Cairo Stories Page 7

  The day after he arrived in Cairo, walking in his old neighbourhood, he met Hag Ibrahim’s son, Ahmad, who was a garage mechanic in the neighbourhood. Ahmad was about his age. Immediately after they shook hands Ahmad proceeded to pay him condolences for his mother’s death: it was astonishing how news travelled from Europe to Cairo. They were reminiscing about the past when Ahmad said, ‘I wish my father was here to see you (Hag Ibrahim too had died). He was very fond of you and loved to tell the story of your cars raining on his stand. That’s how he used to describe what happened. “A downpour of cars,” he used to say. He always ended the story by saying “the boy lost his head when he met Miss Nadia. These two were meant for each other.” If you don’t mind my saying so, my father never understood why the two of you did not get married.’

  Pierre smiled feebly and said what any good Egyptian would answer in the circumstances, ‘God’s hand; it was God’s hand.’ He could not make himself tell Ahmad that Miss Nadia was no more.

  Penance

  ‘Far too pretty to be a housemaid,’ people often commented when Basma was a young girl working as general help in Cairene households. And after talking to her most would quickly conclude that she was also far too clever. But she had an impetuous side: at sixteen, without telling anybody, she married a very poor but singularly handsome mukwagi, had two children (a boy, then a girl) in rapid succession, left the husband and the children when the children were still toddlers, found herself a cleaning job in an office (she could barely read and write) and promptly remarried.

  This time her husband was a middle-class, government employee with a dependable salary and parents of some means. Basma’s second marriage was thus a huge leap forward – a leap from poverty to a life of relative comfort, with meat on the table every day, holidays in Alexandria, a small family car, the service of a maid as well as that of a seamstress. In everybody’s eyes Basma had made it. The pretty, bubbly girl with the upturned nose, winning smile, expressive eyes, delicate ankles and slim waist quickly turned into a plump, respectable-looking housewife. The face was still pretty and the smile still charming, although, curiously, she now smiled less often. In between smiles her face often acquired an ironic expression, as though she was about to say ‘life is not quite what it appears to be,’ or something along those lines. But the expression never lasted long.

  By her second husband, Basma had three children – all girls – of whom she was immensely proud. And she brought them up with the explicitly stated intention of trying to shield them from making the one big mistake she considered to have made in life, namely, marrying rashly at too young an age.

  Not long before Basma abandoned husband and children, I had been to the pictures with her. Or rather, she, at the time looking after me periodically, had taken me to the pictures. Her baby girl was with her. I was around nine years old. On our way back home, at a busy intersection, a motorcyclist lost control and ran into us. The baby girl fell from Basma’s arm and hit the pavement. Basma immediately threw herself on the ground, very close to the baby, almost on top of her, encircling her with her arms as protection from oncoming traffic. Next, I fell. I don’t know what made me fall. None of us was seriously injured. The fright had been bigger than the few scratches and bruises we ended up with. Once passers-by started diverting traffic around us we rose to our feet. The first thing I noticed was a big tear in my dress, which upset me more that it should have, but it was my favourite dress. Basma pressed the baby against her heart and, seeing a bump on the baby’s forehead, she burst into sobs and, with a trembling but sharp voice, she cursed the motorcyclist, many times over, till she almost lost her voice. She was still sobbing as we slowly resumed our walk back home – slowly because of her sobbing, and also because my ankle was hurting. After howling for what seemed like a long while, which, we were told, was a good sign, the baby settled down.

  The image of Basma throwing herself on the ground to shield her baby from oncoming traffic stayed with me for many days. It flashed through my mind when I heard of her deserting her children. The act did not fit the image. It troubled me to hear people denigrate her. ‘An unworthy mother’ became the leitmotif in the neighbourhood, almost every time Basma’s name cropped up in conversation. I thought of trying to defend her, in light of what I had seen, the day the motorcycle hit us. But, merely a child, I felt ill-equipped to plead her case. I sensed that my evidence was unlikely to persuade her denigrators of her worthiness.

  Basma stayed in touch with us after she walked away from her first marriage, showing up, at unexpected times, to say hello, inquire about everybody’s health, and fill us in about her present life. Of her two children by her first marriage she never spoke. We, in turn, never asked her how they were. We had been told by some of her relatives that she had severed all ties with them; that she never sought to see them after walking out of their lives and leaving them in their father’s care.

  At first we were surprised that she maintained contact with us because we thought that she would consider us part of a past she did not wish to be reminded of, and because her first husband worked in our neighbourhood. We presumed that she would want to avoid the slightest possibility of running into him, or into her children. We were wrong. That eventuality did not seem to deter her from dropping in to see us about every couple of years.

  Twenty years or so went by before Basma broke her silence over the subject of her children by her first marriage. As usual, she showed up unexpectedly, after having been out of touch for longer than usual. She looked more matronly than on her last visit. She wore a headscarf, but she had not given up on makeup or jewellery. The girlish vivaciousness that had always made conversation with her flow effortlessly was still there. Age hadn’t changed that.

  ‘So how are the children?’ I asked after some gossiping. By then, we were comfortably seated around the dining-room table, each with a cup of coffee in hand. I meant, of course, the three girls.

  Basma put her cup down on the table, but said nothing, which took me aback and made me immediately think that something must be wrong with one of the girls. ‘They are alright, aren’t they?’ I asked.

  Again, Basma did not answer. She seemed lost in thought. ‘Is anything the matter? They’re alright, aren’t they?’ I repeated, fearing that I was blundering in pressing the subject, yet I could not simply drop it now.

  Basma’s vacant expression became intense. She gave me an almost angry look, and said, ‘When people ask me how the children are, I know that they mean the three girls. How could I blame them for thinking only of the three girls, as they are the ones I always talk about? In truth though, when I am asked about my children, I think of all my children. The five of them. One reason I don’t talk about the oldest two is that I know what people think. They assume that I’ve stopped thinking about them. The other reason is that I feel I don’t have the right to claim them as mine, considering I left them.’

  ‘It must be an awfully painful subject,’ I said lamely.

  Basma sighed but seemed keen on going on. The words came pouring out: ‘There’s no denying that I left them. I did. The prospect of living the rest of my life in poverty and bringing them up in poverty got to be too much. Their father was a kind man. And very handsome when he was young, as you might remember. But every day was a struggle. Would we, or would we not, have enough money for the most basic groceries? I was young. I wanted to look half-decent. I wanted my children to have half-decent clothes. He didn’t seem to care and, even if he did care, there was little he could have done. He was not in a position to improve the conditions in which we lived. Did you know that he was illiterate? I only found out after we got married. I found out by chance. He used to hold newspapers in his hands, pretending he could read it, but it was a show. He would listen to the news on the radio, and then claim to have read this or that piece of news in the paper, when he had actually heard it on the radio. He was no fool, you know. In fact, he was clever but had dropped out of primary school.’ She sighed again and state
d with a surge of intensity, ‘Tell me, how could he have got ahead, without knowing how to read and write? When it became clear to me that he didn’t know how to, I suggested he take a class. Some schools were offering classes for people like him. But he wouldn’t hear of it. I saw myself condemned to a life of poverty. I saw no way out of it but to flee. I thought of taking the children, although I doubt he would have let me take them for good. He was poor but proud. He would have claimed them as soon as they turned the age when a father can claim his children. So what was the point? Besides, I myself was in no position to give them a better life. Unlike him, I could read and write a bit but barely enough to find a decent job. It occurred to me, at the time, that I might remarry but then what? Even the best of step-parents tend to be hard on their stepchildren; they’re either hard or indifferent.’ At this point, her cathartic outburst seemed to come to an abrupt end.

  The first thing that came to my mind, and which I foolishly blurted out, after Basma said all this was, ‘You were so very young when you had them.’

  She winced. ‘Sure, I was very young,’ she said back to her measured tone. ‘Still, young as I was, I was a mother, and a mother is meant to stay with her children, no matter what. After I left, I heard it reported by not-too-charitable relatives that people called me ‘an unworthy mother’. It’s not as if I didn’t love those children though. As soon as I started working – I was lucky, I quickly found a job in a flower shop – I put a little money aside, every month, and sent it to their father to help with the expenses. At the outset, he typically sent the money back, but, as the years went by, more and more often, he kept it. After I remarried, without telling my husband, I continued to send him money. I stashed away some of the household money for that purpose. I knew that he was struggling to keep things going. You know that he never remarried. I’m not sure why.’ Basma paused before she added with what sounded like self-mockery in her voice, ‘At least, I didn’t have to worry about how a stepmother would treat the children. I was fortunate that way. I knew that the money I sent wouldn’t end up in a stepmother’s pockets. I don’t mean to condemn all stepmothers. Some behave honourably but, for every good story one hears, one hears many bad ones.’

  ‘It must’ve been very hard,’ I said, as empathetically as I could.

  ‘It was,’ she replied without looking at me. Then she stated matter-of-factly, ‘I would also send them clothes, all brand new. I never, never sent Soraya any of the clothes that the three younger girls discarded, once they got to be fussy teenagers. I couldn’t get myself to send her any hand-me-downs, even though I was tempted to, sometimes. The three girls are spoilt and buy more clothes than they need.’

  ‘Did you ever see or talk to Mahmud and Soraya again?’ I asked, uncertain whether it was the right question to ask.

  Basma hesitated before she said, ‘I used to see them, every so often. From afar. I used to stand opposite their schools, at the end of the school day, to see them come out. It upset me very much when they missed a day at school. I was left wondering whether they were sick, or whether they were just skipping school. I was certain their father would not be putting any pressure on them to stick to school and to study. A couple of years ago, when I heard that the girl was getting engaged to a young man with no education whatsoever, no technical training and no permanent job, I just about went crazy. I spent many sleepless nights wondering what to do. I considered having someone arrange for us to meet. I wanted to tell her to think hard before taking the plunge. In the end, I did nothing.’

  ‘Did you tell the three girls about their older siblings?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, clearly surprised at my question. ‘What could I have said to them? I abandoned two of my children?’

  I suggested another cup of coffee. We went to the kitchen. While I was making the coffee, Basma reminisced with a laugh, ‘Remember how upset your father used to get (may his soul rest in peace), when he saw you do anything in the kitchen? He had it in his head that you were clumsy – if you don’t mind my saying so – and that you could easily set yourself on fire, or cut yourself with a kitchen knife. I told him once, “But how do you expect her ever to learn to work in a kitchen? She’ll need these skills when she gets married.” And he retorted impatiently, “Marriage, marriage; that’s not the only thing that ought to matter in a girl’s life.” You know something? He was absolutely right.’

  Back in the dining room, Basma said, ‘You must be wondering why I am telling you all this now? You’re probably thinking that I’m trying to justify myself, make myself look better than I am! That is not the case. I know that the little bit of money and clothes I’ve been sending will never make up for the fact that I left them when they were very little. I know that.’

  ‘You tried to help as best you could,’ I said, but my words rang hollow.

  ‘I ought to tell you something else though. Now that I have started talking about the children, I might as well fill you in.’ Basma crossed her arms, stared into space and continued, ‘I have wronged these two children. That I know! But I’ve paid back and am still paying back. People rarely see beyond the surface of a life and, on the surface, mine looks good. Much, much better than it promised to be when I was working as a maid. Think of my background! I was brought up in poverty by a kind-hearted but struggling aunt; I barely went to school; at sixteen I married a man who had nothing and had no prospects of ever having anything. The few years I spent with him we slept on a mattress, right on the floor, and put the few clothes we owned in a big box made of cardboard. That’s all we had. Now, I have all I need. In fact, more than I need. My in-laws are generous and, to be fair, have been good to me right from the outset, never begrudging the fact that I bore them no grandson. The three girls are spoilt but are doing well at school – in part, thanks to the private tutors we can afford. In all likelihood, the three of them will end up with a university degree. They can be difficult, but that’s my own doing. I indulged them too much. At bottom, they’re good-hearted girls. My husband lets me organise my life as I see fit. So it looks like I won a big lottery. It looks like I actually benefited from committing a wrong.’

  Basma paused, uncrossed her arms and tapped the table lightly with her fingers. For some reason, this little gesture of hers reminded me of the days when, well before her first marriage, she would use a pot as a drum and dance, in the kitchen, to the rhythm of her improvised tune. Because of the mood she was in, I didn’t dare tell her that my thoughts were drifting to those distant days; nor did I tell her how I used to imagine her then as a very successful belly dancer. I said nothing of the sort and waited for her to unburden herself; it was obviously what she seemed to be in need of at that moment.

  ‘My life has been hellish in a major way,’ Basma stated without melodrama in her voice. And then proceeded to explain. ‘I never told you about it before. I see no reason to hide it any more. Five years after I remarried, my husband had a total mental breakdown. He completely collapsed – went out of his mind. It turns out that it was not the first time. He apparently had had similar bouts before we got married, but I didn’t know. To see him in that state was very frightening at the beginning. I had never seen or known of a person collapsing that way. I’ll spare you the details. We kept him at home for days and days. The doctor came to see him every other day. Fortunately, his parents could afford these visits. Eventually, he got better and got back to work. I thought it was all over. We already had two girls. I desperately wanted him to be in good health. For their sake, if not for mine. For a couple of years, all seemed well. Then, when I least expected it, he collapsed again. This time, it lasted longer. He became violent. We had to keep him in his room for days on end, and keep the girls away from him. He couldn’t be trusted. Curiously, I was never the object of his violence, although his parents were. I seemed to know how to handle him. For some reason, he no longer frightened me. Maybe that is why he was more manageable with me. His mother would throw up her hands and let me take over. I became his nurs
e. As the crises recurred, he virtually stopped going to work and eventually stopped for good. He gets a pension. As you know, his parents are comfortably off, so they’ve been giving us money. Money is not the problem. Sometimes, my husband is fine. When that’s the case, you’d never guess how unbalanced he really is. However, my love for him is long since gone. You can’t love a man in these circumstances. You can pity him, care for him, nurse him, but love him? Believe me, you can’t! The girls have come to accept that their father is a sick man. Maybe I indulged them because of their father’s sickness.’ At this point, Basma stopped speaking for a few seconds. I expected her to burst out crying. She did not, and when she resumed speaking, she spoke calmly. ‘The story then is that, for years and years, I have had a husband whom I treat like a sick son. When all this started, I was at my wit’s end, yearning, night and day, for the happiness that had so suddenly evaporated. I turned to prayer. I prayed that the good times return, that my husband’s spells stop. Then, one day, I found myself thinking that God had meant to put me through that ordeal. That it was the price I was paying for abandoning my oldest two children. Gradually, I stopped praying for my husband to get better. I didn’t stop praying though. Now I prayed for God to give me the strength to deal with my husband, the strength to accept my bitter disappointment, and the strength to forego any hope of healthy, normal love. I told myself that, if I managed to be strong and patient and endure the ordeal without becoming horrible to my husband, God might be good to the children I abandoned.’

  With a slight smile, she said, ‘Yes, I tried to enter into a pact with God. I told him “Make me suffer, but be good to the children. All of them. The five of them.” After that, when my husband’s good phases lasted for longer than usual, I would get nervous, wondering whether the oldest two would end up paying for his good health! So you see, for a while, I too became a bit crazy.’