The Italian by Shukri Mabkhout

Author:Shukri Mabkhout
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Europa Editions
Published: 2021-09-14T00:00:00+00:00

7

Two days before the supplement was published, an insured letter from the university administration arrived in Zeina’s mailbox at the Bab Mnara post office, informing her that her thesis defense was scheduled for Wednesday, September 16, in Salah Garmadi Hall. Initially, she was overjoyed, but she quickly sank back into her usual stress. Writing two or three pages to introduce her research to the committee, as her advisor had requested, became a crisis that required iron nerves from Abdel Nasser. She showed him a new draft every day to get his opinion. In the beginning, he would be interested in what she was saying, and then—because she insisted that he offer critiques—he would start critiquing everything. He humored her with what she wanted to hear, but she only got more anxious. Every time he sat down to listen to the oral presentation of her latest draft, it ended in a quarrel. He asked her to find someone else to listen. She got angry and said that he had never helped her, never. He reminded her of what he’d done for her. He pointed out her excessive anxiety. Finally, on the Monday two days before the defense, she invited Najla to come listen to the rehearsal. She asked Abdel Nasser to be sure and come home early on that fateful day.

The living room furniture was new. Abdel Nasser had bought it. He had started bringing something new home every month, at first just to make the house look acceptable, like other people’s houses, and then later to add more style and comfort. He purposefully decided not to buy a desk, so Zeina continued to work at the kitchen table. She probably wouldn’t have bought a desk anyway; she sometimes said, in moments that revealed the less practical side of her brain, “This table is good luck—I’m never getting rid of it!”

Abdel Nasser, intentionally trying to irritate her, would answer, “Unless Raeef comes to take it back, since his father’s money paid for it!”

“Never!” she would answer. “I would offer him double its price for it to stay here; it’s my table.”

On that day, that particular day, he saw Najla as he had never seen her before. He noticed her crescent eyebrows and found himself drawn to her long, curly lashes. The blackness of her eyebrows and eyelashes contrasted pleasantly with her bright, honey-colored eyes. Clear forehead, smooth cheeks. She was tall and fit, shaped by the volleyball she played for Zitouna and that she had continued to play as a hobby, even after becoming a PE teacher at the Institut Supérieur du Sport et d’Education Physique. She was older than Zeina by six or seven years but, in contrast to her philosopher friend, dressed fashionably in her athletic clothes from the best international brands. Her hair was long and straight, shining from (as el-Talyani figured) the aromatic oils she used. She wore a distinctive perfume that filled any room she was in. Her eyebrows were carefully shaped, and her skin was

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