The House of Jasmine (16 page)

“Don't be surprised. I know that people travel to make money, and then return home, but I'm not like them. I'm different. I'm a warrior first and foremost, and so war follows me wherever I go. Must the best years of my life be spoiled? This is my destiny, and I cannot fight it and become like everybody else.

“I know very well that if I'm taken prisoner, the Iranians will kill me as a mercenary, and that if I get killed, the Iraqis will consider me to be a martyr and glorify me. I know that, and I'm comfortable with it. What bothers me is that I don't know what you will say about me. What will my own people say about me? If you asked me, I would tell you that I don't like death and I don't care for glory. The problem is that you are so far from me, and that I still don't really understand what the word ‘homeland' means exactly, so please forgive me.”

I went home at the end of the evening thinking of what ‘Abd al-Salam wanted from us or what he was doing to us. I felt a sudden nostalgia for a walk on the street of the house of jasmine to take a look at it, even after it had been demolished, but I couldn't do it. ‘Abd al-Salam's letter had left me quite sad. What exactly does “homeland” mean?

I wanted to write to him. I had a particular thought which I wanted to share with him: If you die, ‘Abd al-Salam, I will never have any rest. I'm bound to you with an umbilical cord. People do travel far, but only to make some money, return, get married, and settle down. You almost said that yourself, ‘Abd al-Salam. Then they have a homeland, even if it's small. Yes, marriage is the homeland, and people make their own homelands. I will be married in a few weeks, and will have a homeland. Oh, ‘Abd al-Salam, what a liar I am! Now you have made me wonder how many years of life have passed while I was in exile. Where was homeland before? Marriage by itself cannot make a homeland at all. . . I will not write to you, my friend.

It was almost midnight, and it was starting to rain.

Epilogue

I stood on the balcony looking at the sea, which had awakened as early as I had and invited me to look at it. The sea is always relaxed and relaxing. It doesn't share anyone's anger or joy. There was only a single lonely ship in the distance and it appeared to be the master of the universe.

I will teach my son to swim in you in his first year. From the very beginning, I will let him face the waves, for we only have bad times ahead. My son, read this book of mine to learn all about your father, and don't blame me. My story was never the story of a marriage, or else it would have been a big farce. Search for the secrets hidden between the lines. My marriage to your beautiful mother was the easiest thing I have ever done. . . Don't forget that my father, your grandfather, planted my seed but it took twenty years to sprout. But you were different. You put an end to my fear and announced your arrival on the first day. It was as if you had been hidden in some secret corner of the universe waiting to jump out in the dark, as if you had been sitting at the feet of God, and no sooner did I plant your seed than you jumped out, almost exploding from your mother's belly. Remember that you are different from me, even if you are my offspring, and don't be like me. . . I am certain that you are a good son. And don't blame me. This house is from another house which I had sold by force, so it may be haram. This is furniture bought with money made by force as well. Read so that you will learn, and don't blame me. The most certain thing is that you are all halal. And don't ask how your father managed to preserve his sanity and not go crazy.

I jumped up in the air and ran in to the kitchen where Nawal was, with her big round belly, fixing a delicious breakfast.

“Breathe in this air,” I told her as I put my hands, which I had cupped as if I were carrying water in them, to her nose. She looked at me in surprise, then laughed and stepped back.

“Breathe in this air quickly,” I said again, and this time I was also laughing. I saw her molasses eyes gleam with surprise.

“You're nuts,” she said.

“You don't understand. Come on, quick.”

“Shagara, have you lost your mind, sweetheart!”

“Breathe. Then I'll explain.” I brought my hands closer to her nose, and she couldn't retreat any further because of the kitchen wall behind her. Her belly prevented me from bringing my body too close to hers, but my hands were right in front of her face.

“Deeply,” I said, and she took a deep breath. I felt the air flowing out of my hands, turning them cold as ice. The teapot was boiling on the stove, its cover rattling with the steam.

“I talked to my son on the balcony,” I said. Her eyes became wider.

“Then I gathered my words from the air into my hands, and wanted to send them to him. Was there any other way of doing it?” Nawal kept on laughing gaily.

“You are really nuts,” she said. “And how do you know it's a boy?”

“I know it is,” I replied. “I will call him ‘Ali, tell him to name his son Muhammad, and he will tell Muhammad in turn to name his son Shagara. This way, there will be another Shagara Muhammad ‘Ali in the third generation. Shagara will then have a son named ‘Ali, ‘Ali will have another Muhammad, and Muhammad will have yet another Shagara, and so the names of my grandfather, my father, and myself will be repeated once in every three generations.”

Nawal was watching me in great surprise.

“And why all this?” she asked. I kissed her on the cheeks, and grabbed my fishing equipment.

“What about breakfast?” she cried.

“I am happy today, and don't need any breakfast.”

#

I went down and saw the expansive space, its arms wide open. All that white mixed with soft blue, I thought. All this sweet air that tempts me to jump up and swim in it. What a fool and a loser I am! I suddenly realized what it was that I had been trying to remember for so long. It was the hundred pounds that I had hidden in a mattress five years ago. That was what I had been trying to remember, what had been distracting me all along. The hundred pounds were now lost forever. I had sold all my old furniture to a secondhand-goods vendor who rarely comes near the sea, and even if I met him, he would probably already have sold the furniture to another vendor. I stopped.

And what if I had found the money? I bought an apartment without it, got married without it, and will have a son without it as well.

Twenty years ago, one of our neighbors lost a hundred pounds, so his wife set herself on fire. It was the price of a plot of land that he had inherited. At that time, many people were killing themselves with D.D.T. The husband ran like mad, grabbed a blanket and wrapped it tightly around his wife. The poor man had not realized that their one-year-old baby was wrapped in that blanket, and that he was standing on top of the baby after it had fallen out of the blanket between him and his wife. He didn't understand why his wife was screaming hysterically as she tried to push him away and grab her baby. He did save his wife, but she lived wishing that she had died, and he always seemed lost and unfocused after that. . . God! These times were long ago. No one would try to kill herself for a hundred pounds today. Besides, it was my fault that I lost it, and I shouldn't let it spoil such a beautiful day. I walked on, and almost bumped into Holy Yahya coming from the old street on which I never walked anymore.

“Hey, it's you,” I said. “Are you still alive?”

“People like us don't die Mr. Shagara. I was coming to see you.”

I stopped to look at him carefully. His clothes were all new and clean.

“Welcome. Let me walk home with you,” I said, trying to be nice.

“That won't be necessary,” he said. “I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage, and I also wanted to tell you that if you have any friends who want to buy apartments, I would be happy to help them. You are a good man who deserves only the best, and I would be happy to have tenants like you.”

I was still looking at him. He was talking to me as if we were friends just because I was trying to be nice to him. The strange thing was that he seemed sincere, and really had been coming to visit me. I almost laughed as I remembered Hassanayn saying that Holy Yahya would make a good president of the workers' union. I tried to imagine him with his tiny figure up to his ears in the workers' problems. My resignation from the union had come as a surprise to a lot of people and they had tried to convince me to change my mind. Usta Zinhum tried especially hard, but I told him never to try to contact me again for any reason. I was right when I guessed what the chairman of the board would do. He didn't go back on his decision to make the files into a whole department, and I now enjoy new privileges as head of that department.

“Are you building a new apartment building now?” I asked Holy Yahya.

“Yes. On this street, in place of the house of jasmine. You must have heard of it. I bought it and will build an apartment building in its place.”

I took a few steps backward. There he had spoiled the day for me.

“I bought it for myself this time,” he went on. He was smiling in great confidence and pleasure.

“I will try to find some tenants among my friends for you,” I said, trying to get rid of him. Hundreds of tons of stone, iron, and concrete were going to be placed on the most beautiful face I had ever seen. I wondered where that woman with the beautiful face was now. Was it really true that I could have married her? But there wasn't any woman in the world more beautiful than Nawal. Was there?

I walked on. I sighed deeply as soon as I had walked away from him and thought of returning home without fishing. What did it mean when a scoundrel like that owned a house older than you or me, as ‘Abd al-Salam had said? But I kept on walking.

Nothing should spoil my pleasure with the pure happy breeze around me, or with the wide-open space. Let the house of jasmine be owned by all the thieves in the world. There will never be a person as depressed as the owner of that old house.

Translator's Afterword

The publication of this translation of
The House of Jasmine
in 2012, not long after the January 25th Revolution that resulted in the ousting of President Mubarak on February 11, 2011, is an opportune and fortunate event.
The House of Jasmine
, first published in 1984, chronicles the beginning of many of the social and political practices that the 2011 revolutionaries hope to bring to an end.

The House of Jasmine
opens in Alexandria on June 13, 1974, the day American President Nixon visited the city, accompanied by his host, Egyptian President Sadat. Nixon had flown to Cairo the day before and with his secretary of state, Henry Kissinger, met with Sadat and other top Egyptian officials. On the following day, the
New York Times
carried news of the visit: “Arriving in Alexandria yesterday, President Nixon received a rousing welcome from hundreds of thousands as he had yesterday in Cairo.” The
Times
reporters, perhaps in an attempt to improve the tarnished image of the “Watergate president,” called the visit “triumphant” and interpreted the Egyptian reception as an indication of the people's trust in Nixon, the harbinger of future peace and prosperity in the region, and of Sadat's popularity with the Egyptian masses. The novella tells a different story: a story of deception and fraudulence, planned by a scheming administration and carried out by a disenchanted and dejected population. The novella's protagonist, Shagara Muhammad ‘Ali, is but one representative of that population.

Shagara's father died in 1967, shortly after the June 5th defeat that marked the end of an era of Nassirist optimism. In the same year, Shagara quit school, began working in the new shipyard, and had to move with his mother to the hills of Dikhayla, where they lived in a poorly constructed house that neither of them liked. When Nixon arrives in Alexandria, seven summers later, President Sadat has succeeded President Nassir, who died in 1970. Egypt has fought another war with Israel, a war that began with an Egyptian military victory and ended with an American-brokered cease-fire, and Shagara is a low-level administrator living a life of utter indifference. He has no ambitions or hopes of his own, and no friends except for the similarly disillusioned trio, Hassanayn, Magid, and ‘Abd al-Salam.

Abdel Meguid's novella is an indictment of the Sadat era (1970–1981), an era of rampant corruption, when only salesmen and those who have no scruples about making a quick buck can advance, while people who uphold any principles or ideals, Shagara and his friends among them, are bewildered and alienated. Hassanayn seeks refuge in books of history and later in marriage, while both Magid and ‘Abd al-Salam seek a way out through emigration. Shagara becomes a small-time crook in a land of major-league criminals. Ironically, his redemption comes during the course of what went down in official Egyptian history as an “uprising of thieves.”

On January 18, 1977, massive demonstrations erupted in both Cairo and Alexandria. The demonstrations were protesting the increase in the price of bread and other basic food products, including sugar, flour, and cooking oil, that had been announced by Sadat's government the day before. Upon the advice of the IMF and the World Bank, the price hike was meant to reduce the budget deficit through a reduction of the government subsidies on these products. It was in these demonstrations that Shagara, the aimless loner, finds himself part of a larger and purposeful group:

“Oh!” I say, trying to hide my smile and my inability to understand. I find myself forced to advance toward Sayyid Birsho and the flood of angry workers pouring down Maks Street. Traffic is blocked, and passengers stream out of the tram and stopped cars. The windows of the houses overlooking the street are thrown open, and faces of women and children appear in them. They're repeating the slogans, and I too am chanting along with Sayyid Birsho.