Excerpt: A Nose and Three Eyes by Ihsan Abdel Kouddous (translated by Jonathan Smolin)

The First Eye

1

There’s no such thing as love.

I scoffed at the foolish girls who go crazy at the sighs of ‘Abd al-Wahhab and the wails of ‘Abd al-Halim Hafz. They pour their youth out into the lines of romance novels and movies and then hitch their fantasies to the first guy they meet, tearing up their hearts with their fingernails proclaiming, “We’ve fallen in love!”

No, girls.

No, deluded girls.

There’s no such thing as love.

Believe me.

I know. I’m an expert. I have long, bitter experience.

What we call love is only, how to put it, habit. Yes, just habit. You get used to a man and habit takes root deep inside you until you think it’s love. Or what they call love. Exactly as we say that a man loves whiskey. Does it make any sense that a man falls in love with whiskey? We use the word “love” for whiskey, as we use it for romantic relationships, because the basic element that brings together a man and whiskey is what brings together a man and a woman. It’s habit. Getting used to something. When we say that someone loves whiskey, we mean that they’ve gotten used to it. When we say that someone loves someone, we mean that they’ve gotten used to them.

So, if this is true, why does a woman love one man in particular and not another? Or, more specifically, why does a woman get used to one man in particular and not another?

It’s a matter of taste.

While one man is used to whiskey and another to cognac, a third might prefer wine, and so on. It’s the same with girls. One girl likes brown-haired guys while another likes blonds. One girl likes heavy-set guys while another likes thin guys, and so on.

Despite that, there’s not a girl out there who started her romantic life with just one guy. Girls always begin by casting their gaze onto more than one guy, just like they fip through the pages of fashion magazines. And she likes more than one dress. More like ten dresses or twenty. She also likes more than one guy, or ten guys or twenty. She checks out each of them and she hopes to touch each one, hear each voice on the phone, see each set of lips, and sample each taste herself. She tries different men, or at least some of them, and she stops at the one that most fits her circumstances.

There’s no difference between a kiss from any of the ten or twenty guys she likes. It’s the same taste, the same trembling of the lips, the same feeling savored in silence. The difference is between a kiss that she’s gotten used to and one that is new. If she got used to the kiss of any of the guys that she longed for, I’d call this love, just as I’d call my habit for Hashim love.

What was between me and Hashim couldn’t be more than that.

Simply habit.

I didn’t love him. It couldn’t have been love. I don’t want it to be said that I loved him. It drives me crazy whenever I hear someone say that I loved him. I only got used to him.

Habit has harsh rules. It controls you, makes you submit, degrades you, and erases your personality. A man who got used to whiskey might lose it if he’s denied whiskey. He might destroy everything around him and then destroy himself. All that happened to me because I got used to Hashim.

How did I let this happen when he was so bitter, so repulsive from day one?

I don’t know.

Whiskey also has a bitter and repulsive taste.

And I got used to both.

I got used to Hashim.

Then I got used to whiskey.

And . . .

I laugh. I laugh at myself, at my defeat, at my suffering.

I’m trying to make out like I’m some philosopher here, but these words aren’t mine. They’re some of my boyfriend’s. He told me all this once to dry my tears. Then he kissed me to get me used to him so that I might get rid of my habit for Hashim’s lips. I remember that night. I let him take more than that. I let him take all of me to help me get rid of my habit for Hashim. I believed what he was saying that day.

But I’m not a philosopher.

I was a girl like all the rest. I was crazy about the sighs of ‘Abd al-Wahhab and the wails of ‘Abd al-Halim Hafez. I poured my youth out into the lines of romance stories and movies.

I was beautiful. My hair was the color of hazelnuts. It was long, down past my shoulders. My eyes were wide and amber. My mouth was small, my lips tight and cheerful. My lower lip was fuller than the upper one. I had an infectious smile. My skin was white, the color of milk. I was five foot six, tall but not too tall, and I had shapely legs.

My breasts were like two sunflowers. My waist was thin, not more than 22 inches. I had a beauty mark the color of chocolate on my shoulder. And another one, I won’t say where.

I was infatuated with my body. I’d lock my bedroom door and stand naked in front of the mirror. I’d inspect every part of me, every line, every fold. I wanted to put a little weight on my arms since they were so thin. I wanted my breasts to come up a bit so that my collar bones were a little less prominent. I’d dance in front of the mirror. I’d smile at my waist as I bent forward, at my chest as it shook, at my thighs as they swung softly and calmly, as if I was swimming in air. I loved dancing, but only my mirror saw me dance. Even my mother had not seen me.

I never thought about a man as I stood in front of the mirror staring at my body. Never. I never thought about who I’d be giving this body to. Never. All that was far from me. I’d notice the eyes of men pursuing me. I felt pleased by it, but I’d brush them of like I was swatting away flies, not letting a single one land on or cling to me. There was never one man in particular, never one man I yearned for. My head was full of movie stars. Rock Hudson, Gregory Peck, Dean Martin. Just fantasy, just dreams that didn’t excite anything real in me. My body was mine alone. I felt that I was the only one who had the right to enjoy it, to examine it and discover its secrets. I preserved my treasure, only opening it in front of the mirror.

Have I gone on too long about it?

Sorry.

But that’s how my story begins. It begins the day I started feeling that I was beautiful, the day I became infatuated with myself.

I was the most beautiful girl on Salah al-Din Street in Heliopolis. Suitors started coming to my father when I was ffteen.

And then I got engaged.

At the time, I was sixteen. I was living with my mother, her husband, and my three half-siblings. My mother was a goodhearted woman. She prayed and fasted. Every month she made an offering to one of the awliya—an offering to Sayyidna al-Hussein for her son’s success, an offering to Sidi Abu al-‘Abbas when my sister recovered from measles, and so on and on. She went to fortune tellers for them to read their coffee grounds and tarot cards. Despite her preoccupation with all this, she was a happy woman. A day didn’t go by without her getting together with some of her many friends, who made up half the women of Cairo.

My mother used to spoil me and worry about me more than my siblings. Maybe because I was living with her and I didn’t have a close relationship with my father. She used to cover up my mistakes so her husband didn’t find out about them, while she’d complain to him about my siblings. She’d complain to him about every little mistake and then he would hit them.

Her husband was the kind of man who makes out like he’s harsh and firm, but he’s an imbecile you could make fun of and dupe easily.

One afternoon, my mother and I were leaving the salon when a man saw me. He walked behind me. He drove after our car all the way home. He asked the doorman about us. And the next day, he came to propose to me.

I don’t know how he convinced my mother to agree to our engagement. ‘Abd al-Salam was thirty-six. Twenty years older than me. Guys younger than him had come before to propose. Guys from well-known families had come before. Even a guy with a doctorate had come. ‘Abd al-Salam wasn’t cultured or educated or from a well-known family. But he was rich. He worked as a trader in Suez. Even though someone richer had come before, my mother accepted ‘Abd al-Salam. He was the kind of guy who could mesmerize older women.

My stepfather agreed quickly. Maybe to get rid of me so he could be free from my mother’s endless indulging me.

My father opposed it, but his opposition wasn’t worth much. My father didn’t have any weight, and no one took him seriously. He was irresponsible, living only for himself. At the time, he was married to his fourth wife. My mother used to say that he had a bachelor pad where he’d meet another woman who would one day become his fifth wife.

I gave in to my mother. I was happy with the engagement ring. It had slender diamonds and a lattice. It had a solitaire of fifteen karats. I loved the new dress and the party and all the attention from my five aunts. I was happy because I was engaged before my cousins Riri and Farida. My happiness those days was overwhelming. It made me forget everything, even my fiancé himself. I’d see him as I saw other men, just in passing. I didn’t try to scrutinize his features. At the time, I didn’t see the pores across his nose that you could only see if you looked closely. I didn’t see the gold tooth on the side of his right jaw that looked out at you whenever he laughed. I didn’t see that all his pants were too big from the back, as if the tailor had almost made a loose robe and then changed his mind at the last moment.

My fiancé left for Suez the day after the engagement was announced. He started coming to Cairo every week to spend Friday, Saturday, and Sunday there. Each of my aunts made a big lunch for us. My father invited us once for dinner. That day, I felt he was carrying out an unwanted responsibility and he almost kicked my fiancé and me out immediately after dinner. But I wasn’t angry at my father. I knew how my father was and I loved him.

My fiancé and I were never left alone. My mother was always with us. When she had to disappear for a few moments, she insisted on leaving her husband or my younger brother with us. My fiancé didn’t ever try to get me alone. He didn’t even try to whisper something my mother wouldn’t hear. He didn’t try to squeeze my hand or give me any of the glances that I read about in stories. All he would insist on was performing the five prayers at the right time. His whole aspiration was that I’d pray like him. My mother reassured him that after the marriage, I would definitely pray.

My happiness with the engagement began to fade. Everyone in my family and all my girlfriends had already seen the two rings that he gave me. The new dress became old. All the chitchat became boring. And then, when I stood in front of my mirror to dance naked as usual, I felt for the first time that my body was no longer mine alone. I now had a partner. I saw in the mirror the face of my partner—my fiancé—and, for the first time, I became aware of his features, which I had taken in without realizing it, without paying attention. I saw the pores on his nose. I saw his gold tooth. I saw his pants sagging down. My image of Rock Hudson and Gregory Peck disappeared. There was no longer anything in front of me but this reality of my fiancé. A tremor ran through my body. And, that day, I couldn’t dance. I couldn’t even stand there. I ran and hid as if I was hiding from the wide eyes of my fiancé.

From that day, my body began making me anxious.

I began to feel the treasure that I kept hidden my whole life was on the verge of being discovered. I began to feel the picks that were digging down on top of it to get to it, that something was getting close to my lips, my neck, my chest, my waist, my legs.

I was certain then that my treasure would be discovered. I had no way out. I couldn’t hide it forever. Someone was going to reach it. But I didn’t want that person to be my fiancé. I didn’t want him. I was fleeing from him. He disgusted me. His hands were like pieces of lumpy dough. His eyes on me were like drops of oil. His words fell from his lips like pieces of clay. There was no tenderness, nothing in him that dazzled me. There was no skill of the explorer, the treasure hunter.

Could I break off the engagement?

Maybe if I’d tried then, I would’ve been able to. But I didn’t. I was weak. I was too weak to stand up to my mother and tell her how I really felt about my fiancé. But I didn’t know then what I wanted. I couldn’t understand what I really felt. I understood that I didn’t want him, but I believed that my fate was just that of any other girl. Sometimes I felt oppressed by my situation, and sometimes I felt I shouldn’t even be thinking about breaking off the engagement, that I should fear God and not be ungrateful. Other times, I felt a rage fill my chest that could tear me to pieces. I’d put out the fire by burying my head in the pillow and telling myself, “Girl, be reasonable!”

This hesitation brought me to submission. But this submission pushed me to a kind of defiance, defiance of my weakness, my hesitation, my mother, my lot in life. It was a kind of repressed defiance. I didn’t admit it to myself. But it pushed me, pushed my thinking, my reactions, my behavior.

This defiance pushed me to look for another explorer for my body, someone other than my fiancé ‘Abd al-Salam who would be the first person to touch my lips.

My eyes began scouring the terrain around me.

I no longer chased away the flies arrogantly, as I usually did. I started looking for flies. I was happy whenever a fly landed on me. I learned how to look from the corner of my eye, how to see every guy without him noticing that I was looking at him, without my mother or ‘Abd al-Salam noticing that I was looking at anyone. I began collecting information about every guy in Heliopolis. I was looking at every guy and comparing him to my fiancé, imagining him as an explorer for my body.

One night, I was sitting at the Heliopolis Club with some girlfriends. My mother was sitting with her girlfriends at another table. Muhammad sat at the edge of the swimming pool and stared at my face with delight. I was bored. My friends were talking about something trivial, so I smiled at Muhammad. And Muhammad clung to my smile. He ran after it. He started chasing me. He would circle his car around my house. It was a white Chevrolet. And he was always behind me at the club, at the movies. Even when I was with my fiancé, he didn’t stop chasing me. He fed my conceit and filled my emptiness, even if he didn’t match the image of the explorer that I was dreaming about. He was twenty. He was a university student, a great swimmer, nicely put together, known in Heliopolis as a catch. He was my girlfriends’ dream guy. But he was missing something. I didn’t know what. He was like the taste of something cooked on a high flame. If it were cooked on low, it would be richer and more delicious.

The phone began ringing in my house. My mother would pick up, but no one would respond. It would ring again, and my stepfather would pick up, but then no one would respond. The ringing continued. And no one responded. This went on for days. And the comments started. My mother started directing her questioning eyes at me. I became afraid. I was afraid of her and my stepfather. Once, the phone rang and I picked up. My mother was next to me. I heard my aunt’s voice and I started repeating: Hello? . . . Hello? I pressed the receiver against my ear to hide my aunt’s voice as she was shouting on the other end: Hello? . . . Hello? I then hung up and turned to my mother.

“No one responded,” I said innocently, just to put an end to her doubts.

I stayed next to the phone until my aunt called back.

“Is your phone broken?” she demanded.

“Not at all, Auntie,” I responded. “How are you? How’s Riri?”

A few days later, the phone rang again. I was next to it and my mother was far away. I heard Muhammad’s voice. It was the first time I’d heard his voice, but I knew immediately who he was. I don’t know how, but I knew it was him.

“This is Muhammad,” he said conceitedly.

“You’re the one who’s been calling and not saying anything?” I asked in a sharp whisper, turning to the next room to keep an eye on my mother.

“Yes,” he said as if he was proud of himself.

“Don’t call again,” I said. “Understand? You’re causing problems for me.”

“If you don’t want me to call you, call me.”

“Fine,” I said, taking down his number. “I’ll call you. Bye for now.”

I hung up, smiling, feeling like a princess ruling over men.

I started talking with Muhammad on the phone.

After about three weeks, I went out to meet him for the first time. It was my frst meeting with a man. My mother let me go visit my friend Huda by myself. I called Muhammad and I asked him to wait for me in his car on Baron Street. I got in next to him.

I didn’t hesitate. I wasn’t nervous. I sat next to him as if we were at the movies. I turned to him, waiting for the show to begin. I had the engagement ring on my finger.

Muhammad was more anxious than me. He didn’t know how to begin the show I was waiting for. He stammered and struggled to get his words out, talking quickly and seeming to be out of breath.

“Was that your fiancé with you and your mother the day before yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said looking out of the window.

“But he’s old.”

I turned to him with a sharp look.

“He’s got nothing to do with you,” I snapped.

I was ready to slap Muhammad in the face if he’d kept going. For some reason, I was defending my fiancé. I don’t know why. Muhammad wasn’t wrong. ‘Abd al-Salam was indeed “old.” And more than that, there were black pores on his nose, a gold tooth in his mouth, and his pants sagged down like a clown. But I wouldn’t accept hearing this from someone else. Maybe I wasn’t defending ‘Abd al-Salam. I was defending myself, my fate, my weak personality, my submission.

“I’m sorry,” Muhammad said.

He then reached out, took my hand, and squeezed it. I let him keep my hand in his for a moment.

***

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