Hamdiya said, ‘I’ll try to go back to work.’
‘Did you use to work?’
‘I did work. Before we got married your father persuaded me to quit.’
(Yet another of Abu Nada’s surprises.)
‘Why?’
‘He said the wage was too small to justify my leaving the house every day — he said his salary was enough.’
I didn’t comment on this. I said, ‘Then what will you do about the boys?’
‘I’ll take them to my sister in the morning and pick them up on my way home in the afternoon, four days a week. Then maybe I can leave them with you on the day you don’t have any lectures, and the day your first lecture isn’t until afternoon.’
But Hamdiya had no luck returning to work. She was in the process of looking for a different job when I came home to her flying high with news she received, to my surprise, with tears.
‘I got a job — as translator for a news agency, with excellent pay. They offered me…’
‘And the university?’
‘I’ll sort it out. I’ll organise my time.’
She cried for a long time. I didn’t understand what had brought on her tears. I was overjoyed at having found a job. Until the boys started primary school, I was the family’s sole breadwinner, and even after Hamdiya went out to work, my material responsibility for my brothers was a foregone conclusion. I thought about their needs, and made them the highest priority of all I wished to obtain. I was concerned about the school in which they were enrolled, the book I wanted to buy for them, and the sport they liked, which I wanted them to have the opportunity to pursue. A second little mother — energetic, easily and naturally capable of accomplishing what she put her mind to.
Despite my new duties, I got better results in my studies than I had achieved in previous years, which had amounted to: total failure, across the board, in pre-qualification for engineering; in first-year French two failed exams that had to be made up (the year in which I went to prison, which was also the year of the roller-coaster with Shazli, by which I mean the rapid and vertiginous ups and downs in our relationship); ‘satisfactory’ in second-year French (the year my father died). Then I received a grade of ‘good’ in two subjects my third year (the year I began working as a translator), and I maintained the same standard the following year (the year I graduated and earned the certificate). I was advancing quickly and conspicuously at my job. After all, both the languages I was dealing with were my mother tongue, besides which it became apparent that I had a facility for languages; my Arabic was better than that of my colleagues who had studied at Arabic schools. As for English, which I had studied as a second language at school, I had mastered it well enough to qualify me as a translator in three languages.
The new arrangement, then, was evidently favourable, although I recognise now that among its drawbacks (perhaps the only negative result) was that I was cut off from the interactions of daily life at the university.
Shazli mocked me when I ran into him once by chance. ‘Where have you been, Nada? Don’t tell me they locked you up for a couple of months, and you got scared and said you’d learnt your lesson?’
The support Hazem gave me was limitless. I wonder again whether people have a chemistry that attracts them to each other or repels them, or whether luck, pure and simple, ordained that we should become friends and that our friendship should escape the cataclysms that so often strike friends and leave them with nothing but bitterness and ruin. Sometimes I think that perhaps each of us sought in the other a true sibling (it is odd that, in our relationship, the man-woman issue never came up), that maybe Hazem automatically, straightforwardly — because I was five years younger than he was — assigned to me the role of a little sister, and I simply stepped into that sacrosanct women’s space. Perhaps I was in need of an older brother to turn to. I know, even if I never told him so, that I received from him a lesson that had a defining influence on my life: he had told me about his family circumstances, about his responsibilities after the death of his father in caring for his mother and his siblings — three boys, all younger than he. I saw with my own eyes, without his having said anything about it, the extent to which this obligation dominated his life. It had become second nature to him, a priority dictating what was possible and what was out of the question in every particular of his life. Sometimes I think that we grasped instinctively the value of our conjunction, so much greater than it would have been if we had subjected it to the violent tempests of fleeting relationships. (Daily, daily our classmates were falling in love, and whether it was for weeks, months, a year, or even two years that they soared aloft, it was only to come crashing down all at once. The boys as a rule were like cats that always land on their feet, or so it seemed to me: they slipped and tumbled, quickly and easily, only to climb up once more — these were nothing more than pleasurable adventures, no more significant than the thrill of leaping lightly from one balcony to another. The girls, while they didn’t break their necks the first time they fell, bore obvious wounds and scars when they got up again, or such marks would appear later, after subsequent falls.
Perhaps I avoid discussing in detail my relationship with Shazli, because when we split up I didn’t get any of those bruises that turn parts of the body blue, ache for a few weeks, and then heal. Maybe it would be overstating the case to say that my neck was broken or that I was hit so hard all four of my limbs had to be set in plaster. I’m exaggerating a little bit — but not much. Then, too, a fall from a high balcony happens once, and whatever will be will be. The relationship with Shazli ruined my twenties. For a year we were flying, after which for two years I was like a ringdove without a kindly rat to chew the net for me, and this was followed by years of confusion and bitterness, as well as withdrawal, in fear of falling once more.
Shazli confounded me with his behaviour, his demands, and his judgements — always final judgements that assumed his absolute possession of accuracy and truth.
In the beginning — blind love. Then confusion. The fact that I was young, inexperienced, and lacking in self-confidence prolonged the stages and made it difficult to move on. And the next stage was nothing but a kind of obligatory love, whose blind half deceived the sighted half, casting doubt upon what it saw.
Shazli had his seasonal themes, attached to each of which was a certain leitmotif he would keep repeating like a drone, although what they all had in common was that a particular purpose was assigned to each harangue. My trip to Paris had its turn; this was followed by the subject of the older Communists who had dissolved the party and sold out (in this scenario my father appeared as their sole legitimate representative, so it follows that the intent of this attack, inasmuch as I was my father’s daughter, was that I should not escape the guilt my father had incurred); in a third season, my disagreement with his political analysis proved to him that I hadn’t broken free of my petty bourgeois origins and the political alignments they implied; in a fourth, Hazem became the subject of the attack: Hazem aspired to be a successful physician, and selfishly made his work and his studies a priority — not to mention his pathological attachment to his family!