The Thief and the Dogs

But you still have bullets of fire.

At the sound of Nur's yawning, loud, like a groan, he turned away from the window shutters towards the bed. Nur was sitting up, naked, her hair dishevelled, looking unrested and run down. But she smiled as she said, "I dreamed you were far away and I was going out of my mind waiting for you."

"That was a dream," he observed grimly.

"In fact you're the one who's going out and I'm the one who'll wait."

She went into the bathroom, emerged again drying her hair; and he followed her hands as they recreated her face in a new form, happy and young. She was, like himself, thirty years old, but she lied outright hoping to appear younger, adding to the multitude of sins and sillinesses which are openly committed. But theft unfortunately was not one of them.

"Don't forget the papers," he reminded her at the door.

When she'd gone he moved into the reception room and flung himself down on one of the sofas.

Now he was alone in the full sense of the word, without even his books which he'd left with Sheikh Ali.

He stared up at the cracked white ceiling, a dull echo of the threadbare carpet, killing time.

The setting sun flashed through the open window, like a jewel being carried by a flight of doves from one point in time to the next.

Your coldness, Sana, was very disquieting. Like seeing these graves. I don't know if we'll meet again, where or when. You'll certainly never love me now. Not in this life, so full of badly-aimed bullets, desires gone astray.

What's left behind is a dangling chain of regrets. The first link was the students' hostel on the road to Giza. Ilish didn't matter much, but Nabawiyya — she'd shaken him, torn him up by the roots. If only a deceit could be as plainly read in the face as fever or an infectious disease! Then beauty would never be false and many a man would be spared the ravages of deception.

That grocery near the students' hostel, where Nabawiyya used to come shopping, gripping her bowl. She was always so nicely dressed, much more neatly than the other servant girls, which was why she'd been known as the "Turkish Lady's maid,": The rich, proud old Turkish woman, who lived alone, at the end of the road, in a house at the center of a big garden, insisted that everyone who had to do with her should be good-looking, clean, and well-dressed. So Nabawiyya always appeared with her hair neatly combed and plaited in a long pigtail, wearing slippers. Her peasant's gown flowed around a sprightly and nimble body, and even those not bewitched by her agreed that she was a fine example of country beauty with her dark complexion, her round, full face, her brown eyes, her small chubby nose, and her lips moist with the juices of life.

There was a small green tattoo mark on her chin like a beauty spot.

You used to stand at the entrance to the students' hostel and wait for her after work, staring up the street until her fine form with her adorable gait appeared in the distance. As she stepped closer and closer, you'd glow with anticipation. She was like some lovely melody, welcomed wherever she went. As she slipped in among the dozens of women standing at the grocer's your eyes would follow her drunk with ecstasy. She'd disappear and reemerge again, your desire and curiosity increasing all the time — so did your impulse to do something, no matter what, by word, gesture or invocation — and she'd move off on her way home, to disappear for the rest of the day and another whole night. And you'd let out a long, bitter sigh and your elation would subside, the birds on the roadside trees would cease their song and a cold autumn breeze would suddenly spring up from nowhere.

But then you notice that her form is reacting to your stare, that she's swaying coquettishly as she walks and you stand there no longer, but, with your natural impetuosity, hurry after her along the road. Then at the lone palm tree at the edge of the fields you bar her way. She's dumbfounded by your audacity, or pretends to be, and asks you indignantly who you might be. You reply in feigned surprise, "Who might I be? You really ask who I am? Don't you know? I'm known to every inch of your being!"

"I don't like ill-mannered people!" she snaps.

"Neither do I. I'm like you, I hate ill-mannered people. Oh, no. On the contrary, I admire good manners, beauty, and gentleness. And all of those things are you! You still don't know who I am? I must carry that basket for you and see you to the door of your house."

"I don't need your help," she says, "and don't ever stand in my way again!" With that she walks away, but with you at her side, encouraged by the faint smile slipping through her pretence of indignation, which you receive like the first cool breeze on a hot and sultry night. Then she had said: "Go back; you must! My mistress sits at the window and if you come one step more she'll see you."