The Open Door by Latifa al-Zayyat

Author:Latifa al-Zayyat
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Publisher: American University of Cairo Press
Published: 2017-08-15T04:30:00+00:00

At lunch, Layla sat across from Husayn, her mother to her right, Mahmud to her left. Her father was in Cairo. She bent her head low over the plate to avoid Husayn’s eyes. She feared his searching gaze, for it seemed to pierce her, to reveal everything that was there. She did not want to see the despair in his eyes, knowing that he was in despair of her.

But when her eyes did meet his by chance, her fear vanished, for she found neither despair nor fear. He was not searching her, testing her, but merely offering her the affectionate touch of his eyes; he was summoning her gently in desire and regard, and she brightened up.

Husayn, for his part, was taking in the smallest details of Layla’s face as if to sculpt it whole in his memory. It was a delightful pursuit; he loved this slope of Layla’s face, from one fine ear to her cheek. He loved her upper lip, its deepening redness at the center revealing a tiny triangle, pulling her whole mouth upward as if she were smiling even when she was not. He loved those light, honey-hued eyes, so intelligent, so expressive, just like a sensitive camera lens; and the wide forehead that hinted a lofty pride; the soft, short, very black hair; her ivory skin with its pinkish tint at the cheeks—soft skin, like a child’s; and . . . . He loved all of her features, each in itself. But he truly loved the manner in which they came together, for in her face’s composition he found a startling beauty. It did not simply flow from the features, nor just from the harmony they formed, but from . . . well, from what? Perhaps it was the contradiction between a soft, child-like innocence and that broad, adult forehead over eyes that sparkled with the intelligence of a mature and highly aware woman. Or perhaps it was the inconsistency between that childlike face and a mature woman’s body. Or was it simply the result of his feelings, his love for her? Never had he caught sight of her face without feeling a lovely peacefulness cradling his whole being, submerging him in a lovely sense of reassurance and well-being, pushing him gently and affectionately forward. These were moments in which he felt that suddenly he could comprehend the most elusive secrets, find solutions to all of his problems, accept that his dreams might take the concrete form of events. He had only to extend a hand and these chimeras would be in his grasp. After all, what could possibly remain beyond him if he were to wake up every morning to that face?

But he would not be waking up every morning to that face. Tomorrow he would depart without having accomplished anything, unable to change anything. All he had in his grasp was her image, to be saved in his mind and preserved in his psyche; and then he must live on the memory throughout the years of exile.

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