Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) Page 5

  Doha had an appointment with a girlfriend, Gabriella, the wife of an Italian MP who knew her husband. When Gabriella had visited Egypt, the two wives had agreed to meet for dinner when Doha came to Rome before heading to Milan. The first thing Gabriella said when she came to pick Doha up from the hotel was, “How will you sleep here at night?”

  Doha laughed and said, “It looks as though I won’t sleep at night or during the day. Night or day, the tourists don’t stop coming to the fountain.”

  Gabriella then asked her where she would like to have dinner. Doha answered immediately, “At Antico Pizza in the Trastevere.”

  In the old restaurant a waiter came and lit a candle on their table. Doha looked at the walls of the restaurant, which were covered with large photographs of all its famous patrons: actors, politicians, writers. She remarked to Gabriella, “I feel at home here.”

  With a smile, she replied, “Is that because you’re surrounded by all your famous friends?”

  “No! I feel at home in spite of them. What makes me feel comfortable here is the history of the walls, not the photos decorating them.”

  “Even so, I think that if the manager saw the designs of yours that I saw in Cairo, and that are sure to be a hit in Milan, he would put your picture up on the wall right away.”

  Doha thanked her, then said, “Actually, this time I’m going to show a totally new set of designs, different from those you saw in Cairo. What’s really distinctive about them is that they’re all inspired by the butterfly. The sleeves of some of the dresses hang down like wings; other dresses have trains that trail behind, and their bright colors evoke the bold coloring of butterflies. In fact,” she continued, “I’m really interested in butterflies. A butterfly has more than one life. It transforms from a caterpillar trapped inside a chrysalis to a beautiful butterfly with wings to fly through the air and sip nectar from flowers. For me, the butterfly is a symbol of rebirth.” Doha laughed, then said, “Sometimes I think I was created to be a butterfly.”

  Gabriella said, “There’s a saying attributed to the Chinese sage and philosopher Zhang Zai, who lived about 300 BC, in which he wonders, ‘At this moment am I a man dreaming he is a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he is a man? I do not know!’”

  The waiter brought them the menu. Doha said that she felt like eating seafood. Gabriella pointed to one of the dishes and, as soon as Doha saw it, the pair of them burst out laughing: it was butterfly sardines. Their laughter attracted the attention of the other diners.

  Doha looked around, and who should she see two tables away but Dr. Ashraf sitting with the professor and his wife that he had mentioned. Ashraf spotted her and waved hello. Doha waved back and said to Gabriella, “That’s one of the leaders of the opposition in Egypt. He was on the plane with me this morning.”

  Gabriella said, “Well, the person with him is a leader of the Italian Communist Party.”

  “God forbid!” said Doha. Gabriella failed to understand her reaction and Doha continued, “Do you still have communists? Didn’t they cause enough tragedy to the world?”

  “As you know,” replied Gabriella, “my husband is in the ruling party and has nothing to do with the Left, but communists and socialists play a significant role in the politics of this country. At times, the parties of the Right go into coalition with them to form the government.”

  Doha just said, “The situation is different for us.”

  Their conversation returned to Doha’s designs. Gabriella said, “From what you’ve described, I sense that your clothes are very comfortable to wear.”

  “That was one of my priorities,” said Doha. “Most of the world’s fashion designers are men, and for many of them women are just clotheshorses. But what’s the point of clothes being innovative if they’re uncomfortable? In my opinion, the aim of fashion isn’t just to make a woman more elegant, but to make her happier.”

  Gabriella laughed as she said, “You’ve made me really excited to see your upbeat clothes, Doha.”

  It was a lovely dinner. A very pleasant start to the trip, whose final outcome, a few days later in Milan, Doha was greatly anticipating. She thanked Gabriella, and they were about to get up when she was surprised by Ashraf al-Zayni who, with a broad smile on his face, was coming over with his two Italian hosts.

  Over dinner at the restaurant, Dr. Ashraf had learned from his friend Dr. Giovanni Franco and his wife that their son Mario worked for a big Italian fashion house, and that he was now in Milan to oversee the preparations for the annual fashion show. Dr. Ashraf told them that the woman sitting with her Italian friend was a star fashion designer from Egypt, and that she had come to Italy to take part in that show. They gave Doha their son’s name and telephone number in Milan in case she needed any assistance.

  Doha was moved by the kindness of Dr. Franco and his wife. She introduced them to her friend Gabriella and they all stood chatting for a few minutes. The Italian couple said that they were looking forward to seeing Egyptian fashion designs and that their son had invited them to the Salon that year. Doha laughed, saying, “I’ve guaranteed the first two members of my audience.”

  Soon everyone started to make their way off. Doha said she would walk back to her hotel. The weather was lovely and she needed to stretch her legs after spending the morning sitting on a plane and the evening sitting in a restaurant. Ashraf said he would be happy to keep her company back to her hotel and then take a taxi back to his.

  Deep inside, was Ashraf looking for the chance of another meeting with Doha? Was Doha also looking to meet Ashraf again when she gave him the name of restaurant she would go to in the evening? They might not have met again in Rome, or even in Egypt, for they both moved in different circles, stars in separate galaxies. But here they were again. Was it the action of fate? Was what we called fate an arrangement beyond our will, or did we, without realizing, guide it in the direction we wished?

  Doha and Ashraf were standing in front of the large fountain watching the tourists toss in coins. The nighttime illumination made the marble statues adorning the fountain even more wonderful.

  Doha said, “Seeing this makes it seem that there are no problems or sorrows in the world. Everyone’s happy and enjoying themselves, even the poor people selling souvenirs.” For the first time since meeting her on the plane, Ashraf noticed the sadness masked in her eyes. He felt he was becoming closer to her and that she was becoming closer to him. He felt fate was nudging them along a path they had no choice about.

  “This is the god of the sea with the water cascading under his feet. He directs the waters of the seas as he wishes,” Doha said to Ashraf as they sat on the marble edge of the fountain.

  He replied, “I thought the waters of the seas were subject to fixed forces governed by the cycle of rains and the polar ice caps.”

  “That’s what we all think, but the truth is something else. Here’s the proof in front of your eyes.”

  “What I see in front of me is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, now turn your back on it.”

  He did not understand what Doha meant and she explained the ritual of the lovers’ fountain: you had to stand with your back to it and with your right hand throw three coins over your left shoulder. If the coins landed in the fountain, your wish would come true. Ashraf laughed and said, “It seems to me that the wishes of those who collect the coins from the bottom of the fountain are the ones that come true.”

  She said, “Do you know how much money is thrown into the fountain? The official estimate is three thousand euros per day, all of which goes to a food bank for the poor, except of course for what’s stolen late at night.”

  “Perhaps you’ll be able to catch those thieves from your window.”

  “Why not? I won’t be sleeping.” She adjusted her position on the marble wall of the fountain, getting ready to throw the three coins in her hand. “Now, let me concentrate on aiming or I’ll lose the luck awaiting me in Milan.”

  He watched her
throw the first coin over her shoulder, then the second and the third, all of which landed in the bottom of the fountain. He said, “Congratulations. You just ensured the success of your show.” He went on after a moment’s thought: “By the way, Dr. Franco and his wife asked me what your designs were like. They said they’d never seen Egyptian designs before.”

  “Who said the designs were Egyptian? I try to make my designs international, no different from those of the European fashion houses.”

  “They’ll definitely be disappointed then. They imagined that your designs would be special coming from Egypt, or that in some way they would be redolent of an ancient civilization and a different culture.”

  “I didn’t think about that at all. The opposite, in fact. I thought of international sources of inspiration that would wow people all over the world. So in the end I went for the butterfly and designed clothes inspired by that beautiful creature with its brilliant colors. I didn’t think about the Pyramids, the Sphinx, palm trees, or camels. They don’t fit with my designs.”

  He felt the great divide between them had reappeared, despite the human interaction that had linked them all day over the thousands of miles from Cairo to Rome, and did not respond.

  Doha said, “People don’t appreciate that beautiful creature that, in spite of its fragility, has aroused humanity’s interest over the ages.”

  Silence fell between them. Ashraf contemplated Doha as she listened to the babbling of the water with her eyes shut. For the first time, he noticed her body beneath her clothes. Her ample figure emphasized her curves. Her eyes, with their tinge of sadness and their flash of fire when she spoke with passion, had seemed to him the most beautiful part of her face. But now that they were shut, they left the stage to sensuous lips beneath a fine nose. He felt he was stealing something that was not his and turned his face to the gushing waters of the fountain.

  Doha recalled the famous scene in Fellini’s La Dolce Vita in which the lead actress Anita Ekberg wades into the fountain fully dressed after a raucous night of partying. She told Dr. Ashraf that she had seen photographs in the Italian press of the fountain draped in black in 1996 in mourning for the film’s lead actor, Marcello Mastroianni. She said, “One of the things I like about this place is that the Italians are as passionate about art and culture as they are about economics and politics. In Egypt, if they mourned the death of an artist by draping a monument, someone from the opposition would come and say, ‘Who do they think they are that we should drape our monuments in black?!’”

  “Some people have tunnel vision,” he said, “whether they’re from the regime or the opposition. The Egyptian people are more aware than politicians. Artists and writers are as sacrosanct to them as politicians. The Egyptians’ love for Umm Kulthum or Naguib Mahfouz is no less than their love for Saad Zaghloul or Gamal Abdel Nasser. Anyone who doesn’t understand that shouldn’t take up politics.”

  She was impressed by what he said and looked at him in silence without replying.

  A flower seller holding a baby in one arm and a bunch of red roses in the other was proffering flowers to those sitting around the fountain. Nobody was buying. Dr. Ashraf asked her in English where she was from. She did not understand. Doha said, “Perhaps she’s a gypsy.” Her hair was covered with a light white headscarf. Ashraf said the word Bosnia, and the girl nodded her head. He took some money from his pocket and gave it to her without taking a flower. But the girl did not want to take the money like a beggar, without giving something in return. She handed a deep red rose to Doha and walked off.

  Dr. Ashraf looked at his watch and said, “You must be tired. A day’s traveling is always exhausting.” In saying farewell, he said, “Thank you so much for everything; for this wonderful sightseeing tour and your great suggestion for a restaurant. My guests loved it, and even though they’re locals they didn’t know it. But first and foremost I thank you for your lovely company. I’m very happy to have come to meet you today.”

  She felt that he was saying goodbye, and that this would be the last meeting in a relationship that had begun that morning and was apparently ending in the evening. He offered her his hand and she shook it. She felt honesty flowing from his warm hand through her fingertips, which had started to feel the chill of the night. Then she turned to head for her hotel. The red rose was still in her hand.

  As soon as she was in her room, she filled one of the glasses from the bathroom with water and carefully put the rose in it. Then she put the glass on her bedside table.

  9 The Tiger

  The next day, Doha awoke to the sight of the red rose, as fresh and beautiful as it had been the evening before. She was amazed that she had been able to sleep, what with the noise of the square beneath her window. Yet as soon as she had put her head on the pillow, she had fallen fast asleep. Perhaps it was due to exhaustion after a day spent traveling, or perhaps it was the sense of relaxation that came with being in Rome. Maybe it was a case of physical tiredness and mental ease combined.

  She got out of bed and went over to the window. She opened it and saw the fountain was still as wonderful as it had been in the evening. The sea god still ruled over the waters. The spectacle was as captivating by day as it was by night, and in the background the melody of the waters continued unabated. She took a deep breath and her being was filled with the pure morning air. She felt herself filling with confidence and beaming with optimism.

  That day she had to go to the EgyptAir office to check that the clothes she was shipping from Egypt to Milan had arrived and been delivered to the Salon. The plane was not due to arrive until the afternoon, so she decided to spend the morning strolling the streets of the city. She wanted to take a look at the fashions in the shops and familiarize herself with what the fashion houses were displaying that season.

  First, she went to the splendid Via del Corso, then walked as far as the shops of Via Condotti, and ended up at Via Veneto where she sat in a café and drank a cup of the Italian espresso she so liked.

  In most of the shop windows, she saw clothes with cheerful colors reminiscent of nature in summertime. Bold reds, yellows, blues, and greens, not pastel half-colors like gray, pink, or brown. She felt confident about her own designs, whose colors were in the same palette.

  As she was sipping her coffee, Doha heard Arabic being spoken behind her. She turned and saw two men with their backs to her. Their accent was not Egyptian. She remembered Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni, who had made a strange impression on her, a mixture of warmth and nervousness. It seemed he was very close to her, yet at the same time there was an unbridgeable gulf between them. Whatever the case, he was a decent man whose views she did not agree with, yet she could not accuse him of the opportunism that she found to be the distinguishing characteristic of politicians.

  What had he meant when he said that her designs ought to be Egyptian? What did he know about fashion? Anyway, in what way was fashion Egyptian or Swedish or Mexican? With modern fashions it was difficult to tell the nationality of the designer. She had chosen a theme from nature, the eternal wellspring of art everywhere, and she hoped it would appeal to all nationalities.

  Doha’s cell phone rang. The caller’s number was not displayed. She realized it was her husband, whose number was secret and did not appear on the screen. “Hi, how are you?” he asked.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m sitting in a café on Via Veneto. I’ve just finished my coffee and am about to get going.”

  “Our ambassador in Rome was just speaking with me. I told him you were in Rome, and he’s going to call you immediately and make a car and driver available for you. He’s also going to invite you to a reception he’s holding this evening for some Egyptians who are visiting Italy.”

  Somewhat annoyed, she said, “I don’t want cars. You know very well that when I travel I prefer to walk the streets on foot, and if absolutely necessary I take a taxi. Plus, I did not come to Rome to spend my time at the Egyptian
embassy meeting Egyptians who are visiting Italy. Please, spare me these formalities. I’m sick and tired of them. Let me do what I want. I’m not in Egypt now.”

  He spoke in a serious voice, “I have to hang up now, the meeting is beginning. Do what you want, just don’t embarrass me with the ambassador. He only wants to be of service to me.”

  As soon as that call ended and Doha left the café, the ambassador was on the line. It was as if he had been sitting next to her husband waiting for him to hang up before calling. He started by welcoming her, stressing that no one had informed him of her arrival; otherwise he would have been at the airport to meet her, as protocol required, and personally ensured that she was given VIP treatment. She assured him she had been well treated and had no complaints whatsoever. He offered to send a car for her use during her trip. She thanked him, saying that she preferred to walk in order to take in the fashion stores at liberty. He invited her to the soiree he was hosting at the embassy. She politely declined, but he insisted and told her that his wife wanted to speak to her. He put his wife on the line, and she reiterated the welcome, using the same words and phrases as her husband. She said that on the ambassador’s orders there was a car at Doha’s disposal for the duration of her trip. Doha repeated what she had said to the woman’s husband. The ambassador’s wife invited her to dinner and said she would send a car and driver. Then she asked her to bring her bags with her and move into the embassy instead of the hotel. It would never be right for Doha Hanem, the wife of Medhat Bey al-Safti, to be in Rome and not stay at the embassy. Doha thanked her politely, and the ambassador’s wife started to explain that the embassy was a striking palace, enumerating the various bedrooms it contained. Doha wanted to tell her that she was quite familiar with the palace, having often visited it before the ambassador and his wife had set foot inside.