Adrift on the Nile

Lastly, Ragab indicated Khalid. "Khalid Azzuz, a member of the first rank of short-story writers. He owns an apartment block and a villa and a car, and several shares in the theory of art for art's sake, plus a son and daughter; and he also has a personal philosophy which I am not sure how to name--but certainly promiscuity is among its external traits. . . ."

He smiled at them all, revealing regular white teeth. "There remains only Amm Abduh," he murmured, "whose ghostly form we passed in the garden on our way here. You will meet him in due course. Everyone in the street knows him."

Anis called Amm Abduh and asked him to change the water in the pipe. He took it away through the side door and returned it in a moment, and then went away again. Sana's eyes widened in amazement at the towering figure. Ragab said: "Luckily he's the soul of obedience. He could drown us any time he wanted."

_There is nothing to fear as long as the whale remains in the water. The hand of this underage girl is as small as Napoleon's, but her nails are red and as pointed as the prow of a racing skiff. Now that she is here, we have broken every rule in the book . . ._

Thus the darkness spoke.

Mustafa coughed. "And which of the arts does Mademoiselle specialize in?"

"History," she replied, her voice coy and girlish.

"Marvelous!" cried Anis.

Ragab rebuked him. "Not your gory type of history! Her history is concerned with nice things!"

"There are no nice things in history."

"What about the passion of Antony and Cleopatra?"

"That was a gory passion."

"But one not wholly confined to swords and asps."

Sana appeared uneasy. She looked toward the screened door and asked: "Aren't you afraid of the police?"

Mustafa smiled. "The arts police?"

After the laughter died down, she said: "Or being investigated?"

"Because we are afraid of the police and the army," Ali said, "and the English and the Americans, and the visible and the invisible, we have reached the point where we're not afraid of anything!"

"But the door is open!"

"Amm Abduh is outside, and he can be counted upon to turn away any intruders."

Ragab smiled. "Forget your worries, light of my eyes," he said to the girl. "The economic plan is keeping everyone busy. The authorities have enough to do already without bothering with the likes of us."

Mustafa Rashid offered her the pipe. "Try this kind of courage," he suggested.

But she declined gently. "One step at a time," Ragab said. "Bare hands came before space technology. Roll her a joint."

In two minutes the cigarette was proffered. She took it rather cautiously, and fixed it between her lips. Ahmad looked at her sympathetically. He is afraid for his own daughter, thought Anis. And if my daughter had lived, she would be Sana's double.

But what is the point, whether you remain on this earth or depart? Or whether you live as long as the turtle? Since historical time is nothing compared to the time of the cosmos, Sana is really a contemporary of Eve. One day the Nile's waters will bring us something new, something which it would be better we did not name. The voice of the darkness spoke to him: _Well said._

And I believe that I may well hear, one night, the same voice command me to do some extraordinary thing--something to bewilder those who do not believe in miracles. The scientists have had their say on the stars, but what are the stars, in fact, but single worlds that chose solitude, worlds separated one from the other by thousands of light-years? Whatever or whoever you are, do something, for the Nothing has crushed us . . .

"So do you find time to study?" Ahmad asked Sana kindly.

Ragab replied for her. "Of course--but she's crazy about art as well."

The girl shook her finger at him. "Don't make me the entire subject of your conversation!"

"Perish the thought!"

"Do you want to be an actress?" Ahmad continued. When Sana smiled and did not demur, he continued: "But . . ."

Ragab interrupted him. "Quiet, you reactionary--and I don't use that disgusting term lightly." He took Sana's chin between finger and thumb and tilted her head toward him. Then he said, examining her carefully: "Let me study your face . . . beautiful, that fresh bloom harboring a hidden power. A sugared date with a hard kernel; the gaze of a young girl--which, when she frowns, radiates the subtlety of a woman! Which role would fit you? Perhaps the part of the girl in _The Mystery of the Lake_."

She was intrigued. "What part is that, exactly?"

"She is a bedouin girl who loves a wily fisherman--one of those men who make a game out of love. He scorns her at first, but she tames him eventually. By the end he is wrapped around her little finger."

"Could I really play that?"