Friendly Fire, Alaa Aswany [10 ebook reader .TXT] 📗

happened every day and the only thing that bothered her was that it occurred so often), “What is it this time?”

He thrust his hand into his pocket and gave her the letter (doing so immediately and as though he had been waiting for her question, his haste seeming somewhat childish) and she mumbled something as she spread open the folded piece of paper and read it, or pretended to read it, for a few minutes in order to give herself time. Then she pulled herself together, placed the letter calmly on the couch beside her, sighed, and said something to the effect that some sort of misunderstanding had occurred and things weren’t the way he thought and he had to give her a chance to explain things in full, after which he could make up his mind. Then she stopped speaking because he had suddenly yelled, in a loud, gasping voice that sounded strange even to him, “You’re a prostitute” (or a whore, or something like that, he couldn’t remember exactly) and she seized a final opportunity and glared at him and shouted vehemently and angrily, “I will not permit you to…”

The first slap silenced her. It struck her head hard, pushing it to one side so that it collided with the dark wooden back of the couch and he slapped her on her face once more and then again, harder. Then he formed a fist and pounded her face and neck and chest and started kicking her naked legs and he didn’t stop hitting her until he saw a thin thread of blood trickling from her nose. He looked at her, panting. She wasn’t crying and she bowed her head slowly and the blood flowed onto the nightshirt. After a few minutes, she said in a voice that was completely lifeless, “May I go now?”

He didn’t answer. He had turned his back on her. A moment later, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her standing up. Then he heard the door of the bedroom close. He didn’t remember how many times he made her come back that night—three or maybe four—but each time he would open the door and turn on the light and find her lying next to the child with her eyes closed. He knew she wasn’t sleeping but all the same he would shake her as though he was waking her and now it amazed him that he had woken her gently, extending a finger and pressing gently on her back, as though he were waking her for some ordinary purpose on an ordinary night. It amazed him even more that each time she would open her eyes and turn over as though she were waking, and then get up quietly and follow him out of the room. She could have refused or screamed or quarreled with him, or objected or even woken the child, but she didn’t do so. Each time she followed him, walking behind him like a small tame animal till she reached the couch and then sitting down and bowing her head. She would say nothing but he would bring his hand down on her again and her body would recoil from the pain and soft stifled moans would issue from her. She wasn’t weeping, however. She didn’t shed a single tear. She didn’t try to shield herself from his hands. She would submit to him totally until he had finished and walked away from her, panting, and then she would withdraw again to the bedroom and he would go in to her again and bring her out and beat her. The last time, when she sat down in front of him, he didn’t strike her. He looked at her for a long time and she felt it and raised her head toward him. Her eyes were totally blank, as though she didn’t see him. Bruises covered most of her face, blood had caked under her nose, and the small recent cut beneath her eye had started to bleed. He took a step backward, turned around, and moved until he was opposite the closed window. He bent forward suddenly as though examining something on the floor. Then he put one hand on the window handle, flattened the other against the glass, turned his head away, and pursed his lips in an unsuccessful attempt to stop himself from bursting into tears.

Latin and Greek

WANTED, TEACHER OF FRENCH LANGUAGE, for seven-year-old boy. Salary, LE120 per month. Interview: No. 6, Ghalib St., Mohandessin City, 5–6 p.m.

After half an hour, she had almost given up. One taxi driver after another went by her with hardly a glance, and a mixture of boredom, anxiety, and exhaustion seized her. Why did they refuse to stop? Maybe her white dress looked a bit standoffish to them. She smiled. She remembered an article she had read about how people react to things. She waved once more at an oncoming taxi. This time, she implored the man with her eyes, an action that for a moment seemed comical to her, but seemed to have some effect as the driver stopped right away. “Mohandessin City, driver, please.”

When the car moved off, her wristwatch warned that the hour was approaching six.

After a few minutes, the driver was taking her over University Bridge. She moved her thin body over until she was next to the vehicle’s right window. Throngs of students were crossing the bridge in the opposite direction; no doubt they were returning from an evening lecture, or perhaps they’d spent a long time sitting in the cafeteria, as so often happened. She felt like smiling and a feeling of enjoyable sadness was released within her as she recalled days and faces. It was on Saturday, October 18, five years before that she had made her first trip to the university. She still remembered how he had woken her that morning. Papa had gotten everything ready. “I love the funny little things you