Waiting for a sign

By Fayza Hassan
Late one night during the Eid holidays, I waited a long time for a taxi at a street corner in Zamalek. Finally, one arrived. The driver was bearded and I was rather reluctant to ride with him all the way to Maadi, taking him for an Islamist who would feel uncomfortable about my unveiled hair. A quick look up the street informed me that no better choice was forthcoming, however, so I hopped in and immediately switched off my attention, electing to concentrate on the hungry cats awaiting me at the end of what I expected to be a mildly unpleasant ride. As he crossed Qasr Al-Nil Bridge, I saw the driver observing me in his rearview mirror. I immediately shifted out of his field of vision and resigned myself to hearing him implore God loudly for forgiveness before turning on his tape recorder full-blast to regale me with some preacher's sermon on shameless women.
"Isn't Cairo beautiful without the usual throngs?" he asked instead. Surprised, I uttered a noncommittal sound that he interpreted as encouragement. "My first wife loved Cairo at night. She hated it in the day. She hated the people. My first wife was a Filipina." He waited a second for a show of interest, which I withheld, then proceeded regardless. He had lived happily for six and a half years with the woman, who worked as a nurse at a private hospital. "She made my life heaven," he said. "She used to cook like an angel, and always remembered that I like dessert. She made the most delicious things with chocolate. She was thrifty and clean. Every evening was a feast, the table set properly and decorated with flowers and candles. She saved some money and bought a tape recorder so we could have background music. Can you imagine poor people like us, listening to music while they dined? I am a romantic. I could not wait to go home as soon as I finished my day's work."
By this time I was curious, but I did not want to seem eager to hear more. "Did your wife die?" I asked, trying to sound both indifferent and commiserating. "No," he said, "She is in Manila. I was stupid enough to listen to my family and divorce her. They told me that I was married to a servant, that all Filipinos are maids. They said my children, if I had any, would have slanted eyes and be made fun of at school... I was young; what did I know? An Egyptian wife would make me even happier, they said. She would have all Nina's qualities and more. At least we could communicate. Nina spoke little Arabic and I did not understand her language. She also spoke English but I don't. Who needed conversation, though, with such a loving wife? She would wake up at five in the morning, shower and perfume herself before she woke me up with a scalding cup of tea and a little biscuit. She chose my clothes for me and helped me dress. I had a clean and freshly ironed shirt every day. Then she would kiss me good-bye and whisper that I should not to be late. I never was.
"One day, my mother asked me if Nina was a Muslim. I had never given it a thought but now it began to bother me. She never prayed, and did not wear hijab. It was true that none of my friends had a wife like her. Maybe they were making fun of me behind my back. Besides, I knew nothing of Nina's past. She could be married with children in her country, for all I knew. I was young and quite ignorant. I believed my mother and divorced Nina. I cried that day. Then my mother chose my bride, a fallaha from her village. As soon as we were married my new wife donned the hijab. She cooks ordinary food badly and throws it on the table, then goes back to sleep. She too wakes up at five in the morning, but it is to do the washing, not to take care of me. I get my own tea -- that is, when she remembers to buy tea. Her skin has become rough in no time, and she won't give me a cuddle. She says it is sinful. When I told her to put candles on the table, she looked at me as if I was out of my mind. Why use candles if we are lucky enough to have electricity? She is not a romantic. I try to work at night and spend the rest of my time in cafés. She stays home with the children. My mother is happy, because now I am like everybody else she knows: unhappily married, with children, spending the least time possible at home. Do you know why Egyptians are always in the streets? They are like me. They don't want to go home to the wife their mother chose for them."
It was a good thing we had arrived, because I really could not find the appropriate words of consolation. As I paid the fare he asked: "Am I being punished for listening to my mother?" I left him to find the answer by himself and told him the way out of Maadi instead.
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