Two Women in One by Nawal El Saadawi Page A

pocket, her fingertips found the hard metal edge. She withdrew her hand, shaking, as if she were carrying a bomb that would explode the moment she touched it, blowing her body to pieces on the asphalt. As the tram drew near, with its crowds and noise, she kept her distance from the others, so that no one would collide with her. Then she changed her mind and decided to walk home.
    After Qasr al-Aini street, she headed for Nile Street. The sun shone on the river’s surface, while the warm air caressed her face, bringing a light refreshing humidity. She closed her eyes under its warmth. The Corniche was deserted at that hour of the afternoon. The windows of the houses were closed, their shutters drawn, not a soul inside or out. The sounds of her footsteps on the asphalt rang in her ears with that familiar regular beat. But what sounded familiar to her ears seemed strange to her mind. The tapping on the asphalt came not from her own feet, but from others behind her. She turned, but there was no one. She felt almost disappointed, as if they had arranged to meet and he had not turned up. But she knew he was not behind her, that he was waiting for her in his flat at al-Muqattam, any time after three.
    She glanced at her watch. Quarter to four. Her heart thumped and then stopped. Her black eyes looked up, her long thin face was pale and her short black hair fell over her neck and ears. Her delicate shoulders were softly rounded under her blouse. Her small breasts rose and fell with each breath and her red fingers clutched her leather satchel bulging with anatomy textbooks.
    She came to Fam al-Khaleej Square. Before her was Nile Street and the bridge leading to her home in Rowdah. On her right was the Nile, on her left the road leading to al-Muqattam. Anyone seeing her would have expected her to turn left. But she did not. She remained standing where she was. She knew that to turn would be a matter of supreme importance. It would mean that she was Bahiah Shaheen no longer, that she had become that other, stronger being, equally desired and feared.
    It was a dreadfully momentous time, which seemed like death. No, it
was
a kind of death — one person was dying and another being born — a brief moment if she would turn left. All she had to do was raise her foot, move it over the ground and bring it down again: no more than an instant, yet it seemed a lifetime to her, like all the years of her life so far and all the years she would have in the future, as if her whole life lay at her feet and she had only to step down and she would crush it to pulp, to soft ashes.
    The street on her left was no longer a street. For streets, like everything else, change minute by minute according to our view of the world, the pulse in our veins, the change in the air with every new breath, and the surge of the sea with every wave. The street lengthened and protruded from the belly of the mountain like an outstretched arm. Above it, caught between the mountains and the buildings, a strip of sky formed a second arm. The two huge arms, like those of the mythical god, stretched out before her like the gaping jaws of fate, extending toward the horizon, lying in wait for her, willing her body to turn to them.
    She longed to throw herself into those outstretched arms. But her body held fast and she was unable to lift her foot from the ground. She shuddered in panic and her satchel fell, the anatomy books scattering all over the road.
    From the corner of her eye she saw the white label on the cover: Bahiah Shaheen, 1st Year Anatomy. Her arms seemed to shrink. They refused to pick up the books, but with her body still bent over the pavement she manged to gather them up and put them in her bag. Stooping over was enough to bring back Bahiah Shaheen full force. That other person disappeared down the long corridor and her feet quickly began to head towards home with determination.
    As she walked her body’s movement seemed strong and victorious, but her true feeling