Private Pleasures by Hamdy el-Gazzar

Author:Hamdy el-Gazzar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2008-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

15 A WOMAN

WHEN, AFTER MEALS, you no longer remove the empty plates, pots, and pans from the dinner table with Afaf, carry them into the kitchen smiling at her, wash the glasses and the forks and knives and polish the sink with her, your hand holding hers; when you no longer pick your teeth clean, in preparation, with a wooden toothpick, wash your hands but don’t wash your mouth, place your palms on the two pomegranates of her shoulders and seek to encompass her whole body inside your embrace, playing with her long tresses, licking her neck, and kissing her tenderly, whispering into her ear that “the food was delicious, really delicious,” placing brief pecks on her lips and tasting the food mingled with the flavor of her lips and savoring the sweet along with the salty, then exchanging long, deep kisses, forgetting where you are as you bend her waist forward in your hands; when you no longer tell her, “Your cooking tastes great and you taste better” as you fall on top of her, pulling off her dress and having sex with her on the kitchen tiles, as you used to in the first months of your marriage—it means quite simply that you’ve reached the threshold of drought and fallen together into the stagnant pond of estrangement.

It was with the food that the drought started.

She cooks with the skill of a five-star chef. Whatever she makes—be it qulqas or mulukhiya or zucchini (which you hate with a passion)—is fabulous, appetizing, delicious, and she wants you to tell her that her cooking is good, she yearns to see you beam with pleasure as you gaze at her in gratitude and delight and tell her that you love the food she makes.

She stares at your fork, waiting to see which dish your hand most frequently reaches for, how much you eat of the okra in its ramekin, the stuffed vine leaves, the beef stew, the baba ghanoug, following your movements and your pauses, scrutinizing your face after each cut, chew, and swallow, her eyes never leaving it as she awaits the effect on you of her artistry, waits to see if your face will give expression to what you fail to say, biting her lips as she does so. “Taste this,” she’d say, smiling innocently, and the fork in her hand would be extended to your mouth, loaded with flaky pastry cooked in milk with nuts and raisins.

It’s always good, the food, delicious and tasty, and you can no longer appreciate it in any way.

After a while, as a very logical and natural result of your indifference and the appearance in you of signs of annoyance at the food, the frequency with which the fork in her hand moved from the dish to your mouth decreased. However, the way she stared at your face and bit her lips while you ate never changed.

She’s waiting for a word from you. Love and expectation are killing her. Tell her, “Your cooking’s great, you’re a clever and skilled cook and a wonderful wife.

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