secret, or they might kill me. We live in a religious state that doesn’t allow freedom of thought, despite the incessant babble about freedom. The free, however, don’t talk about freedom. They live it. People who lack freedom, in contrast, talk about it all the time.”
With her head bent, Bodour listened to her friend. A shudder ran through her whole being and surges of hot blood gushed up to her head then down to the soles of her feet. Something resembling Satan’s fingers of her childhood was working on the soles of her feet, tickling her left foot, for Satan always stood on the left side as people around her, at home and outside of the home, had often confirmed.
“My husband used to tell me that religion was essential for ethics. Without religion, no ethical sense could exist. But I discovered that there was no connection between religion and ethics. My husband was an ultra pious man, but every day he lied to me. He’d tell me that he was going to a meeting or a conference, to see a minister or a deputy, but would go instead to see the other woman in her home or in the brothel. He said that a husband had the right to marry four women, in addition to the women slaves and the concubines. He was a member of the group which held the banner that ‘Islam is the Solution’ and called for the application of Shari’a law and the suspension of the constitution. He was a colleague of Ahmed al-Damhiri, the Islamist prince.”
Bodour shuddered to hear the name of Ahmed al-Damhiri, her cousin. His father was a sheikh who occupied the position of deputy or vice-deputy of al-Azhar. He inherited his father’s turban and his small square-shaped head, as well as his square chin underneath the thin lips, the upper thinner than the lower, which he pursed when he was engrossed in deep thought. Ahmed al-Damhiri became one of the neo-leaders and was addressed with the title of emir, or prince. A number of unemployed youngsters with university degrees and frustrated hopes surrounded him. As their prince, he led them into the fold of religion. He was small and thin, and his fingers were short, supple, and girl-like. His voice was soft and his body flabby. He was scared of cockroaches and rats. Deep down, he had little self-esteem, but he compensated for this sense of inferiority by being extremely vain and grandiose. He puffed out his chest and walked with his head held high. On his forehead was the dark mark of prayers, as big as a peanut. His thick black beard grew profusely down to his chest. His gown was snow-white and so was his turban. He greeted youngsters with a slight tilt of his head accompanied by a faint smile.
“My cousin, Ahmed al-Damhiri, has become a dangerous man, Safi. He was a spoiled child who got everything he wished for, whether by entreaty or cunning, by softness or violence. Ahmed al-Damhiri would kill to get what he wanted, and now he wants ...”
Bodour stopped before finishing her sentence.
“Ahmed al-Damhiri wants Zeina Bint Zeinat.”
“How did you know?”
“Everybody knows the story. Zeina Bint Zeinat has become a famous star and many men are after her. But nobody really deserves her. She’s truly talented. She’s her mother’s daughter, Nanny Zeinat, who suckled and nursed her!”
Safi looked Bodour hard in the eye, but Bodour turned away from her gaze. She glimpsed Zakariah al-Khartiti playing golf, bending his small, thin body in order to hit the ball, which flew for a short distance in the air then fell. He walked proudly toward it, holding his nose high like his colleague, Mahmoud al-Feqqi, and other great writers. Behind him ran a little boy dragging a cart laden with golf equipment. Beside him walked Mahmoud al-Feqqi, tall and graceful, with wide, self-confident steps that were similar to his words on paper. But his back was more handsome than his face, and his eyes were dull and lustreless, the pupils small and colorless.
Bodour was never attracted to Mahmoud al-Feqqi. But when she
With her head bent, Bodour listened to her friend. A shudder ran through her whole being and surges of hot blood gushed up to her head then down to the soles of her feet. Something resembling Satan’s fingers of her childhood was working on the soles of her feet, tickling her left foot, for Satan always stood on the left side as people around her, at home and outside of the home, had often confirmed.
“My husband used to tell me that religion was essential for ethics. Without religion, no ethical sense could exist. But I discovered that there was no connection between religion and ethics. My husband was an ultra pious man, but every day he lied to me. He’d tell me that he was going to a meeting or a conference, to see a minister or a deputy, but would go instead to see the other woman in her home or in the brothel. He said that a husband had the right to marry four women, in addition to the women slaves and the concubines. He was a member of the group which held the banner that ‘Islam is the Solution’ and called for the application of Shari’a law and the suspension of the constitution. He was a colleague of Ahmed al-Damhiri, the Islamist prince.”
Bodour shuddered to hear the name of Ahmed al-Damhiri, her cousin. His father was a sheikh who occupied the position of deputy or vice-deputy of al-Azhar. He inherited his father’s turban and his small square-shaped head, as well as his square chin underneath the thin lips, the upper thinner than the lower, which he pursed when he was engrossed in deep thought. Ahmed al-Damhiri became one of the neo-leaders and was addressed with the title of emir, or prince. A number of unemployed youngsters with university degrees and frustrated hopes surrounded him. As their prince, he led them into the fold of religion. He was small and thin, and his fingers were short, supple, and girl-like. His voice was soft and his body flabby. He was scared of cockroaches and rats. Deep down, he had little self-esteem, but he compensated for this sense of inferiority by being extremely vain and grandiose. He puffed out his chest and walked with his head held high. On his forehead was the dark mark of prayers, as big as a peanut. His thick black beard grew profusely down to his chest. His gown was snow-white and so was his turban. He greeted youngsters with a slight tilt of his head accompanied by a faint smile.
“My cousin, Ahmed al-Damhiri, has become a dangerous man, Safi. He was a spoiled child who got everything he wished for, whether by entreaty or cunning, by softness or violence. Ahmed al-Damhiri would kill to get what he wanted, and now he wants ...”
Bodour stopped before finishing her sentence.
“Ahmed al-Damhiri wants Zeina Bint Zeinat.”
“How did you know?”
“Everybody knows the story. Zeina Bint Zeinat has become a famous star and many men are after her. But nobody really deserves her. She’s truly talented. She’s her mother’s daughter, Nanny Zeinat, who suckled and nursed her!”
Safi looked Bodour hard in the eye, but Bodour turned away from her gaze. She glimpsed Zakariah al-Khartiti playing golf, bending his small, thin body in order to hit the ball, which flew for a short distance in the air then fell. He walked proudly toward it, holding his nose high like his colleague, Mahmoud al-Feqqi, and other great writers. Behind him ran a little boy dragging a cart laden with golf equipment. Beside him walked Mahmoud al-Feqqi, tall and graceful, with wide, self-confident steps that were similar to his words on paper. But his back was more handsome than his face, and his eyes were dull and lustreless, the pupils small and colorless.
Bodour was never attracted to Mahmoud al-Feqqi. But when she
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