Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (7 page)

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

T
he 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.

Doha carried on saying thank you and fending off her successive offers of hospitality. In the face of her insistence and that of the ambassador, who in turn expressed the need for her to come and stay at the embassy, Doha finally agreed to attend the dinner. But she said that she wanted to spend her days in Rome downtown, where the shops she wanted to visit were. The ambassador suggested that his wife accompany her every day to the clothing stores. Doha said that they could talk about it in the evening when they met. When the conversation ended, Doha turned off her phone to stop any more calls. The two she had already received had stretched her nerves and made her feel she was still in Egypt.

On her way back to the hotel, Doha stopped at a large bookstore with a foreign-language section. On the shelves among the English books, she came across a book with a color photograph of a beautiful butterfly on the cover. The book was called
The Butterflies of Egypt
. Her mind went straight back to Ashraf al-Zayni. The book was full of stunning photos. Could all of these butterflies be Egyptian?

In a corner of the bookshop there were some comfortable chairs for people to sit and browse. Doha took the book and sat down on one of the chairs to look through it. What a discovery!

She found herself compelled to read the book. Perhaps the reason was her interest in butterflies and the words of the Chinese philosopher on the relationship between man and butterfly that Gabriella had told her. Perhaps it was Ashraf al-Zayni’s asking her whether her clothes had an Egyptian character. She had believed that butterflies were found all over the world and were global creatures without a particular homeland. But the title of this book implied that there were Egyptian butterflies. And what butterflies they were!

She was totally engrossed in reading:

More than three thousand years ago in Thebes, an Egyptian artist sat with his painting utensils before him. Some flowers and plants, insects and fishes that he had collected were also in front of him. He was going to paint them as part of the wall reliefs for the tomb of an important member of the royal court.

The artist had completed the painting of the tomb’s owner, who was seated on the solar bark that would transport him to eternity and was surrounded by a large number of servants and members of his retinue. Now the artist had to paint the rest of the scene.

Plants and flowers gave him the most pleasure. Painting human figures meant obeying strict norms, especially if the tomb was for a powerful person who had to be represented in idealized form. If he failed to follow the rules, the priests would be angry with the artist and not entrust him with work again. Painting nature, he could give free rein to his imagination. He might paint a fish smaller or larger, from the side or from the top. The papyrus reeds bent to his own artistic standards and not the strict rules for painting kings or nobles.

The artist looked at the things he had collected on the table. He was arrested by one of the butterflies, which had captivating colors. It was the tiger butterfly. Its body was jet black with white spots; its wings were orange-brown, with a border of black with white spots that echoed the colors of the body. What a wonderful butterfly! The artist would always see it in the fields and gardens, but he had not scrutinized it so closely before. Would he be able to capture the beauty of the butterfly and its strange colors?

After this opening, the book went on to say that, in his beautiful depiction of the tiger butterfly, an unknown Egyptian artist had left us the oldest known image of a butterfly. This indigenous Egyptian butterfly, with the Latin name
Danaus chrysippus
, was a contemporary of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs and still flies around in modern Egypt. It is the largest and most beautiful of all the species of Egyptian butterfly.

Doha raced through the book. Images of brilliantly colored butterflies came one after another, a flight of butterflies all in a line. She decided to buy the book and closed it with care, as if closing the door of a secret treasure house she had discovered and wished to preserve.

10 Abdel Samad

A
bdel Samad never spoke about his private life. Like their father, Ayman knew that his brother worked at a realtor’s office, but where it was or what his salary amounted to, no one knew. When he started working there, his father asked him how much he was being paid. Abdel Samad told him, and his father set his contribution to the household. But two years had passed since then, and his salary must have risen. Ayman and Abdel Samad shared a room, but that was the only part of their lives in common. Ayman knew next to nothing about his big brother’s life.

Thus it came as quite a surprise to Ayman when Abdel Samad said to him one day, “I want to talk to you about something, but I want you to promise that you’ll keep it secret.” Ayman promised, and Abdel Samad told him that for some time he had been trying to travel abroad. Over the Internet, he had become acquainted with an older woman in Kuwait who was going to help him. They had formed a bond over the past weeks, and exchanged photographs online. Then they spoke on the phone, and now that she trusted him, she called him every day from Kuwait.

Ayman asked a few relevant questions about this surprising development. Abdel Samad explained that Sheikha Ruqaya was a widow whose dead husband had left her quite a lot of money. She loved Abdel Samad’s apparent decency and willingness to take care of her money, and they had agreed to get married. He continued, saying that she had made arrangements in Egypt for him to obtain a nominal work contract with a freight company in Kuwait so that his papers would be in order. The person who had arranged the contract was asking for five thousand pounds. This was all Abdel Samad would have to pay to start a new life outside of Egypt, where he would enjoy the things he had been dreaming of his whole life long.

Ayman kept questioning him. What if he met her and found her to be ugly, or married her and discovered she had a bad character? What if he did not like his new, untested life in Kuwait? Abdel Samad interrupted him: “None of that matters. What does matter is that I am getting out of here and starting a new life. Are you content with our life? Any other life would be better.”

Ayman said, “But I’m worried for you about things you might not even know about now.”

Abdel Samad interrupted him again, saying, “Listen, I’ve looked into it carefully. I went through all those questions before they occurred to you. I’m not talking to you so we can discuss things or for you to give me advice. I’ve examined it from every angle and reached a decision. I’m going to leave next week.”

This was a shock to Ayman. He had imagined that his brother was asking his opinion. It had not occurred to him that he might have made up his mind, that the conversation was simply him saying goodbye before leaving. The shock
increased when Abdel Samad said, “The reason I’m talking to you is that I need your help. I’ve spent all my savings on getting a passport; plus I’ve spent a lot on the Internet. Out of the five thousand pounds, I’ve got two and a half thousand after borrowing money from everyone I know and selling my watch and cell phone. Now I need the same amount again. Couldn’t one of your friends lend me the money that will let me make the move I’ve wanted to make for ages? That money will open the door to paradise. I’ll return it as soon as I arrive in Kuwait, where I’ll have plenty of money. The Sheikha trusts me blindly.”

“If it’s like that,” asked Ayman, “why doesn’t the Sheikha pay?”

“You don’t understand. I had to make myself appear well-off, so she didn’t think I was after her money. All I’ll have to pay is this five thousand pounds, and then I’ll have hundreds of thousands.”

“Haven’t you told our father?”

His response was fast. “I haven’t told anyone at all. It’s my life and no one else’s business. Don’t go spreading the news in the neighborhood like a kid. Either you help me or you don’t. And in either case, don’t mention it to anyone.”

Ayman offered his brother his cell phone and said, “All I’m worried about is that it should all get lost for nothing.”

“I haven’t lost anything in my life, and this is an unmissable opportunity,” Abdel Samad said. He took the phone and began looking it over. Then he said, “If I sold this phone, I wouldn’t get more than a hundred or a hundred and fifty pounds, and I need two and a half thousand.”

Ayman was perplexed. He did not know what to do. He told his brother that the phone was all he had. Abdel Samad asked, “Your friends, doesn’t one of them fancy making an investment? Tell them that they’ll get twice their money back.”