father, and when she walked she swayed like a duckling, very much like her mother.
A large room built of red brick stood in the back garden. On its walls grew little bougainvillea shrubs that reached the roof with their various colors: purple, white, yellow, and crimson red. The inside walls of the room were lined with bookshelves up to the ceiling. In the corner, next to the window, stood a large desk. On it there were many items: a big electric lamp, piles of papers, clippings from magazines and newspapers, and handwritten articles by Zakariah al-Khartiti. He sometimes came to this room in search of peace and quiet, when he wished to be away from the house and his wife, Bodour, and her friends with their high-pitched voices, especially her bosom friend, Safaa al-Dhabi. These two were inseparable, whether at university or at home. Bodour would read her critical articles aloud to Safaa before they were published. They would argue for hours on end until night-time. Safaa would then take her handbag and leave.
But before she left, Bodour would call out to her, “Forgot to tell you, Safi ...”
“Yes, Bodour?”
They would stand and talk on the marble staircase, laughing every now and then. Zakariah al-Khartiti could recognize his wife’s laugh from among a thousand, a soft elongated laugh that trailed into an intermittent gasp which sounded like suppressed sobs. He couldn’t bear that laugh and often slapped her on the face in bed to stop her laughing. And if she cried, he slapped her, for her tears were identical to her laughter as he lay on top of her. She never raised her hand to slap him back. She’d look down and suppress the tears or the laughter, stifling the urge to raise her hand and bring it down on his face. She wouldn’t slap him or hit him, and she wouldn’t tell him what she thought of him. If he told her that he loved her, her lips might open to produce the stifled words buried deep inside her, but only a stream of voiceless hot air would come out.
Her husband never slapped her while her father was still alive. He only married her because she was the daughter of the great al-Damhiri, whose photograph appeared next to those of the eminent personalities of the state and whose image flashed on television screens. He travelled around in a stretch limousine driven by a dark-skinned man in a soldier’s uniform. He lived in a villa overlooking the Nile, with a study lined with books on literature, art, politics, history, philosophy, and religion. With a single line, he could transform an unknown, upcoming journalist into a great writer or an editor-in-chief.
In the large garden surrounding the house, Mageeda played hide-and-seek with Zeina Bint Zeinat. Mageeda would hide behind a tree, underneath a car parked in the garage, or in the storeroom behind the big wooden or cardboard boxes, where her mother stored the books and novels she received by post. She usually stacked them on the floor next to her desk, along with the newspapers and magazines she had finished reading. When Nanny cleaned the room, she’d carry the books and novels, still in the packages carrying name, address and postage stamps, in a huge black plastic bag, and would take them across the great hall, down the marble staircase to the garden. She would pass along the stone pathways in between the flower basins, arriving at the long corridor standing between the iron fence and the trees. She would follow the pathway round the house until she reached the back garden, sometimes stopping briefly to catch her breath or to peep inside the master’s room. She would glimpse him through the glass window sitting at his desk, reading in the light of an electric lamp, writing his daily column, or just staring into emptiness with his eyes fixed upward as though waiting for inspiration from heaven.
Mageeda didn’t hide in her father’s room. Only once did she enter that room while her father was engrossed in writing. He raised his head from the paper
A large room built of red brick stood in the back garden. On its walls grew little bougainvillea shrubs that reached the roof with their various colors: purple, white, yellow, and crimson red. The inside walls of the room were lined with bookshelves up to the ceiling. In the corner, next to the window, stood a large desk. On it there were many items: a big electric lamp, piles of papers, clippings from magazines and newspapers, and handwritten articles by Zakariah al-Khartiti. He sometimes came to this room in search of peace and quiet, when he wished to be away from the house and his wife, Bodour, and her friends with their high-pitched voices, especially her bosom friend, Safaa al-Dhabi. These two were inseparable, whether at university or at home. Bodour would read her critical articles aloud to Safaa before they were published. They would argue for hours on end until night-time. Safaa would then take her handbag and leave.
But before she left, Bodour would call out to her, “Forgot to tell you, Safi ...”
“Yes, Bodour?”
They would stand and talk on the marble staircase, laughing every now and then. Zakariah al-Khartiti could recognize his wife’s laugh from among a thousand, a soft elongated laugh that trailed into an intermittent gasp which sounded like suppressed sobs. He couldn’t bear that laugh and often slapped her on the face in bed to stop her laughing. And if she cried, he slapped her, for her tears were identical to her laughter as he lay on top of her. She never raised her hand to slap him back. She’d look down and suppress the tears or the laughter, stifling the urge to raise her hand and bring it down on his face. She wouldn’t slap him or hit him, and she wouldn’t tell him what she thought of him. If he told her that he loved her, her lips might open to produce the stifled words buried deep inside her, but only a stream of voiceless hot air would come out.
Her husband never slapped her while her father was still alive. He only married her because she was the daughter of the great al-Damhiri, whose photograph appeared next to those of the eminent personalities of the state and whose image flashed on television screens. He travelled around in a stretch limousine driven by a dark-skinned man in a soldier’s uniform. He lived in a villa overlooking the Nile, with a study lined with books on literature, art, politics, history, philosophy, and religion. With a single line, he could transform an unknown, upcoming journalist into a great writer or an editor-in-chief.
In the large garden surrounding the house, Mageeda played hide-and-seek with Zeina Bint Zeinat. Mageeda would hide behind a tree, underneath a car parked in the garage, or in the storeroom behind the big wooden or cardboard boxes, where her mother stored the books and novels she received by post. She usually stacked them on the floor next to her desk, along with the newspapers and magazines she had finished reading. When Nanny cleaned the room, she’d carry the books and novels, still in the packages carrying name, address and postage stamps, in a huge black plastic bag, and would take them across the great hall, down the marble staircase to the garden. She would pass along the stone pathways in between the flower basins, arriving at the long corridor standing between the iron fence and the trees. She would follow the pathway round the house until she reached the back garden, sometimes stopping briefly to catch her breath or to peep inside the master’s room. She would glimpse him through the glass window sitting at his desk, reading in the light of an electric lamp, writing his daily column, or just staring into emptiness with his eyes fixed upward as though waiting for inspiration from heaven.
Mageeda didn’t hide in her father’s room. Only once did she enter that room while her father was engrossed in writing. He raised his head from the paper
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