The Day the Leader Was Killed (2 page)

I have lived in this old house, lost amid towering
buildings—an intruder among the rich—since childhood through adolescence and young adulthood. One of these days, the landlord will kill us. Amazing that love should survive amid this ever-spreading corruption. Is this shaky sidewalk the remnant of an air raid? Rubbish heaps lying there in corners guarding lovers. Good morning, you people, piled up in buses, your faces looking out behind cracked glass panes like those of prisoners on visiting days. And the bridge bursting with passersby. Cyclists greedily—but unremittingly—devouring bean sandwiches.

“With every mounting crisis comes relief,” said my grandfather.

Dear Grandpa, till when will we go on learning things off by heart and parroting others? He’s my best friend. And I’m but an orphan. I lost my parents when they lost themselves in continuous work from morning to night, shuttling between the government and private sector to eke out a meager living. We meet only fleetingly.

“No time for idle philosophizing, please. Can’t you see that we can’t even find time for sleep?”

When any of my sisters quarrel with their husbands, I’m the one who’s sent over to try to patch things up! These days, no one finds anyone to help. We all have to struggle, and finally it’s you and your luck! Here now is that food company—one of the public-sector firms—on the entrance of which you can read in bold print:
ENTER HERE WITHOUT HOPE
. And, finally, there is my sweetheart seated in our office: Public Relations and Translation. She looks at me with a smile suffused with love.

“Had you waited a few minutes, we would’ve come together,” I reprimanded her.

“For reasons I won’t bother you with, I had to have breakfast at the Brazilian Coffee Stores Café,” she answered cheerfully.

Thanks to my grandfather, we were able to be in the same company and in the selfsame division. Rather, it was thanks to one of the Free Officers who had, at one time, been one of his pupils. My grandfather is an unforgettable character so that even those who would normally not acknowledge the good offices of their predecessors would nevertheless have to acknowledge their debt to my grandfather. There are so many women in our division. Piles of paper crowding our work, paperwork that needs no serious effort of concentration. I work a little and then steal a glance at Randa.

I reminisce and dream. I dream and reminisce. A long story going back to the beginning of time in our old house, the only one of its kind. We played together as children. We were the same age. Mama insists—she has no proof—that she is older than I. Puberty comes along and, with it, a certain bashfulness and wariness. My conscience pricks me, dampening all pleasures. But ultimately love got the upper hand. It was during our secondary-school days. On the staircase, midway between both landings, we would indulge in fleeting flirtations and insinuations. One day, I flung a letter of confessions into her hands. In reply, she offered me a novel entitled
The Loyalty of Two Generations
. When, in the same year, we both passed our secondary-school examinations,
I told my grandfather that I wanted to get engaged to our neighbor, Randa Sulayman.

My grandfather told me that, in his day, one was not allowed to talk about an engagement before one became totally independent. But he promised he would open up the subject with Father and Mother. He also promised to give me a hand. My mother said that the family of Sulayman Mubarak was closer to us than our own relatives, and that Randa was just like one of her daughters. “But she is older than you!” My father said, “She’s your age if not a little older and just as poor!”

Our engagement was announced on a happy day. In those days, a dream could still come true. But the moment we started working we had to face a new set of problems. Three years went by, and we turned twenty-six. I was in love then, but now I am exhausted, helpless, and burdened with responsibilities. We no longer meet just to talk but to engage in endless discussions, enough to allow us to qualify for the Economics Group: the flat, the furniture, the burdens of a life together. Neither she nor I have a solution. We have only love and determination. Our engagement was announced in the Nasser era and we were made to face reality in the days of
Infitah
. We sank in the whirlpool of a mad world. We are not even eligible for emigration. There is no demand for philosophy or history majors. We are redundant. So many redundant people. How did we get to this point of no return? I am a man persecuted and burdened with responsibilities and doubts; she is pretty and desirable. There I stand, broad as a dam, blocking her path.

Everywhere I see her parents’ angry looks. I can
almost hear what is being said behind my back. And over and above that float the dreams of reform. They come from above or from below through resolutions or revolutions! The miracle of science and production! But what of what is being said about corruption and crooks? What Alyaa Samih and Mahmud al-Mahruqi are saying is just awful. What is right? Why have I become suspicious of everything since the fall of my idol in June 1967? How do people find a magic formula for amassing colossal wealth in record time? Could this happen without corruption? What is the secret of my insistence on remaining a man of principles? All I aspire to at this point is to be able to marry Randa.

Randa and I have been asked to meet Anwar Allam, the Chief of Division. We are summoned together since we work together on translating the statutes. He’s a pleasant, gregarious sort of man and loves to show off: slim, tall, and dark, with round eyes and a sharp look. He’s also an old man approaching his fifties and a bachelor.

“Hello, my bride- and bridegroom-to-be!” said Anwar Allam in his usual manner.

He started looking at our work, hurriedly but intelligently making some remarks here and there. As he returned the draft, he inquired, “When is the happy day?”

Although I imagine that it is his policy to interfere in the private lives of the employees, I am not comfortable about it, just as I am not comfortable about the look in his eyes. I do like him, though.

“We have, until now, found no solution to our problem.”

“No problem without a solution,” he said with bold contempt.

“But …” I said as one on the point of objecting.

“Don’t keep repeating what all helpless people say,” he said, interrupting me suddenly.

“What do you think is the solution?” I asked, much annoyed.

“Don’t turn to others for solutions,” he said, laughing in an irritating way.

I returned to my desk with one idea haunting me: he had deliberately tried to depict me as an utterly helpless person in Randa’s presence. I was obsessed with this idea the whole while until it was time to leave. As we returned together to Nile Street, wrapped up in our coats, I told her:

“The man got on my nerves.”

“Mine too,” she said, pulling up the collar of her coat securely around her lovely neck.

“He’s revolting and thinks he’s smart.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you believe there’s a solution to our problem that hasn’t occurred to us yet?”

She mused a little and then said:

“I have great faith in God, yet we keep believing that everything will remain the same forever.”

“But time is flying, Randa,” I said, perturbed.

“Maybe, but love is constant!” she said, smiling.

I
climb the stairs to the apartment while he stands in front of his flat as if to make sure that I have reached my door safely. He said good-bye with a lukewarm kiss like one worried, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Damn the boss! He irritated him for no good reason. And, all the while, he remained depressed and downcast. I can understand this well, but, then, doesn’t he trust me? There’s no room for further anxiety. The smell of
mulukhiya
soup is floating about in the apartment. It really whets my appetite.

Is Father asleep on the sofa? His head is drooping slowly but surely. He smiles affectionately. You have grown weaker and frailer. Damn that rheumatism! Muhtashimi Bey, my darling one’s grandfather, is ten years older but ten times stronger. Mama’s voice announces that lunch is ready. I like
mulukhiya
soup. Mama, though, doesn’t think much of my appetite.

“When one is thin, one cannot fight off diseases,” she often tells me.

“Obesity is just as hazardous,” I answer her.

“Stubborn … if I say aye, she says nay.”

Mama is obese and has always been so. She prays seated on the sofa. Just because of that, I’m careful about what I eat. She thinks she is well-off just because she has an income of twenty-five pounds a month. She may have been right as far as those legendary days she tells us about go. But, nowadays, how much are her income, Papa’s pension, and my salary combined worth?!

Papa has just inserted his dental apparatus which he uses only when he eats. He starts to eat slowly, complaining of the bitter cold. Sanaa, my sister—a divorcee who shares my room—has come to join us too. She’s taking secretarial courses in a private institute in the hope of finding a job. She doesn’t want to be a burden on anyone. After lunch, I lay on my bed and again recalled the lukewarm kiss. I don’t like this. It’s an insult or almost so. If this is repeated, I’ll tell him frankly not to kiss me unless he really feels like it and when he isn’t preoccupied with anything other than his love for me. What remains now but love? I take care of him as though I’m his mother and he’s a spoiled, rebellious child. Oh, if only he could have been an engineer! He would probably have been among the heroes of the
Infitah
rather than one of its victims. He’s also a victim of June 1967 and the disappearance of the vanquished hero. He’s confused and uncommitted. But for how much longer will this go on? He’s contemptuous of those who have preceded him and believes he’s better
than the whole lot of them. Why? When will he start looking at himself critically and objectively?

Maybe this is my job, my role, but then—again—I’m worried about the only thing that remains: our love. I love him and love is irrational. I want him, heart and soul. How? When? My sister Sanaa made a love match, was content with her secondary-school certificate, with being a housewife, and having a landed young gentleman for a husband. But it didn’t work out and love simply died. As usual, accusing fingers were pointed at the other party. But she’s a nervous person and erupts like a volcano for the most trivial reasons. Who can tolerate that?! It’s for this reason that I try not to fly into a temper much the same way as I’m careful about what I eat. When will that damned happiness be possible? How long can beauty hold out against the whips and lashes of time?

No, I only know I had fallen asleep because of the dream I had. It was afternoon when I woke up. I cuddled my cat for a moment, then I performed the noon and afternoon prayers at one go. I have Mama to thank, for she has been my religious mentor. As for Papa, Mama is happy with her lot though, despite the age difference between them, and in spite of Papa’s atheism! Do you remember how you used to reproach him in the early days?

“Papa, why don’t you fast like the rest of us?”

“The little one is reproaching her father,” he would say as he laughed.

“Don’t you fear God?”

“Health, my dear. Don’t be misled by appearances.”

“And prayers, Papa?”

“Oh! I’ll talk to you about that when you grow older.”

That’s not how things are at my sweetheart’s. His grandfather, father, and mother pray and fast. My father’s atheism is as obvious today as the fact that he is old and in poor health. He has never uttered a skeptical word but his behavior is proof enough. In his fits of anger, he curses religion. He may have repented and asked God’s forgiveness for my sake or for Mother’s, but it’s no more than a slogan like the rest of those hollow slogans that the authorities hurl at us. A nauseating age of slogans! Even the late hero never tired of reiterating slogans. Between the slogans and the truth is an abyss in which we have all fallen and lost ourselves. But how about my sweetheart? Religious? Nonreligious? Committed? Uncommitted? Alyaa Samih? Mahmoud al-Mahruqi? Oh! he’s my sweetheart and that’s enough. The rest is me and my luck! He’s forever in quest of something lost. Had there been a solution to our problem, he would have been able to take it easy and rest. Meanwhile, he hurls himself against rocks and clutches at thin air.

Here we are, all together in the living room: my father with his poor health, his problems of old age, and his atheistic ways; Mama with her excessive obesity and the worries of others; Sanaa with her dissatisfaction with her lot and her painful feeling of alienation; and me and my chronic problem. On the face of it, my parents have accomplished their mission, but how ironical! Here I am, again besieged by that silent inquisition. What then
after an engagement that has lasted eleven years? Is there no glimmer of hope?

“Let her go on waiting until she’s widowed and still only engaged,” says Sanaa in her shrill voice.

“It’s nothing to do with you,” I tell her firmly.

“Randa, keep reminding him or else he’ll forget,” Mama says.

“We’re living with our worries day in, day out, so there’s no point in reminding him.” And then, more sharply: “I am of age and have made my choice of my own free will, and I will not regret anything.”

“Randa is old enough and can take care of herself,” says my father, annoyed.

“We’ve lost so many good opportunities,” Mama says with regret.

“I’m not a slave girl on sale at the market!” I retort in a proud tone.

“I am your mother, and irreproachable. I got married in the old-fashioned way and have, thank God, made a good match.”

“Look, Mama, every generation has its own style, but ours has been by far the unluckiest of them all.”

“There was a time when people ate dogs, donkeys, and children. Then people started eating each other!” says my father with a smile.

“Let’s hope we’ll fare better than that age of cannibalism,” I retorted bitterly.

“For heaven’s sake, the TV series has started,” my father cried out in an attempt to change the subject.