Love in the Kingdom of Oil by Nawal El Saadawi Page A

everything, even love? Are you lacking anything? Come on, speak and don’t deny it!’
    ‘You are an exemplary man, that’s true. But I work all day and part of the night. Who pays my wage?’
    ‘Your wage is due from God.’
    ‘God? What are you saying, man?’
    ‘Don’t you believe that God exists, woman?’
    His voice had become angry and the tone threatening. She was demanding her wage and he was demanding that she have faith. She did not know, but the situation had been reversed. He had become the person in the right, and she no longer had any request to make. He had put her in the dock and had begun to circle around her ruffling his hair and roaring like a lion.
    ‘The heart of a woman like you isn’t filled with faith. You deserve nothing apart from fire and burning. Come on, speak and defend yourself.’
    She was tongue-tied and unable to reply. She was just as much a believer as the man, and more so. Her heart was big, bigger than his. It was large enough to embrace a faith bigger than his faith, a faith that also included the ancient gods – and the goddesses. But what was the relation of gods with money? She was a woman who did her work without shirking. She carried a jar on her head in an official oil company. The work was hard, and it had become even harder when the storm rose. She could have avoided all this trouble. She beat her feet on the ground, crying, ‘All this toil!’
    ‘Why did you come then?’
    She froze in her place without speaking. The reply was as clear as the noonday sun. She had come because she could not continue there. Yes, she had come to avoid greater toil. That was the sum of it.
    ‘Is that the sum of it?’
    ‘Yes, that is the sum of it.’
    The matter appeared very simple. Her lips let out a deep sigh as if she was resting. Her head suddenly bent forward over her chest as if she was sleeping. However, the movement woke her up and she paid attention once more. Her head was heavy and the heat, along with the heaviness of the jar, was gushing over her from above. It was as if she was carrying the disc of the sun at midday, even though it was night and the man was lying beside her with his eyes open.
    ‘Haven’t you got a BA?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘This matter upsets His Majesty and the boss of the company of course.’
    ‘Hasn’t any woman here managed to obtain a BA?’
    ‘There was one woman, of poor parents. Her whole family were thieves. They said that she was possessed by a demon, for demons follow poverty, and thieves follow demons. Nevertheless, she did not succeed in running away.’
    ‘How was that?’
    ‘The newspapers published her picture and they brought her back before she had gone beyond the fixed boundaries of religion.’
    ‘Do you mean that not a single woman has run away?’
    ‘And not a single man.’
    Her body slumped even as she lay there. It was as if she was falling into an even deeper sleep. She curled up in a ball like an oil caterpillar. Her face turned the colour of the earth. She pressed her hand against her breast. Then she burst out, ‘There’s no pulse!’
    The man sprang up from the bed. He began to knead her heart with his fingertips. She was overcome with astonishment but could not refuse. He was seizing the opportunity of the absence of a pulse to press on her chest with his finger. He passed his finger through the cleft between her breasts. There was a congealed layer of oil with a sweaty smell. She mumbled in a sort of embarrassment, ‘I was intending to take a bath, but . . .’
    ‘There’s no need for embarrassment, for I’m not a stranger.’
    The moon was casting a pale light on the lake, a round stain of faint white above a stretch of gloomy black. The window panel was made of planks of wood with a stout bolt. On it were growing clumps of oil; the edges were turning green. The window was low and had cracks in it, through which the women’s eyes were looking. Three or four were trying to stop themselves