The Day the Leader Was Killed (3 page)

The theme tune of which I am so fond wafted me out of my conflict. Thanks to its magical power, I was able
to conjure up my sweetheart who seemed to drop out of the blue and seat himself beside me. I was suddenly transformed into a dreamy-eyed woman with a profound understanding of married life. I fought back a treacherous tear which was on the verge of disgracing me. Is life possible without him?

“The heroes of TV series are really lucky! They find the solution to their problems in no time!” said Mama.

I
n my solitude, I wait. I tighten the robe around my frail body and rearrange the bonnet on my bald head. I stroke my mustache and, in my solitude, I wait.
God does not ask a person more than he can give
. The doorbell rings. I open the door and in walks Umm Ali in a gray coat and a white veil wrapped around her plump, tanned face.

“How are you, sir?”

“Fine, Umm Ali, praised be the Lord.”

“Winter doesn’t seem to want to spare us.”

Typical of one for whom time is money, she takes off her coat, hangs it on the hanger near the door, and marches into Fawwaz and Hanaa’s bedroom. I follow her as I have been told to do. I sit on a chair and watch her as she sweeps, dusts, cleans, polishes, and puts things in order. Energetic and light in spite of her corpulence. They’re afraid she might steal something. Unjustified
suspicions, a vestige of the past. Umm Ali’s hour is worth one pound. She buzzes around from house to house like a bee. Her income exceeds our combined salaries. But I enjoy being alone with her: a weekly diversion which brings back reminiscences of a bygone dream. Being alone with her disrupts the daily routine.

Thus, divided by the time factor, the old “I” comes face-to-face with the present “I” as they attempt—but fail—to communicate in two very different languages. Then, from its old reserves, the heart steals a fleeting heartbeat whose lifespan lasts but thirty seconds. When she bends forward to unroll the carpet, I imagine that I have gently pinched her. Just a figment of my imagination, for I am completely in control of myself, and she has no qualms whatsoever about me. In fact, she is very much like a man as far as energy, strength, and tenacity go.
O God, forgive us should we forget or err
.

Enjoying the fact that I am alone with her, I ask, “How is the Master?”

“God help him!”

“And the children?”

“They’ve all emigrated; only the idiot remains. What’s the latest with your landlord?” she asks with a laugh.

“He gave up and is now keeping quiet.”

“Who would’ve thought land would one day go mad the way human beings do!”

“Madness is the origin of all things, Umm Ali.”

How I love to be alone with you. God forbid! It reminds me of the days of tree-lined Khayrat Street,
under the spell of liberal, imported ideas: the mischief of hooligans, and then Fikriya and Ratiba, the two nurses. Life is made up of seasons, and to each its special flavor. Bless those who have loved life for what it is: God’s world.

“I envy you for being so fit, Muhtashimi,” Sulayman Mubarak, Randa’s father, told me one day when I was visiting him.

“Heredity and faith, my dear Mr. Sulayman,” I retorted confidently.

Looking in my direction, he inquired slyly:

“Am I to understand that the likes of you believes in fairy tales?”

“God guides whomsoever He wishes.”

“Does that imply that, at some point in the past, you were not an atheist?”

“Inherited faith, doubt, atheism, rationalism, skepticism, then faith!”

“An open buffet?” he inquired ironically.

“Rather a life that is complete.”

I am proud of being the steadfast sort, happy with next to nothing, and a worshiper of truth. I have implored Zeinab that, when the time comes, there should be no obituary, no funeral, no funeral services, and no mourning.

“The point is that you have grown old and death is now in sight.”

A sterile dialogue.
Say, truth has come and falsity has vanished. The false was bound to vanish
. My friend is living in an empty world whilst I am living in a world
peopled by loved ones. God forbid! What a visit, that visit of Umm Ali’s. What is to become of poor Elwan? Lost amid a circus of crooks.

I talk to him about the good old days in the hope that he would eventually give up on a buffoon who used to let out ten sterile slogans every time he as much as opened his mouth.

Umm Ali is through with her work. She washes her hands and face, puts on her gray coat, and glances at her wristwatch to calculate her due. I give her the money.

“Keep well, sir,” she says as she leaves.

“Good-bye, Umm Ali. Don’t forget our next appointment.”

Back to loneliness. I walk about in the apartment now that it has become difficult for me to walk in the street. The Quran and songs. Bless you who have invented the radio and television. Okra and macaroni for lunch. God has enabled me to derive joy from the act of worship. He has also made me fond of food.

What solitude am I talking about with the world around me packed with millions of people? I love life but will also welcome death when the time comes. So many of my ex-pupils have now become ministers! No monasticism in Islam. Life’s but a walking shadow on a summer’s day, seeking shelter under the shade of a tree for an hour or so and then is heard no more. I often tell my beloved grandson stories about the past in the hope that he will, for a moment, set aside his woes. I try to encourage him to read but he reads very little. He listens to me in amazement as one who would want to believe what he hears. Forget about Alyaa Samih and Mahmoud
al-Mahruqi! Haven’t circumstances dampened your faith in your country and in democracy? And why this incomprehensible attachment to a hero long since dead and vanquished?

“So that the world appears not empty, Grandpa.” I have drawn your attention to things of utmost beauty.

“All I want now is an apartment and a decent dowry,” he says with a laugh.

How can I forget the woes of the world when I think of my beloved grandson? The miracles of holy men are verily a wondrous thing!

O
ur times have taught me to think. They have also taught me to be contemptuous of everything and suspicious of everything. Should I happen to read about a project which buoys one’s spirits and gives one hope, then, all too soon, the truth is revealed and it turns out to be just another dirty trick. Should one let the ship sink? It’s just a Mafia which controls us, no more, no less! Where are the good old days? There were, no doubt, some good days. I, too, have known them, the days when my sisters were living in our apartment and it was full of life and warmth. And there were no heavy burdens then. We could also feel the presence of my father and mother at home.

In those days, there was a dialogue of sorts and laughter, the excitement of studies and the illusion of heroism. We are the people. We chose you from the very heart of the people. Love was a bouquet of roses wrapped up in
hope. We lost our very first leader, our very first prima donna. Another leader—one diametrically opposed—then comes along to extricate us from our defeat and, in so doing, ruins for us the joy of victory. One victory for two defeats. We chose you from the very heart of the people.

My sweetheart pulls the hook out of the water; it is empty but the hook pierces my thumb which leaves an indelible mark, one that has remained to this very day. On the banks of the River Nile in front of our home, I told her that she was no good at fishing but that she had hooked me all the same, and I have bled. A slow and gradual change took place as friendship turned to love just like the sudden budding of the leaves on a tree at the beginning of spring, something you can only see if you look very carefully. Femininity, cheeks abloom, and the embroidery on the bodice of her dress: a language in which words say one thing and imply another.

Innocence gave way to negotiations and supplications for just a peck on the cheek or lips. The sweetest fruit on the tree: manners, brains, and beauty. It annoys me sometimes that she will appear the more rational of the two. I will never forget the look in her eyes when I confessed that I could not possibly opt for the “sciences” at school: a long dialogue which never actually materialized but one which has always remained there, lurking in some corner. Our families have both fallen in the abyss of the
Infitah
. What grieves me most would be to see you unable to wear the type of clothes that match your beauty. What responsibilities lie ahead!

“Let’s amuse ourselves by counting our enemies,” I once told her at the Pyramids Resthouse.

“The
Infitah
monster and those expert crooks,” she said, joining in the game.

“Would killing a million people be good enough?”

“Killing just one person would be good enough!” she said, laughing.

“Today you’re Randa al-Mahruqi,” I said, laughing too.

My boss, Anwar Allam, summons me to his room and asks me to visit him at home at five o’clock in the afternoon so as to undertake a comprehensive revision before drawing up the end-of-year accounts. I told Randa about it. She made no comments.

His flat is in a fairly new building in Dokki facing one of the entrances to the October 6th Bridge. He greeted me cheerfully, clad in suit and all.

“Don’t be taken aback by the grandeur of the flat. You see, my sister lives with me and she’s a rich widow,” he said, as though he were trying to dispel any potential suspicions.

Everyone today is suspect. We worked assiduously until eight o’clock. Meanwhile, the widow walked in to serve tea. He introduced us, presenting her as “my sister Gulstan.” From the very first glance, I felt I was in the presence of a woman who was forty to fifty years old, not bad looking, a little on the plump side but pleasantly so, and quite attractive in spite—or rather because—of her poise and sense of decorum. She did not sit down but just said, as she was getting ready to leave:

“Ask your guest to stay for dinner with us.”

“That’s an order!” said Anwar Allam.

Dinner consisted of grilled meat, diverse salads,
cheese, and olives, followed by custard pudding and apples. As we were having dinner, I could hear Anwar Allam saying:

“I handle her affairs, for she has inherited from her husband two buildings and investment certificates.”

I was struck by the fact that he wanted to let me know what she actually owned. I imagined more than one reason for his doing so. Then—on a compassionate note—he went on to tell her all about the problems involved in my engagement.

“This is how it is for an entire generation.”

“What makes matters worse is that Elwan is a man of principles!” said the man.

“It’s wonderful to hear that. To have principles is the most important thing in the world,” she said with admiration.

Her tone is indubitably sincere. I find her most attractive. I turn into gunpowder when I’m excited. I really do have problems this way.

“My sister is perfect from all points of view except for one thing on which we disagree, and that is, her turning down more than one good offer of marriage,” said Anwar.

“I’m not to be bought and sold. Besides, those are not men,” she said calmly.

“A woman’s fortune is a legitimate asset, and this shouldn’t be taken against the man as long as he gives her her due, and then there are all the other advantages,” remarked Anwar Allam.

“No man is to be trusted nowadays,” said Madame Gulstan.

“Excuse me, sir, but why are you still not married?” I asked my boss in an attempt to change the subject.

“For many reasons,” he answered somewhat vaguely.

“He’s wrong, for he could easily get married,” added Gulstan, noticing that he hadn’t mentioned a single reason.

He then went on to ask me about my family and Randa’s. My answers were frank but curt.

“Randa is a wonderful girl but time is getting the better of her,” he said.

A stab, and what a stab! Was it deliberate or accidental? Anyway, it ruined the evening for me. Neither did things get any better when Gulstan said:

“One’s real age is measured in terms of love.”

I left the house, furious at the man and roused by his sister.

A
nwar Allam signed the letters I had translated and I was on the point of leaving when he leaned back on his swivel chair and said:

“Miss Randa, I have a story that will interest you.”

I wonder what it is?

“She was a young doctor engaged for many years to a colleague of hers, also a doctor. They despaired of ever getting married and broke off their engagement. She then married a rich merchant from Wikalat al-Balah and consented to stay at home as a simple housewife,” he said.

“Why do you think this story would interest me?” I asked him calmly, although I was both astounded and indignant.

“What do you think of this woman doctor?” he asked me, ignoring my question.

“I can’t judge someone about whose circumstances I know nothing,” I answered somewhat dryly.

“I consider her smart: better a housewife than a doctor who’s a spinster!”

I took leave of him with a look of utter indignation. He eyed me covetously in a way that simply cannot be ignored. In fact, he’s a burden on us both—Elwan and me.

On Friday morning, we went to the Pyramids Resthouse. That was after his visit to Anwar Allam. It’s truly cold but the sun is out, and here we are looking from up above onto the city, which looks great, calm, and vast, as though free from worries and dirt.

“How was your visit to the Right Honorable Director?” I asked as we were having our tea.

He told me all about it in some detail and succeeded in ruining that lovely morning for me.

“It doesn’t seem to have been much of a business call,” I said.

“But we did work for three consecutive hours.”

“You know what I mean,” I said defiantly.

“He’s a nerve-wracking person,” he said angrily.

“And his sister?”

“Poised and reasonable. I respect her as one would one’s own mother.”