The Cheapest Nights Page 11

  She came, still wrapped in her melaya. She stood leaning on the open door. Abdallah gave her another close look. He was quick to sense a seductive female under her strong features and her ruddy complexion.

  “Your name is Effat?” he asked, deliberately distorting her name.

  “Your servant, Shohrat,” she replied.

  There was a feminine ring to her voice that caught his ear, and he noticed that the way she said “your servant” was more by way of courtesy than humility.

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Children?”

  “Two girls and a boy.”

  He was still looking at her, searching for that thing experience had taught him to look for in a woman, which revealed how far she was willing to go. It wasn’t there. He noticed she was still holding her melaya.

  “Have you had lunch?” he asked. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Yes, God be thanked,” she said, her eyes on the floor.

  Which meant she hadn’t. He suspected she’d had no breakfast either. He told her to go to the kitchen where there was some food left over. She mumbled something about really having eaten. But he insisted and when he saw she did not know the way to the kitchen he got up and showed her. He returned to the study and sat thinking. She was not what he had expected. There was power in that woman. She was poor and wore a melaya but there was an air of dignity about her that women of her class seldom possessed. Perhaps it was the purity of her features. Would he dare, he wondered. Her kind was not easy to beat down.

  When he heard her moving about in the kitchen he guessed she must have finished eating. He went and stood at the kitchen door.

  “Have you worked before?” he asked, as a way of starting a conversation.

  “No. This is the first time.”

  Ah. He’d heard that one before. The lady of quality fallen on bad days. That was an old trick. He didn’t want the conversation to end there so he ordered her to remove her melaya. She obeyed and stood looking for some place to put it. The kitchen was bright and sparkling and she dared not put it down there. Finally she laid it on the edge of the rug in the living room. She was wearing a very faded silk dress underneath.

  “Can you make coffee?” he asked with a cunning smile.

  “Sugar?” The expression on her face was quite candid.

  “Yes, and make one for yourself too,” he added on an impulse.

  “Thank you,” she replied as she started on it.

  Somehow he felt disturbed. For some reason he was aware that this woman Shohrat could see through him. He felt she knew what was in the back of his mind. Why he had spoken to Farghali, and why he was standing there now putting himself in her way? She was probably laughing at him. It only made him more determined. Suppose she were—suppose she did see through him, what then?

  She was standing before the stove, her eyes fixed on the coffeepot, or at least so it seemed. He came and stood behind her.

  “Where do you live?” he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder, not troubling to listen to what she replied, for what he really wanted to know was how much she responded to the touch of his hand. He felt her stiffen and he moved closer, defying her resistance. She quivered and drew slightly away as he held her more firmly to prevent her moving.

  “Where are the cups?”

  Beads of sweat clustered on his forehead and his throat went dry. Sharply he ordered her to clean the apartment after she was through with the coffee, and then he went back to his study. She brought him the coffee there and stood respectfully before him, her eyes looking down.

  Almost immediately she started to clean up. The rugs were rolled back and the chairs moved out of the way and the tile floors were flooded with water. Abdallah was watching her movements as she bent to scrub. From the back her legs were a pinkish white, and the mounds of living flesh that rubbed against the threadbare fabric of her dress called out to him with maddening insistence.

  He went and stood near her pretending he was supervising her work, giving her orders. There’s dust in that corner. Over there too. Bend over so you can reach it better. Her eyes were on the floor and her whole body was exposed to his gaze.

  When she finished she asked if there was anything more to be done. There wasn’t. She asked what time she should come next day. Half past two in the afternoon. That suited him best as Ga‘afari left at two. For a moment he was tempted to have another go at her but decided to put it off for fear of another rebuff. She wrapped herself in her melaya and walked demurely out of the room.

  When the door closed behind her Judge Abdallah cursed himself for a fool. To let a woman like that brush him off. A woman who had walked into his apartment of her own free will and when nothing stood in his way. A full-blooded male in his position given the slip by a two-bit slut like her!

  III

  She came regularly now, every day at half past two. Every day he thought of trying and every day he put it off. Until one day she was rearranging his bed as he had ordered her (for Ga‘afari usually made it in the morning) when he suddenly came upon her and took her in his arms. She struggled hard to break free, begging him to let her go. He paid no attention and after a long struggle she was forced to give in. He was thrilled when he felt her resistance collapse, even though he wasn’t sure whether she was overcome by his physical strength or by sheer despair. He let her go and she ceased to struggle. What was the use now?

  He went back to her after a while, curious to see her reaction after what had happened. He was annoyed to find her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked gruffly, expecting her to mumble as usual something like “nothing,” but he got no reply.

  “What’s the matter? What’s eating you?” he asked again, but still she said nothing.

  “I asked you what’s the matter,” he repeated sharply, shaking her impatiently.

  “I’ve never done it before,” she said slowly and the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  He refused to believe it. This imperious woman was staging an act she had probably played many times before. Did she take him for a fool or was she angling for a raise? But she never asked for a raise. And when she spoke to him after that she avoided his eyes, either looking down or busying herself with something.

  He was quite satisfied with her. The best part of the experience was that her capitulation was his own achievement. It was neither his money, nor his position, nor his manner that did it but the sheer power he could exercise over her. His triumph had brought an end to the hidden struggle between her inflexibility and his weakness, for he had always known that of the two she had the upper hand. Had she been one of the ladies of Mrs. Shendi’s salon and not a servant he would never have dared to go near her.

  The next time he also met with resistance but it was the resistance of one who had despaired of resisting. They always got off to a stormy beginning which slowly resolved into the tranquility of habit. Her presence in the apartment was a novel experience. The sound of her step, or her appearance in the doorway, her melaya wound tightly around her body, aroused him, and he’d find himself considering whether to have her right now or whether it would be better tomorrow. What impression was he making on her? How did he perform as a lover? He’d have her now, or maybe after lunch. He was troubled and restless. The familiar noises of the household, plates clattering in the kitchen, the broom brushing over the rugs, or her voice coming from another room, textured, modulated, provoking, fell on his ears with special impact. It was an exciting adventure which had all the ardors of expectation and all the thrills of surprise. But seldom does anything withstand the strain of habit. What was once the source of boundless joy would one day hardly cause a flutter.

  His greatest hurdle at the beginning was to break her down, but once that stage was over all he had to do to get her to bed was to squeeze her han
d, or smile out of the corner of his mouth, or simply ask her about her “health.” Then she would try to elude him, and he would chase her around the apartment, and what had started in jest would turn into a sweeping want that had to be answered right away. When she sensed his desire she’d start to shift about; a pale smile would form on her lips, a blend of reserve, indifference and a good deal of submission. But the moment he was through with her the smile became ironic with undertones of contempt.

  When the novelty wore off and habit settled in he took to giving himself up to her with complete abandon. He omitted the niceties and he treated her as little more than a live mattress on which he sprawled and stretched and tossed and turned and relaxed without restraint. And when habit dulled the edge of excitement he began to look for new thrills. He began to whisper obscenities which he wanted her to repeat to him. Brutally and deliberately he would lay bare the most hidden reaches of her soul, even the things a professional whore would still want to keep private.

  It took him a long time to realize she had not lied. He really was the only man to have had her besides her husband. If words did not convince him he was convinced by his daily observations, and by her spontaneous reactions, and the vague intimations by which the truth is always known.

  One day he asked, in another attempt to probe into her being, “Do you love me, Shohrat?”

  The question sprang from an overriding need to know. What made this woman with children and a husband, who came to him from want, this woman whom he had seduced and whom he could have any time he wanted, what made her accept this situation? Was it only because being her master he had the upper hand, or did she want him for his own sake, for the male that he was?

  The question preyed on his mind. He longed, if only once in his life, for a woman to desire him, any woman at all, even if it were only Shohrat. He was continually looking for evidence that she was that woman, but there was none. She was still pleased when he let her keep the change from the housekeeping money. Sometimes she would ask for a loan of ten or twenty piastres. He couldn’t tell if she really needed them or if that was her way of getting what she could out of him. Nor could he tell if she was doing her best to please him for his own sake or as part of her duties as a domestic. Nothing pointed to anything definite, he could not see clear on that score because his awareness of Shohrat was confined only to the limits of his desire for her.

  Meanwhile life went on as usual: work, lawsuits, preambles long overdue, bridge, Mrs. Shendi, dates with other girls, drives in the car, and a hundred other things that made up the fabric of his life. Questions pounded in his head only at the instant when he desired Shohrat, otherwise he dismissed them.

  Shohrat did not answer his question immediately. She looked down as she always did when he spoke to her.

  “I asked you something,” he said, pressing her closer.

  “Does anyone who loves another ever admit it?” The simplicity of her reply moved him. It was direct and candid which made it impossible to doubt its sincerity. It made him wonder how a woman so untutored could reason with such clarity. Had she been educated he would have suspected she was repeating something she had read in a book.

  “Of course, he must,” he said to draw her out a little more.

  “Then he would not be saying the truth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Love is in the heart. What is spoken aloud is not love.”

  What did this woman know of love? What did it mean to her? He had read what scholars had written about it. He had discussions with his friends concerning it, people of his own background. Now he had a rare chance of picking the brain of a woman who had no experience of love.

  “Tell me,” he asked, “what’s this thing, love?”

  “How would I know?”

  He pressed her to say more.

  “How am I to know? It’s love this, and love that; that’s all you hear all the time,” she said impatiently.

  “But you, what do you say?”

  “I say it comes from God.”

  “What do you mean, from God?”

  “I mean one loves only if it is the will of God.”

  “But what is the meaning of love? How does it make you feel? What do you want when you love?”

  “Oh, come off it.”

  And she would go no further. Not because she could not find an answer but because she could not bring herself to say what she wanted to say.

  * * *

  —

  What begins as fun sometimes suddenly takes an unexpected turn and ends in earnest, like this discussion with Shohrat. It raised a new issue. He did not know her husband. He did not even remember whether his name was Saleh or Mahmoud although he had asked her once. Nor did he know what he did for a living. All he knew was that he had sired her three children and that for this reason there must be something between them. What was it? He wanted to know only because he had placed himself between them. He had to know which of them she loved better.

  “Who do you love better, me or your husband?” he asked her bluntly one day as they lay in bed. He was sorry the moment the question was out and would have changed the subject had he not been so keen to know the answer.

  He was vexed when she said nothing. She just looked down and smiled. What did that mean? Surely she would have told him if it was him she loved better. Suddenly he was filled with a childish fury. The slut. What did she see in a man who could not even support her? Should he sack her and put an end to this issue? But he knew he was not up to facing the consequences. She had become a habit with him. She knew his ways and catered to his needs and he rather enjoyed the pleasant rut of his life with her. And then there was that irresistible pull she had on him. Perhaps it was a question of time. After all, she had spent years with her husband and only a few days with him. He would teach her how to love him, that destitute creature with a melaya, he would teach her yet. It became an obsession. How to subjugate this woman, how to dominate her.

  His anger kept mounting until he thought he would burst.

  He did not burst. An hour later he was sitting in his study submerged in the files of forty lawsuits that were coming up before him in the morning. He had forgotten all about Shohrat and her husband and when he ordered her to make him tea it was in the same tone as he ordered Farghali to call in a witness.

  IV

  When it started, the affair with Shohrat was a solemn experience. When he called her it was in answer to a compelling urge; and when she came every nerve in his body awakened to her presence. But it wasn’t long before it all fizzled out into dull routine. Nothing in her stirred him anymore. Her body was nothing but a piece of property he could throw on the scrap heap anytime. He felt elated when he remembered how he had succeeded in breaking her resistance. He was the master and that’s all that mattered. Shohrat did not count one way or another. She could be another of those bits of bric-a-brac cluttering his apartment for all he cared. And yet he was often nudged by the doubt that he had not scored a real victory. He was not certain of that victory. Did he fully possess her? Did he dominate her to the extent of overshadowing her husband?

  On the whole he didn’t really care whether he possessed her completely or whether she still belonged to another. But there were moments when his vanity clamored for assurance. He decided to cut down her salary and see what happened. If she stayed on his question was answered and if she quit it was just as well.

  Actually he had already begun to complain to Farghali whenever the latter asked fawningly how things were going. He would scowl and start to list her faults. She was sloppy, she was lazy, and it was time he tried someone new.

  When at the beginning of the month he handed her her salary minus one pound, she took it without a word and put it in her small faded wallet, her face crimson. Next day when she didn’t turn up he felt a pang of remorse but he had no intention of tormenting himself on her account and he
decided to ask Farghali to find him another servant. But he never got around to doing that as something more pressing had cropped up unexpectedly. Coming out of the cinema one night he happened to catch a glimpse of Nana with a young man. Investigations led him to discover she was having an affair with him which vividly reminded him of his own interlude with her. For quite a while he could think of nothing but to get her back.

  Three or four days later when he was parking the car in the garage in the basement on his return from work he noticed Shohrat, wrapped in her melaya, squatting on the floor near the door. It annoyed him and he decided to ignore her, so he went up through the little back door connecting the basement with the front entrance to the building. But just as he expected, the bell rang in his apartment a few minutes after he went in. It was Shohrat. He gave her a pale smile and let her come in. She didn’t speak. Nor did he know what to say to her. He watched her indifferently as she went to the kitchen and removed her melaya in order to start work. He sat in his study and called her. Although a shy man by nature, he was not shy of Shohrat anymore. She was perhaps the only person he knew of whom he was not shy.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I had to come back,” she said looking at her wet fingers.

  “Then why did you leave in the first place? Was it the money?”

  He couldn’t help the bitterness he felt as he said this, for he remembered that the money had been his way of testing her attachment and that he had failed the test.

  “My little girl was ill. I had to take her to hospital.”

  He could see through the lie. Nevertheless he felt a little pity. Perhaps it was her paleness. Her face was drab and sallow. Humility made her features droop, and it looked as if that was her pride seeping out with the sweat that was dripping from her brow.

  “Isn’t three pounds enough for you?”