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HABIB SELMI I laid back against the pillow and questions immediately began swirling around in my mind. What had she felt when she saw me? Had she, too, been perturbed? Was she upset or angry or did she feel something else entirely? And more importantly, did she recognize me? Two days earlier, she had opened her front door just as Ibrahim,Wa’el and I were coming up the stairs. She had shut it so quickly that I didn’t think she had realized who I was. But if she had, I was sure she would have remembered that we had met at Ibrahim and Yusra’s five years earlier –Yusra had thrown her out after becoming convinced that Na’eemeh was, as I had been telling her all along, a bad woman. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop thinking about these questions. Not only that, but I couldn’t resist the urge to get up and open the window again. To my surprise, she was there, leaning against the window-frame. Her head was slightly cocked and I could now see part of her face. She had pulled her hair over to the left, exposing much of her face and her cheeks. I also noticed that her room was now dimly lit. I was sure she had recognized me and that she had deliberately come back to the window so that I could look at her, especially that lovely hair she was used to covering up with the hijab. It struck me that nothing in her demeanour betrayed any animosity towards me – contrary to my expectation. For the first time, I felt a twinge of regret for what I had done, as well as the stirrings of sympathy for her. My imagination roamed far and wide, entertaining despicable and shameful thoughts which only moments earlier had been unimaginable. The idea that I could one day avail myself of her crept into my mind, awakening desires within me. Given that everything I had witnessed so far was encouraging, I could at least give it a try. Yes.That bad woman, Naïma, the veiled divorcée, could, at some point or other during my sojourn in Tunis, offer me unimaginable “assistance” – if the conditions were right, of course. It would remain strictly between us, I was sure.What a delightful surprise! In such delicate situations, there can be no happier circumstance than living in the same building as a woman like Naïma. One just has to be careful about busybodies, of which there are many in neighbourhoods like that. I cleared my throat once more to see how she would react. There was no reaction. She didn’t move – as if she had heard nothing. She knew I was watching her from above. I leaned out further to get a better look at her face and was confirmed in my impression of her on the stairs. She was plumper and fairer, and also prettier and more attractive, than she had seemed before. The additional years weren’t obvious. On the contrary, 134 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES
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2012 INTERNATIONAL PRIZE FOR ARABIC FICTION looking at her from above, she seemed to me younger than her forty something years. Or perhaps the fact that I was seeing her without a hijab for the first time made me feel that way. I wondered whether I should say something.What could I possibly say to a woman like her at this time of night? What if Ibrahim orYusra heard me and found out that I had been spying on Naïma and, worse, talking to her in the dead of night? I didn’t think it was likely, they had both turned in hours earlier and I was sure they were fast asleep. In addition to which, although our rooms were adjacent, their window faced east – unlike Naïma’s and mine, which faced north. Still, one couldn’t be too careful. I turned away from the window and began pacing back and forth to calm down. I was thirsty and tiptoed quietly to the kitchen where I quenched my thirst and splashed some cool water on my forehead. I went back to the room. Just then, I had another thought: what if Naïma was in fact trying to get even with me and was actually carrying out a devilish plan to embroil me in scandal? What if she was in fact erecting a well-laid trap to punish me for what I had said about her toYusra? Although I considered it unlikely, it was also possible that she hadn’t altogether given up on me and still coveted the secret hope that I would marry her – rather than being motivated by vindictiveness, she was in fact trying to seduce and excite me, having construed my throat-clearing and observation of her as evidence of my interest. I went to the window and looked down over the ledge. No sign of Naïma. I leaned all the way out and saw that she had closed her window. The faint ray of light from her room was gone. I looked up at the starstudded sky again and down at the still open police station. I closed the window and went back to bed. Moments later, I felt someone moving in the hallway outside my door. Raising my head to lend an ear, I heard something. I turned on the light and saw the door knob turning. I got up to open, and who should be there but a smiling Wa’el, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing up?” “I went to the bathroom . . .” “Why didn’t you go back to bed?” “I saw your light on . . .” “Really? The light wasn’t on before I felt you creeping behind the door . . .” “There was a light . . .” I realized the light he was referring to was the glow of the floodlights from the police station coming in through the unshuttered window. I told him to go back to bed. He took hold of my hand and begged to stay in my room until he felt sleepy again. His faced beamed when I agreed. He got BANIPAL 43 – SPRING 2012 135

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HABIB SELMI

I laid back against the pillow and questions immediately began swirling around in my mind. What had she felt when she saw me? Had she, too, been perturbed? Was she upset or angry or did she feel something else entirely? And more importantly, did she recognize me? Two days earlier, she had opened her front door just as Ibrahim,Wa’el and I were coming up the stairs. She had shut it so quickly that I didn’t think she had realized who I was. But if she had, I was sure she would have remembered that we had met at Ibrahim and Yusra’s five years earlier –Yusra had thrown her out after becoming convinced that Na’eemeh was, as I had been telling her all along, a bad woman.

Try as I might, I couldn’t stop thinking about these questions. Not only that, but I couldn’t resist the urge to get up and open the window again. To my surprise, she was there, leaning against the window-frame. Her head was slightly cocked and I could now see part of her face. She had pulled her hair over to the left, exposing much of her face and her cheeks. I also noticed that her room was now dimly lit. I was sure she had recognized me and that she had deliberately come back to the window so that I could look at her, especially that lovely hair she was used to covering up with the hijab. It struck me that nothing in her demeanour betrayed any animosity towards me – contrary to my expectation. For the first time, I felt a twinge of regret for what I had done, as well as the stirrings of sympathy for her. My imagination roamed far and wide, entertaining despicable and shameful thoughts which only moments earlier had been unimaginable. The idea that I could one day avail myself of her crept into my mind, awakening desires within me. Given that everything I had witnessed so far was encouraging, I could at least give it a try.

Yes.That bad woman, Naïma, the veiled divorcée, could, at some point or other during my sojourn in Tunis, offer me unimaginable “assistance” – if the conditions were right, of course. It would remain strictly between us, I was sure.What a delightful surprise!

In such delicate situations, there can be no happier circumstance than living in the same building as a woman like Naïma. One just has to be careful about busybodies, of which there are many in neighbourhoods like that.

I cleared my throat once more to see how she would react. There was no reaction. She didn’t move – as if she had heard nothing. She knew I was watching her from above. I leaned out further to get a better look at her face and was confirmed in my impression of her on the stairs. She was plumper and fairer, and also prettier and more attractive, than she had seemed before. The additional years weren’t obvious. On the contrary,

134 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES

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