The Mirage

16

On a Saturday morning in mid-October, I left home shored up by prayers of supplication and headed for the Egyptian University. I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the tram, the same one that used to take me to the Saidiya School. Despite the resentment I felt over having to go where I was going, I wasn’t without a feeling of pride.

As I stood there waiting, I heard the clattering of a window shutter as it opened forcefully and struck the outside wall. I looked up at the second story of an orange building located directly in front of the tram stop where, up until around a month before, there had been a sign advertising a doctor’s clinic. My glance fell on a girl who stood on the balcony drinking tea, and I realized immediately that a family had moved into the flat that had been vacated by the physician. Fixing my gaze on her, I began following her movements as she raised the glass to her lips and took a sip, then puckered her mouth and blew on the hot liquid once more. She stood there repeating the process over and over, engrossed in the enjoyment of her drink. She was a tall girl with a slender, svelte figure and a wheat-colored complexion. Clad modestly in a jacket and a gray tailored suit, she looked as though she were about to go to school. She had the side of her face to me, and when she held her head up straight, I saw a round face surrounded by a halo of chestnut hair whose appearance from afar suggested a lovely composition, though I wasn’t able to make out its features from where I stood. The sight of her had a joyous effect on me. However, she only remained in view for a short while, and before I knew it she’d turned and gone back inside.

I kept her image in my mind out of curiosity as the tram approached, then I boarded with a sense that, thanks to the agreeable effect she’d had on me, I’d been relieved of the gloom of this day on which my studies were to begin. At the same time, the Faculty of Law possessed advantages that were likely to relieve me of my fears, though they did nothing to detract from the reasons for my overall aversion to studying. One such advantage was that students generally attended classes for only four hours a day, their school day ending at around 1:00 p.m. Another advantage was that students were unsupervised, and enjoyed the freedom to choose whether they would attend lectures or not. And most important of all was the absence of the notion of punishments. In fact, I gathered from the general mood of the students that the threats that hung over professors were more fearsome than those faced by the students themselves. All this was cause for delight as far as I was concerned, and I consoled myself with the thought that this period of study, like those that had preceded it, would ultimately come to an end, however bitter it turned out to be. It wasn’t new to me to have to drink the bitter cup of academics to the dregs, however much I detested it. And when I came home to Manyal later that day, a sudden elation came over me as I fancied myself to be a man of importance: half a professor, and a quarter of a public prosecutor!

* * *

The following morning as I approached the station, I remembered the balcony. Stirred by a quiet, natural curiosity, I looked toward it, but found it empty. My glance then stole inside the flat, where I saw a mirror on the opposite wall and to the left, a burnished silver bedpost and a ceiling lamp covered with a large blue lampshade. There appeared in the center of the room a fifty-year-old man wearing gold spectacles and buttoning his suspenders. Upon seeing him, I lowered my gaze and began pacing up and down the sidewalk. Then, happening to glance over at the stop where the tram heading for Ataba would come in, I saw the girl again. I recognized her by her height and what she was wearing, and this time she had a book in her hand. She had a dignified bearing that was lovely for her age, as she couldn’t have been more than twenty. She didn’t turn to look at any of the people crowding about or passing by her. Her reserve had a salutary effect on me and filled me with respect and admiration, as a result of which I felt a kind of attraction and affection for her. It was nothing new for me to be affected by women, of course. After all, I would often see beautiful women on the street or in the tram, and in general I would look at them like a passerby tormented by deprivation, loneliness, and desire. After glances of this sort, I would come away with a combination of intense elation and a painful jolt. As for this girl, though, she was something different. My attitude toward her wasn’t that of a mere passerby. Rather, it was the attitude of a resident, or someone who’s on the order of a neighbor. After all, I was seeing her today, and I’d be seeing her tomorrow, and so on indefinitely, a fact that intensified my interest in her, stirring in my heart imagined hopes and a desire for a happiness that could be renewed every day. It was as if my seeing her were a kind of getting-to-know-one-another, a vague hope, and an object of passive delight beyond which a shy, diffident sort like me would entertain no aspiration.

I went to the university in high spirits, and I wondered: Might she possibly take notice of me? I remembered her again in the heart of the night, in my emotional solitude as the delirium of erotic visions toyed with my imagination. However, I discovered within myself a fierce resistance to the idea of admitting her into this part of my world — indeed, a violent rejection of it. Hence, I banished her from the realm of my vile habit and, turning away from her image, I contented myself there with the lewd creatures that always inflamed the basest of my physical sensibilities.

* * *

On the morning of the third day, I set out for the tram stop filled with such anticipation you would have thought I had an appointment to keep. I looked over at the tram stop across the street and saw her standing in the same place I’d seen her the day before, with her tall, slender frame, her moon-like face, and her charming, dignified bearing, and relief coursed through my whole body. Then it occurred to me to find a way to approach her without her noticing, thereby quenching my thirst to get a close look at her face. Fearful that the tram she was waiting for might come along and rob me of the opportunity, I hastened without further ado to carry out what I had in mind. I headed gingerly in the direction of the other tram stop, my heart sinking in my chest from fright, then walked past her with a stealthy look in her direction. In terrified haste, I saw a pair of limpid, honey-colored eyes that were dripping with sweetness, a dainty nose, and delicate lips. She may or may not have felt the warmth of my gaze, but she happened to look up and our eyes met. No sooner had she looked up than I looked away, since it’s easier for me to stare at the sun at high noon than to bear the weight of someone’s gaze. I strode to the edge of the sidewalk and stood there uncertainly, not knowing how to get back to the other side. It now seemed that I’d committed an act of madness, since I’d gotten myself into a predicament from which it would be difficult to escape. This, however, was how I perceived even the most unthreatening of situations. In any case, I stood frozen in place until the girl boarded the tram and the sidewalk was empty again, whereupon I returned breathlessly to my place. I thought to myself: Who could imagine such loveliness, such grace and modesty?

I lived the rest of that day in the shadow of her presence, hardly taking notice of the lectures I heard. The more I longed to give free rein to my emotions, the more I detested the lectures that stood in the way of my dreams and aspirations. I was filled with the desire to rebel against this academic life that so tormented my mind and disregarded my heart and feelings. It was as though I were taking notice of my heart for the first time, recognizing it as a living part of me just like my other bodily organs: one that gets hungry like the stomach, that grows tender like the soul, and that longs expectantly like the spirit. I wished I could devote my life to its happiness, giving myself over to the warm contentment from which its springs erupt.

I sighed from the depths of my being as I sat at the back of the lecture hall, present in body but absent in spirit. A voice inside me told me that beyond this dreary, narrow, constricted life there lay another that was bright, expansive, and free, and my soul went soaring away, anguished and eager, in search of it. My thoughts returned to the girl. This time, however, my imagination wasn’t content with the mere sight of her. Instead, it created whatever suited its fancy. I saw myself attracting her attention. I approached her as I’d done that morning, but I didn’t get flustered the way I had then, and I gestured to her with a rare boldness that got a warm smile from her in return. I whispered to her whatever I wanted to, and she whispered back. We got on the tram together, and somewhere along the bank of the Nile, I told her I loved her, and she, her cheeks aglow, said she loved me too. In response, I planted on her cheek a kiss filled with an admiration, respect, and tenderness that were too sublime for bodily lusts. Indeed, my imagination refused to summon her image in anything but a long dress, and surrounded by a halo of modesty and decorum.

* * *

On the morning of the fourth day, I went to the tram stop early and found the balcony empty. I shifted my gaze over to a window to the left of the balcony, where I got a side view of the girl’s face. Standing attentively the way a person does when he’s looking at himself in a mirror, she began arranging her hair and giving it the final, self-indulgent touches. Delighted, I began following her hand with my whole body until I imagined myself actually touching her silken hair and breathing in its sweet perfume. Then I saw her turn away from the mirror and look out the window at the street. Judging from the direction in which she was facing, I concluded that her eyes must be on the sidewalk. Given my instinctive shyness, I was tempted to lower my eyes. However, encouraged by the distance between us, I managed with a slight effort to keep my gaze fixed on her. Do you suppose she sees me? I wondered. Does she remember the young man whose eyes met hers yesterday for an exquisite moment? No, I concluded, she doesn’t even know I exist, nor will she ever know it. She tarried slightly, then retreated inside, disappearing from view. I paced up and down the sidewalk, then returned to my place. One tram came, then a second, as I stood there waiting. Meanwhile, a ten-year-old girl whom I knew immediately to be her sister appeared on the balcony wearing a blue school uniform. Then I saw a girl emerge from the building and head toward the tram stop opposite mine. It was the first time I’d seen her walk. She had a calm, measured gait that well befit her delightful poise, her lithe figure, and her tall frame. Admiration and respect stirred within me, and I kept looking in her direction until the tram came and she boarded. Rewarded for my wait with joy and satisfaction, I got on the tram laden with a beautiful bouquet of dreams.

I wasn’t unaware of my interest in her and the delight I took in her modesty and dignity. I knew that observing this particular household would henceforth be a regular pursuit of mine, and I said to myself: How badly I need a life companion who’s as perfect as she is. My longing was intensified by the fact that thus far I’d lived my life without a single companion. At the same time, it worried me to have given expression to this desire. I also felt terribly embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time I’d expressed the desire for a friend, but on previous occasions it had been in the form of a passing comment, and the longing was a general, ill-defined one, that is, a desire without any particular object. This, however, was a dangerous statement that stirred up a sense of shame and fear. It was a particular longing and a desire that might tempt one to hope. Moreover, it was a yearning that was fuelled anew every morning. And the most peculiar thing about it was that it was a homey sort of feeling, if one may speak of such. From the very beginning it focused around the girl and her house, and never once did I think of her without the image of her house also coming to mind. Consequently, the two images merged in my mind’s eye; they received the same share of my attention, and they appeared equally in my dreams, where she soon began appearing as my wife. And it was no wonder. After all, I was the type who, if he saw a girl on the tram, would let his wandering mind go to work, and by the time the tram had gotten halfway from al-Malik al-Salih Bridge to Abbas Bridge, he’d already imagined asking for her hand. How, then, could I have failed to imagine the “morning girl” as my wife? Overflowing with admiration and respect, all I could think about was the sacredness of home, the sentiments it engenders, and the tenderness of conjugal love. These feelings were connected by a thread of heartfelt attachment. Perhaps it was the love my heart had yet to experience.

On the morning of the fifth day, I stood longer than usual in front of the mirror before leaving the house, scrutinizing my appearance with the greatest of care. I must confess here to the fact that I was exceedingly impressed with myself. My egotism wasn’t restricted to my behavior, but extended to the way I looked as well. I devoted the minutest, most painstaking attention to those large green eyes, that straight, delicate nose and that long, fair-skinned, well-proportioned face. In fact, my stylishness was legendary both at home and at school. I remember the Arabic teacher once saying to me, “If you mastered Arabic the way you’ve mastered putting on a necktie, you wouldn’t be my worst student!” As I stood there scrutinizing myself at such length that morning, my mother began looking at me admiringly and teasing me with flirtatious-sounding remarks. Ah! I thought to myself, if only she knew who I’m preening myself for! Then I left the house satisfied, confident of the good impression my appearance was likely to make on the girl if fate should happen to direct her glance my way. However, my satisfaction was short-lived, since it wasn’t long before I remembered something that for years had robbed me of my peace of mind, and my enthusiasm began to wane. I remembered all the times I’d been accused of being difficult to get on with, and at that moment, I didn’t rule out the possibility that this was the reason for my life-long failure to make friends. Consequently, my placid waters were roiled and the whole world looked bleak. With heavy steps I walked the rest of the way to the tram stop. My gaze began searching for her until I spied her drinking tea on the balcony the way she had been the first time I saw her. And there I forgot my grief and worry as delight welled up in every drop of my blood. There, too, I realized that she was my delight and joy, that she was my spirit and my life, and that the world without the sight of her face wasn’t worth a pile of ashes!

* * *

For two months or more — day after day, and with utter promptness — I faithfully kept this appointment of which the other party knew nothing. I manned my observation post until my eyes grew weary, gladly giving her my admiration and respect until I had nothing left to give. I luxuriated in happy dreams until I’d forgotten truth and reality, roaming about in the world of ardor until it had robbed me of reason and good sense. I memorized her from tip to toe: her every gesture and sidelong glance, the way she stood and the way she walked, her stillness and her movement. Through the windowpanes of her flat I came to know her entire family: her father, her mother, her sister, and her brother. And all of this without her knowing a thing about me, or even sensing that I existed. It was as if, as far as she was concerned, I inhabited another planet. I was tormented by anxiety and weariness, consumed by the desire to prove my existence, but I was helpless to take a step beyond where I stood. In my daydreams I would imagine myself accosting her or following her or declaring my admiration and respect for her. In reality, however, no sooner would she emerge from the door of the building than my heart would shrink in diffidence and alarm. I would even get ready to look down in the event that she happened to look my way. It would probably have been easier for me to throw myself off al-Malik al-Salih Bridge than to endure a single look from her eyes. I wondered in gloom and desperation: When will she notice that I exist? When will she realize that there’s a stranger who has far more love for her in his heart than even her mother and father? Isn’t it strange that someone can simply brush past a heart that would gladly be the ground on which she treads?

My thoughts during that time focused on my heart, with its sorrows and its hopes, its fears and its joys, and I felt a tremendous need for someone who could give me counsel and advice. My mother was the only friend I had in the world. But I didn’t go to her with my crisis, of course, since I sensed that my heart’s desires would be met with hostility on her part. However, in some of the magazines my grandfather read I found pages devoted to readers’ questions, and I hoped that here I might find the advisor I lacked. To one of them I sent a question that had been keeping me awake at night: “From an unlikable man: Is there no hope that his beloved might love him in return?” The magazine’s reply was: “Love is a mystery that has nothing to do with likeability or unlikeability. Love may be blind to ugliness and unattractiveness, so don’t worry about your own unlikeability! And if we might be allowed to speculate concerning the woman’s nature, it may be accurate to say that she’s charmed by strength and valor!” I was happy with the reply’s opening, but when I got to the conclusion, I felt let down. I wondered what the writer meant by “strength.” Oh! I thought, I’m not strong anyway, and if the truth be told, my addiction to a certain despicable habit has turned me pale and made me thinner than I ought to be. When I thought of valor, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly as I enumerated all the things that frightened me in this world, from people and places to mice and cockroaches. And my heart was wrung with despair.

But I didn’t lose hope. After all, the fire that blazed in my soul was too hot to be extinguished by a blow from despair’s icy hand. I wrote back to the magazine with the following question: “How can I attract the girl I love?” And the reply was: “Go to her father or her legal guardian and ask for her hand, and I guarantee that she’ll love you.” Lord! I thought, how cruel can you get? The people at the magazine don’t know that I’m still a student and that I have four, or possibly eight, years to go before I’m on my own. Besides, they don’t know that it would be easier to storm the gates of hell than to knock on my beloved’s door and ask her father for her hand. Don’t they know what it means to be shy? I guess I’m doomed to go on living with an undeclared, unrequited love while my sweetheart is just a step away from me!