Free Memoirs of a Woman Doctor by Nawal El Saadawi Page A

was elegant in spite of his simplicity... perhaps that he scorned to join the group clustering round the man...
    He looked in my direction and his eyes met mine. I felt a vague stirring inside. His eyes smiled faintly. He said in a voice which was almost as lively as his eyes, ‘They’re running after him.’
    ‘Why?’ I asked simply.
    ‘He’s the head of the corporation.’
    He stood watching the people for a few moments with the same faint smile in his eyes. Was it a look of scorn or compassion, respect for human frailty or derision? I couldn’t decide. He turned back and looked hard at me for a moment before introducing himself. I reciprocated, telling him who I was and what I did. Pointing to a small table placed a little apart from the others, he said, ‘Let’s sit here. It’s the furthest table from the head man.’
    We both laughed and went over to the table and sat facing each other. He looked at the plates of food, then at me and said smiling, ‘I’m not very good at knowing what to do at parties. Can I help you to something?’
    What was it in this man’s eyes?
    ‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t like party manners.’
    We started eating in silence and after a while he asked, ‘Do you find time to listen to music?’
    ‘Not often,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t heard your latest composition but I read how successful it was and how much people liked it.’
    His eyes strayed far away from me, then he looked at me again and said, ‘I wasn’t happy with it.’
    ‘But the public was.’
    ‘An artist isn’t content unless he himself is satisfied with what he’s done.’
    ‘Why did you allow something to be broadcast if you weren’t completely happy with it?’
    ‘That’s what’s so agonizing. The work that I’m pleased with, the public doesn’t understand.’
    ‘So why don’t you compose pieces that you’re happy with, regardless of how the public reacts?’
    ‘Who’d listen to them?’
    ‘A few people. Just one... But that’s better than satisfying the public at any cost.’
    ‘I do that sometimes.’
    He looked down at the floor briefly, as if thinking, then raised his expressive eyes to me and said, ‘We’ve talked about music a lot. Why haven’t you mentioned medicine?’
    ‘Conversations about medicine aren’t appropriate for parties,’ I said.
    ‘Why not?’ he asked in surprise.
    ‘It’s all about pain and sickness. The sad side of life,’ I replied.
    ‘No,’ he argued. ‘Of course the sorrows involved are immense, but the happiness must be even greater. I can imagine how happy you must feel when you save someone’s life. That must be the best part of your work.’
    ‘What about yours? What’s the part of your work that gives you the most happiness?’
    ‘When I write a tune that pleases me,’ he answered. ‘Or when I hear some magnificent piece of music.’
    Then he looked at me and added, smiling, ‘Or when I make a new friend.’
    I tried to avoid his eyes but he wouldn’t let me escape and encompassed me confidently within his gaze. My heart gave a single frightening lurch.

    I turned over and over, unable to sleep. The bed seemed to be full of stones and nails. I got up and started walking about the room. It seemed cramped and cell-like and the air throttled me like a hangman’s rope. I went out on to the balcony and stood for a while but then I couldn’t bear it any more so I sat down. That too became intolerable and I went into the dining-room. I tried to eat something but the food tasted rubbery and odd.
    Everything had become unbearable: sitting, standing, walking, eating. Food, water and air had lost their savour for me. The things that used to take up my time seemed trivial and meaningless. My new feeling replaced my former preoccupations and consumed my waking hours with its intensity. One series of questions wandered constantly through the regions of my mind and soul: should I try to contact him, talk to him, be the one to initiate the