The Mirage

62

All the doors were closed with the exception of the door to the reception room, which was ajar. The house was devoid of the commotion that usually engulfs households when one of their members has died. Consequently, I was filled with an astonishment that drowned out my inner turmoil. It was past eleven in the morning. How was it that they still hadn’t rushed the heartbreaking news to the houses of family and relatives? I was revisited by feelings of rancor and suspicion.

I looked at the young servant who had opened the door for me, her eyes red from weeping, and asked her, “Hasn’t anyone come to the house?”

She shook her head in the negative in silence and grief. Then I pointed to the reception room’s half-open door and asked her, “Is there anyone in there?”

“Dr. Amin,” she murmured.

My body trembled with rage and hatred. The servant went over to the door to the large parlor, pushed the door open and went in, after which she proceeded to the room where Rabab lay at the other end of the house. As for me, I stayed alone in the small parlor, not knowing what to do. I was terrified at the thought of what I’d done, while the atmosphere around me aroused feelings of anger and hatred. Then I heard footsteps coming from inside. A moment later Madame Nazli, clad in black, emerged through the door to the large parlor.

Shooting me a frigid look, she asked me irritably, “And where have you been, sir?”

Her appearance and her question aroused my fears, as well as the feeling of shame that had ridden me since the moment I left the public prosecutor’s office. Even so, I couldn’t bear any longer to keep the terrible secret to myself, and I had the urge to confess, to meet the danger head-on.

So I said calmly, “I went to the public prosecutor and asked for an investigation to be done.”

Her eyes grew large as saucers and her mouth dropped open.

Then, gaping at me as though she couldn’t believe her ears, she muttered in astonishment, “The public prosecutor!”

With a terrible coolness, and in a voice loud enough to make myself heard by those in the reception room, I said, “Yes. I went to the public prosecutor’s office, and the medical examiner will be here soon.”

Before long the doctor emerged from the guestroom. He stood not far away, looking ashen and somber.

Then the woman, dumbfounded, asked, “And what are you accusing us of?”

Enjoying my ire and desire for revenge, I said fiercely, “There isn’t any accusation. However, I’m certain that the death resulted from a serious mistake, a mistake that comes as no surprise from someone who has no experience as a surgeon, and who takes it upon himself to toy with people’s lives!”

A tense, painful silence ensued, in the course of which people looked at each other, then looked away.

Then the woman gasped nervously and exclaimed, “How could you find it so easy to turn your wife’s body over to the public prosecutor!”

Pierced to the quick, I nearly collapsed. However, I concealed my pain with a feigned rage and shouted, “It’s easier for me than to see her die in vain!”

The doctor opened his mouth to say something. However, just at that moment the doorbell rang so loudly, we all nearly jumped out of our skins.

I went to the door and opened it. I was greeted by a policeman, who asked me, “Is this where we can find the late wife of Mr. Kamil Ru’ba, an employee at the Ministry of War?”

I answered in the affirmative. Then the man stepped aside, saying, “His Honor, the medical examiner.”

There then entered a medium-sized man carrying a doctor’s satchel, who was followed inside by the policeman. Happening to meet Dr. Amin on his way in, the medical examiner asked him, “Are you the husband who informed the public prosecutor?”

“No, I’m the husband, sir,” I said as I closed the door. “This is the doctor who performed the operation.”

Perplexed, the doctor looked back and forth between us with a faint smile on his lips.

Then he asked Dr. Amin, “What operation was it?”

“It was an operation on the peritoneum,” he replied softly.

“And what was the cause of death?”

“The peritoneum was punctured due to an accident beyond my control.”

Addressing the medical examiner, I said in an agitated tone, “Ask him, Your Honor, what made him perform surgery when he isn’t a surgeon!”

The man hesitated for a few moments, then said in a loud voice, “I’ve come to perform another task. Where is the body, please?”

Madame Nazli was still standing near the door to the large parlor, scanning our faces with her tear-reddened eyes in a dazed silence. However, when she heard the doctor asking where the body was, she let out a moan and cried without thinking, “This will never happen!”

The doctor cast her a quick glance, then said to her gently, “Please bear your misfortune with patience, Madame.”

Shooting me a fiery look, she said to the doctor imploringly, “The deceased is the daughter of a prominent government employee, Gabr Bey Sayyid, chief inspector for the coastal area. Perhaps you know him, sir. I beg you to have mercy on the weakness of a woman like me, and wait until his return. I’ve wired him to inform him of the tragedy.”

The doctor replied kindly, “The body has to be examined without delay so as to allow the burial to take place at the proper time. Don’t worry, Madame. Everything will be over in a matter of minutes.”

She then flung herself helplessly onto a chair and broke into bitter sobs. Meanwhile, I preceded the doctor to Rabab’s room. When I reached the door I could hear Sabah sobbing inside. I pushed the door open and called to her without having the courage to look in the direction of the bed. The servant answered my summons and I prodded her aside to make room for the doctor, who entered the room without hesitation. Then I closed the door behind him. She asked me about the man I’d brought, but I scolded her impatiently and nudged her out of the parlor. Then I began pacing up and down, my soul in a turmoil that enveloped my every nerve. A deadly melancholy descended upon me as I imagined my beloved wife’s body in the hands of this strange doctor, who would uncover her and handle her without feeling or compassion.

I let forth an agonized groan, and I felt a sharp pain that seemed to be tearing my heart to shreds. I spent some moments in a stupor, imagining myself the victim of a demonic nightmare. I looked around me as though I were searching for an escape hatch. But had I forgotten the pallid, handkerchief-bound face as death’s fearsome specter crouched upon her brow? Lord! Little by little I was returning to myself, leaving behind the world of madness that had taken hold of me for the real world of loss and grief. The horrific reality took shape before me in a kind of solemn stillness, as though I were comprehending for the first time that Rabab had really died. She was no longer among the living, and my life would be devoid of her forever. She would never come back to my house as her mother had said she would. Never again would I accompany her to the tram stop in the morning, and never again would I greet her in the afternoon after her return from school as she fought off fatigue with a sweet smile. Tender youth had come to an end, and a flaming love had been snuffed out. Hopes and more hopes had withered and dried up. Where was that happy history that had begun at the tram stop, woven its memories out of the ethereal stuff of love, taken me roaming through the valleys of bliss, then created me anew? Where was that enchanting history? Had it really come to an end in a moment through the error of some foolish doctor? And what fault of mine was it?

Death is a dreadful tragedy. Yet it isn’t convincing. Hadn’t I been talking to her just a few hours earlier? Hadn’t she been like a succulent rose just a day or two before? So how could I believe that she and the first person to have died millions of years before were now one and the same? Besides, she was still alive in my soul. I could see her with my own eyes, and hear her, and touch her, and smell her! She still filled my heart and soul. So was there no way to correct a simple mistake?

Just then there was a movement — I didn’t know whether it was coming from the outer parlor or from the chamber of sorrows. Be that as it may, it brought me back to my senses, and I began thinking about the doctor and what he was doing. It also brought me back to my turmoil, my anxiety, and my fears. What would I do if the doctor found nothing of significance? How would I face people later? How I hoped for God to punish the murderer! Even so, I remained in a state of such turmoil that I lost touch with myself and my reason. Time dragged on until I imagined that I’d grown old and decrepit and was dying. Then the door to the room opened and the doctor emerged with a blank expression that told me nothing. He advanced a few steps until he was in the middle of the parlor. I stood before him with my mouth open and my gaze fixed on him.

Running his fingers over his brow, he said plainly, “I’ve finished writing my report. I’ll submit it right away to the public prosecutor, and I believe it calls for an immediate investigation.”