The Day the Leader Was Killed (6 page)

“You seem to like it, sir.”

“To say the least, I don’t dislike it,” he remarked casually.

Gulstan and I exchanged fleeting glances which revealed unconcealed sympathy: warm, deep, and furtive. She makes no attempt to hide her charm or poise, as though she were telling me: I’m a virtuous woman but I cannot help exuding charm. How about this for feminine wiles besetting young men? As far as I’m concerned, it’s first and foremost a matter of hunger. She may consider me a lamb, but I myself eye her more like a wolf. What a relief if she would only consent to become my mistress! But how, when, and where?

“In a month’s time, at the very most, Gulstan’s new villa will be ready and she’ll move in, leaving me here all alone,” said Anwar Allam.

To keep the conversation going, I asked:

“Why don’t you move in with her, sir?”

“I’m thinking of getting my flat ready for settling down. It’s about time I got married!” he replied.

T
ime begets hope: it too brings about both death and life. Some day the microbe will be killed and recovery will be in sight. God will not forsake a true believer. Now we actually talk to each other and collaborate as would two colleagues working in the same office, like colleagues, indeed, but also like strangers who have never tasted the sweetness of a kiss. And sometimes, like me, he invites pity. I no longer condemn him but neither do I respect him. I am now involved in a new experience: Anwar Allam. He is unusually friendly, addressing me in a flirtatious fashion that spells out admiration and sympathy. I have expectations. I sit and brood. My pride will not give in to defeat. Mother now considers the truce to be over and thinks that it is time she spoke up.

“I heard that Ibrahim Bey is ready to propose again,” she said one day as we were sitting together in the living room. He’s an elderly man, the owner of a mining factory,
who had proposed two years ago and was turned down. She seems to have noticed that I was annoyed.

“We’ve agreed that as long as you have no one in mind, the matter should be settled rationally,” she said.

“But he’s a widower and a father!” I said, objecting.

“He’s also rich, and is ready to accept you just as you are,” she pleaded.

“It’s not just a matter of buying and selling.”

“But we won’t find the likes of him easily.”

“I’m in no hurry,” I retorted sharply.

“Time is running out …” she said in a compassionate tone.

“I won’t be the first spinster in history,” I said defiantly.

My father had kept quiet the whole time. I hadn’t been absolutely honest in expressing how I actually felt. The fact is I want to assert myself but not at the expense of my dignity. There should be both money and respectability. Anwar Allam has both. Had he been a dubious person, it would have probably been known already. At least, he’s acceptable and not physically repulsive. The age difference between us is not unreasonable. As for love, it would be foolish to think about it right now.

I did not have to wait long, for, one morning, after he had ratified the report I held in my hand, he said:

“I would now like to have your opinion.”

“What about, sir?” I asked, my heart pounding in anticipation.

“I’m asking your hand in marriage. How about that?” I was speechless, like one struck totally dumb.

“I may not know how to talk about love, but it is
there. I may not be faultless but, I daresay, as far as you’re concerned you more than meet all my requirements,” he said.

“It comes as a surprise to me,” I whispered.

“Of course, you’ll need some time to think about it. Fair enough! But allow me to give myself proper credit, for people like me do not embark on marriage unless they are perfectly sure that they are able to shoulder the responsibility.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

I discussed the matter with my parents that evening.

“That’s just fine,” said my mother without any hesitation.

“We’ll go along with whatever you say,” said my father.

When I was alone with my mother, I asked her what she thought we could afford to contribute on our side.

“Nothing on your father’s side. As for me, I still have some jewelry which I can sell to get your trousseau ready. The man had better know everything though,” she said bitterly.

The bitterness of the experience I had undergone had just about destroyed the hollow masques of diffidence. I had matured in the process far more than I had ever imagined. I insisted on revealing the whole truth, although I had not needed to, for he was already aware of my problem.

“I shall handle the furnishing of the flat and all that,” he said quite bluntly.

Naturally I consented.

“We ought to know that the time factor is important
and that everything ought therefore to be settled as soon as possible,” he said.

The engagement took place in our flat. The party was restricted to my parents and sisters and, on his side, Gulstan and an elderly brother of his. None of our lifelong friends and neighbors attended. Gulstan offered me a gold necklace encrusted with an expensive diamond.

Deep down, I was tense and nervous, but I did my utmost to control my feelings. I acted my part amazingly well. But when I was alone with Sanaa in our room, I could no longer keep up the show and burst out crying.

“Let this be your last farewell to the sterile past,” she said, gazing at me somberly.

“I lost the most precious thing in my life,” I groaned in great distress.

“I don’t agree with you, but let time take care of everything,” she said in an unusual gesture of sympathy.

A
bove us, just a few steps away, they are throwing an engagement party for Randa. Elwan has just finished getting dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and gray trousers. His forearms are sturdy and the open neckline of his shirt reveals some pitch-black fuzz. His face is sorrow-stricken—youth, beauty, grief. What is brewing deep down within him at this accursed hour? Bitterness, the like of which I have experienced only in poetry. Is there anything I can tell him? I could only conjure up a look and a smile. He greeted me with a wave of his hand.

“Keep well, Grandpa,” he said in his usual fashion as he was getting ready to go out.

I suddenly became ill-disposed, like one who has just gulped down a kilo of red and black pepper. I cast aside all thoughts of worship. A mad, miserable world! Dear ones lying underground. So many of you down there. For no apparent reason, memories of you crowd my
mind. You have been preceded by hundreds of prophets and saints. The dust is blessed with the best that life has to offer. Why am I being flooded by the past cascading upon me like a waterfall fueled by the power of an active volcano? The cheering of the Revolution echoes anew; total independence or violent death; the people above the King: the fire ablaze in Cairo; the greatness and defeat of him who has passed away; the greatness and setback of his successor. Madness is rampant, breaking its way amid the rocks, bringing in its wake famine and debts. Dear ones who have passed away, so many of you gone. You had not given death a thought. Neither had you reckoned with sickness. And there were those of you who would mix brandy with ginger and chase women on festive occasions. There were others who would tear themselves away from the gambling tables to perform the dawn prayers at the appointed hour. There was even one who threw himself into the waters of the Nile, intoxicated by the light of the moon as the sailboat carrying the big hunks of hashish addicts reeled around him. There were also young men armed with faith and stones who thronged around the policemen and the army challenging them on the anniversary of the annulment of the Constitution. I can still see the battle raging and hear the sound of the bullets and the thumping of heavy, persecuting footsteps. There are so many of you dear ones who have passed away, so many graves oblivious of your fate.

There are also memories of my Azharite grandfather, a teacher of grammar, who used to address my illiterate grandmother in classical Arabic. He begot a progeny of
sane and insane offspring who, to this day, perpetrate reason and madness. You scum of the earth, why my grandson? You have bequeathed your children money and security, and the rest of us ruin, poverty, and debts. It is as though the Revolution had taken place only to bring you joy and us sorrow. O God, when wilt Thou give me the courage to spurn the world and what is in it? For how long will I go on yearning for inaccessible miracles? When will I be able to point to the oppressor and slap him down, relieving the world of his evil ways? In fact, the experience has proved to be a failure. We were unable to deal with it for what it actually is: a great blessing. Rather, we soiled it through treachery, egoism, and betrayal.

Here I am walking about in the flat venting my anger, scrutinizing the pieces of worn-out furniture as though I were taking leave of them. At the very center of the headrest of the sofa, I can make out a saying etched out in black Persian script amid a crescent of mother-of-pearl: “Patience is a virtue.” O God! What patience are we talking about? We have been waiting for thousands of years until patience has turned to vice and hope to infirmity. I drink a glass of anis and return to my place. A smile suddenly alights on my face. A smile?! Where on earth has it come from? This smile—lost amid great grief—intimates that it has come from far away, from the days when a happy-go-lucky madness broke the barriers of piety. A smile moist with the breath of wine and the sweat of beautiful girls in forbidden spots, from the threshold of my companions of youth, of recklessness and struggle whose peals of laughter blown far away
into space have not yet landed on earth. Zumurruda dancing away, almost naked, singing, “I’m knee-high in water.” And evenings spent clowning and merrymaking among those outcast for no good reason, evenings where pearls of wisdom would be uttered by whores and madams who would modestly inquire: Are we not more merciful than your great rulers? We are doing our utmost to entertain you whilst they toy with you for their own amusement.

To everlasting paradise, then, Zumurruda, Lahluba, Umm Taqiya, and all of you outcasts to whom we have been ungrateful until a day has come along bringing with it ominous heroes breeding poverty and defeat. Cheers, then, to those nights shrouded in smoke and ecstasy, nights devoted to the art of preening, when no efforts were spared for the sake of others. Content they were with simply eking out a living. And then the rapacity of the others who gloated over the mishaps of the less fortunate. This is what that untimely smile was intimating, a smile alighting on one brokenhearted in a mad world.

There is much regret and an immense yearning for forgiveness. One is ever so weary because there are so many questions about what can or cannot be done, about what should or should not be done whilst the looters are busy sharing the spoils. May God and all miracle workers and learned men step in to put an end to this long night of oppression!

Fawwaz and Hanaa came over to talk to me before retiring to bed.

“What’s in store for Elwan?” asked the man.

“All the best. He’s strong and will get over his crisis in good time,” I said calmly and confidently.

“He’s free now and can freely make his own choice,” said Hanaa.

“Don’t forget that he is the one who made the decision.”

I was hoping he would be back before I went in to sleep. An old—but new—idea occurred to me, and that is that one must both love the world and know how to shake off its fetters. Once again, I muttered to myself: so many dear ones gone. Have I really known them that long in this world of ours bent on devouring its own sons?

I
played my part unembarrassed. I walked over to where Randa was seated at the office with my hand outstretched. “Heartiest congratulations,” I said.

“Thanks and good luck to you,” she muttered, throwing a quick glance in my direction. The moment no one was around, I seized the opportunity of telling her a few words from where I was seated close to her.

“I must admit I was hoping you’d make a better choice.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” she inquired calmly.

“Actually, I want to tell you that you deserve the very best.”

“How nice of you!” she said, smiling vaguely.

I told myself that I must close this chapter once and for all. Let us put up with the pain until it disappears altogether. If I give in to grief, I’ll go mad. When I heard
that the boss had arrived, I immediately went over to him and said:

“Excuse me, I’ve come to congratulate you.”

“Had you not given up on the matter, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought myself,” he said in a sympathetic tone.

“You always do the right thing.”

“Thanks and good luck. From now on, you must think in terms of your own best interest.”

I did not know what to say, so he went on:

“The path ahead is clear and all you have to do is think lucidly.”

“An excellent piece of advice, sir,” I said as I was getting ready to go.

“I’ve been asked to invite you … that is, my sister has invited us to a small tea party to celebrate her moving into the new villa,” he said hurriedly.

Indeed the path is clear.

“I’d be happy to go,” I said.

I accepted the invitation, although the idea of selling myself had not occurred to me. I went there around six o’clock on a hot and humid evening. The villa was not far from Anwar Allam’s building: small and elegant, with a garden full of pink and purple rose bushes. I sat in a brand-new rose-colored living room, with canvas pictures hanging on the wall. Gulstan sat between us, clad in a white dress that accentuated her attractive silhouette.

“The party’s limited to just ourselves, for you have been invited as a member of the family,” said Anwar Allam.

“He’s the only one of your colleagues whose manners I like,” said Gulstan softly. I thanked her.

“Indeed, you’re quite right,” said Anwar Allam with a laugh.

We had tea and I swallowed a big piece of the cake.

“There’s talk about the aftereffects of sectarian strife,” he went on saying.