Free Zeina by Nawal El Saadawi Page B

Zakariah!”
    Bodour didn’t open her eyes. She knew his voice when he softened and wished to empty the contents of his gland inside her. It was one of his prerogatives, according to the marriage contract. She should be ready for him whenever he pleased. He would wake her from her sleep and pet her a little on the sole of her left foot with his finger. Over the years he had long training in discovering the sites of pain and pleasure, the spots of ecstasy and love. He massaged her childhood memories and tried to awaken her lust during sleep or death, pulling her gently by the hair to wake her, or hitting her softly on the cheek. If her coldness upset him, he’d slap her on the face or whip her with his belt on her belly and thighs.
    She never hit him back. He dreamed that she might slap him on the face or whip him so hard with the leather belt that his skin would graze, in the hope that she might awaken the desires that had lain dormant within him since childhood. But all this happened only in his dreams. He didn’t have the courage to tell her, “Hit me, sweetheart, hit me. Graze my skin and take me ...”
    What would she think of him then? A man who had lost his manhood? A male without a shred of masculinity, who craved to be beaten up like a woman?
    That night, he lay oscillating between dream and reality. His mind was almost absent and the Devilish gland was swollen and full to the brim. He could not triumph over a nine-year-old girl. She tore his flesh with her teeth and locked him in the room. Deep in his heart he was overcome with a sense of humiliation and the desire for revenge. He could wreak revenge only on his wife, or on his daughter, Mageeda, by beating her up either for no reason at all or for a triviality. He had to vent his anger, to avenge himself on all the men who had beaten him up and all the women who had rejected him, starting with the head of the state, the minister, or the editor-in-chief who wouldn’t smile at him. His body shook with rage, for he was also angry with himself for the meanness of spirit that led him to utter obscenities, to embezzle, steal, rape young girls, and sneak from his marriage bed to brothels. He told himself that the human spirit was abject and longed for sinfulness, for man was sinful by nature. What, otherwise, was the function of penitence and forgiveness? God, in fact, guides whom He wills and leaves astray whom He wills.
    With these words of God, he tried to alleviate the weight of his guilt, but to no avail, no avail ...
    Deep in his heart, he wished to whip himself with the leather belt. He wanted to wake up his wife so that she might take the belt and beat him. He screamed aloud as she lay next to him, “Please beat me up, Bodour, beat me up so that I may desire you! Hurt me so that my soul may heal and mend!”
    But Bodour only heard his gasps, because he was fast asleep. He moaned softly and the sound of snoring merged with that of moaning. The sound stopped momentarily as he turned from one side to another, or moved his head from left to right.
    He handed her the leather belt one night and asked her to beat him. Bodour was speechless, unable to lift her hand with the belt to beat him. Something held her back, something deeply ingrained in her soul that was akin to fear, shame, or the sense of what was proper for a woman to do. No, a woman could not raise her eyes to meet those of her husband, just as a slave could not raise his eyes to meet those of his master. By the same token, a husband had the right to hit his wife, just as the master had the right to hit his slave. A woman had no such right. This was prohibited by religious and secular laws, by social customs, and by family ethics. Bodour took the belt and beat the wall really hard as though it were her husband, father, uncle, grandfather, Satan, or God. She hoped the wall might crumble and fall. She wanted to hear its moans and to trample it with her own feet.
    But the wall stayed in place. Bodour was so