That Smell and Notes From Prison by Sonallah Ibrahim

dress. She looked exceptionally clean. She must have taken a
shower before heading out. Her hair was long and silky and there was no way
she’d had it done at a hairdresser. I noticed a little girl next to her. When
she turned her whole face toward me and I saw her wine-dark complexion, my chest
clenched. Her face had no shadow, no paint. I found myself staring into her
eyes, which were large and clear, and for a moment I lost myself.
    Her eyes were stars in silent space where I was swimming and
sinking. It was night. Our eyes met and hers glimmered in the light and I saw
myself in their wide-open whites and I saw her in their black depths. Her bare
arm was next to me. Its skin was dark with a little red mixed in. It seemed
warm. I wanted to touch it at the plump joint just below the shoulder. Her white
blouse was airy and she wasn’t wearing an undershirt. I could see the points of
her nipples beneath the blouse where they brushed against the silk. The skin of
her face was soft, her lips were full and parted, the lower one making a little
arch, and they were dark-colored as though scorched by some fire. When she
looked at me she smiled and let her look linger. I got dizzy. When I pulled her
toward me she went still, then pushed me away. We were sitting in the dark. She
reached out her hand and played with my hair. It crept to the collar of my
shirt, then to my back. She caressed my back with her palm. I drew her toward me
and buried my face in her neck, taking pleasure in the softness of her skin on
my cheek. I breathed in her clean smell and raised my head and kissed her lips
and was lost. When I returned to the attack, she pushed me away. I studied her
moods. When she tightened her lips and would not speak, I went mad wanting to
know why. When she looked vulnerable or pitiable, I adored her. When I sat in
front of her, looking at her face, her hands, her legs, I almost wept with
desire. It hurt to look at her bright eyes, her mouthwatering cheeks. It hurt
when my fingers crept over her arm and my leg inched toward her leg and she
refused me. I was finally on the point of madness. I had almost given up when
she took me in her arms and let me touch her breasts and hands and kiss her
cheek and lips. But she was cold.
    She turned her eyes away and didn’t look at me again. I got off at
my stop and bought some food and went upstairs. The light was on in the
wood-paneled room used by Husaniyya’s uncle and the door was open. When I looked
in I saw him with his head in his hands, looking at a picture of a girl in a
gold frame on the small table in front of him. It was a picture of Husaniyya. In
the picture, her eyes were big and beautiful. I moved away before he sensed I
was there. I went up to my room and took my clothes off and turned on the
transistor, but there were no songs or music and it started to crackle. I sat
and tried to write. The traces of my pleasure looked like black spots on the
floor. Hasan came in and I told him we needed to get a woman right away. He said
he would do his best, and left. He came back in half an hour and said, My
brother’s on the stairs with a girl. Make yourself scarce for a while. We told
her there were only two of us. I went to the kitchen and made some tea. Hasan
came in and said his brother and the girl were in my room now. I carried the tea
into the living room and put it on the table, then sat at the table. Hasan lit a
cigarette and drummed his fingers on the table. Soon the door to the room opened
and Hasan’s brother came out and I shook his hand. I had never met him before.
He was a big man in his forties. Hasan went into the room and I offered his
brother some tea. He said, How are things? Very good, I said. I pointed to the
room and said, How is she? He shrugged. Not bad, he said. We drove all over but
it was so late she was the only one we found. Hasan came out and said to me,
Your turn. I took him aside and said, I can’t. He looked at me, surprised. What
do you mean? I