36 3 He held the remote control and sent the toy car fast in the direction of the kitchen. Then he changed its direction—the living room, the hall, and then the kitchen again. The car would go around the table, then into the hall and the kitchen once more, as his thumb pressed the button eagerly. He was used to solitude and had become addicted to toy cars. He had been familiar with solitude since he was a shy, introverted child. He had been addicted to playing with toy cars since puberty. He was a different child, an Egyptian attending British schools, and he did not succeed in making friends among the boys. However, he was better at winning girlfriends . Playing with toy cars and women used to be his real joy. But he was impatient; he would quickly get fed up with women. He never got impatient with toy cars. When he heard his mother screaming and crying, he would withdraw into himself inside his room instead of hugging her. He would play with his cars, tanks, and planes. He would wage war on everyone. He always won. His fingers were pushing the button wildly when he heard the telephone ringing. He rested the set against his shoulder as he used the remote control to move his car all over the place. The minute his mother’s voice reached him, he said tenderly, “Mother, how are you, dear?” “Ashraf, what are you doing with this loose girl I’m hearing about?” she inquired anxiously. “I’m working, Mother, writing a report about a new bank client,” he said earnestly, as he was chasing the toy car with his eyes and pushing the button. T h e J o u r n e y 37 “Ashraf, where have you gone?” “Just reading some papers.” “Look after yourself.” She hung up. He wanted to enjoy his solitude. He took another car out of the cupboard. He opened the box eagerly. He was soon playing with two cars, pushing the buttons feverishly. His phone rang again. He felt as disappointed as a groom whose bride had been abducted on their wedding day. “Yes?” he said tersely. “What are you doing?” Lubna rejoined sharply. “I’m working,” he said impatiently. “I miss you,” she whispered. He said nothing. His eyes were chasing the cars. “Who is there with you, Ashraf?” she said angrily. He sighed and said impatiently, “Again, Lubna?” “Who is there with you?” she shouted. He looked at the time. It was two o’clock in the morning. “Come and see for yourself,” he said, defiant but eager. “Liar!” she screamed. “You know I can’t come.” Faking surprise, he rejoined, “Why? You are equal to a hundred men!” “Ashraf . . .” “Good night,” he interrupted her sharply. He put the receiver down and breathed heavily, irritated. As for her, she put on her clothes and looked around briefly. She knew that her mother was asleep and her brother would not come home then. She left in the raw fury that always fueled her. She flagged down a taxi and headed for Ashraf’s place. The fire inside her was heating her arms all the way down to her hands. She didn’t know whether this was the fire of her longing for him–or was it the fire of jealousy, or the flames of her guilt feelings, or the heat of her anger? No—she did know. Of course she did. “My heart is moved only by anger,” she thought. Anger is king, and all the other emotions are nothing but his foot soldiers. She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, shouting, “Open up, Ashraf, you traitor. I will kill you today, now! I will do it!” [54.166.170.195] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 12:06 GMT) 38 T h e P i s t a c h i o S e l l e r He opened the door and looked puzzled. “Are you off your rocker? My God!” She swept into the apartment, searching every room like a security guard. “These sudden visits belong to the socialist regime that you admire. Or is it a mere rehearsal for your new role in the intelligence service?” he whispered sarcastically. Still furious, she finished her inspection. Eyeing him fiercely, she demanded, “Stop mocking me!” “Wait a minute!” he said impatiently. “This doesn’t make any sense. First you accuse me of being disloyal and...