues, what was he going to ask her? To send him a reply? To meet him? In fact, there was something else that was far more important than any of these questions. What led him to believe that she would welcome the receipt of such a letter? How was he to know that she would not tear it up and throw it right in his face? Either that, or she might even get angry, in which case she would reveal his secret and expose his behavior. His ever-diffident mind had been on the point of grabbing a pen, but now it retreated to seek a safer solution.

The problem was that the window still maintained its loyal connection to the balcony above; both of them seemed to be adhering to a pledge that neither of them had actually undertaken. Eyes had met; acquaintance and even familiarity had followed. Spirits had felt a mutual attraction unimpeded by either silence or shyness. By now he had started to believe that — taking his beloved’s sweet and unsullied glances into consideration — he had misjudged her teacher, Ahmad Rashid, allowing his emotions and thoughts to get the better of him. That young man was much too involved in socialist ideas and the eradication of outworn beliefs to be bothered about matters of love and flirtation. That thought allowed him a brief taste of the purest nectar of hope, and soon afterward fate dealt his hope and self-confidence a boost.

One afternoon late in Ramadan his father kept him busy and he wasn’t able to make his expected appearance by the window. Next day he waited patiently at the normal time, but discovered that the balcony was shut! He waited and waited in the hope that the balcony would open and the girl come outside, but it was in vain. He would have thought that the same kind of thing was keeping her inside as had been the case with him the day before, but he caught a glimpse of her shadow behind the balcony door. It was now clear that she had shut the balcony door on purpose just as he had done with the window the day before. All of which meant, if he was interpreting things correctly, that she had noticed his absence yesterday; in fact, she may have been annoyed and decided to get her revenge. And now, here she was, doing just that. He was inclined to believe this interpretation of events, and yet the revenge did not cause him any anguish; quite the contrary in fact, he was utterly delighted. He was so happy that he started snapping his fingers and pacing his room totally oblivious to everything around him.

The next day he approached the window with an entirely new outlook, full of confidence and hope. He could feel that she was there even before he lifted his eyes. He had decided to give her a quizzical look, as though to ask her, “Why did you disappear yesterday?” Now was the time to implement the plan. He lifted his small head, and their eyes locked on to each other. He summoned every ounce of courage in his body to raise his eyebrows and move his head in a questioning gesture. He gathered his determination, as one does just before plunging for a dive in a swimming pool for the first time. But he waited just a moment too long, and his mind snatched the opportunity to inject a sense of doubt and fear into his thinking. He was afraid of making a mess of things once again. With that his determination flagged, and he abandoned his plan.

That night he blamed himself for what had happened and banged his bald pate. “Where’s your masculinity?” he asked himself angrily. Here he was in love with her, with her honey-colored eyes, her sweet naive looks, her sense of fun. He loved her because his dreams — they being the sole art in this world that he had truly mastered — refused to be apart from her for a single hour. He loved her because he was hungry — at the age of forty — and hunger was a primary instigator of dreams.