The House of Jasmine (7 page)

“How do you know all that?” I asked him at once, as if I could hardly wait for him to finish his last sentence.

“Secrets get revealed despite all efforts to conceal them. All of Dikhayla knows the secret of that house. A strange event occurs every few years. One of the girls suddenly arrives at the house in a taxi with a man in broad daylight, carrying a baby. It is the same taxi each time, and the same driver. She looks around for a few minutes before the iron gate opens for her, looks at the surrounding windows and balconies, as if to announce her arrival. That's how people know that one of the daughters was married the previous year.”

“A strange family!” I said as if I were letting out a sigh.

“No one knows what's right and what's wrong,” he said cryptically, and then stopped and held my hand. At that moment I was thinking that ‘Abd al-Salam had his own secrets, and that I didn't really know him that well. A flock of white sheep came out of a side alley raising up a small cloud of dust. It was a strange sight at that time of night, and it seemed that the flock, which was now passing in front of us, was endless.

“Do you notice something?”

“Most of the sheep have three legs. Most of them limp.”

“They all do.”

I almost confessed that I was frightened. ‘Abd al-Salam said that he felt that he was going to throw up. The flock came to an end, and a man appeared behind it, his body and neck bundled in several layers of clothes.

“He also has one leg, and is hopping with a cane.”

I was covered in sweat and found that ‘Abd al-Salam was leaning heavily on my arm. We trudged along in complete silence. We were in the vacant lot that leads to our street and almost out of Dikhayla. My nose was racing ahead of me as usual to smell the jasmine. Then we stopped. There was a taxi, its headlights turned off, stopped in front of the villa. The iron gate opened and we saw her step out in a flowing white wedding dress that shimmered in the darkness. She wore a crown, whose gems were also glittering. At her side was an old man in a dark suit, and the whole world was silent. We saw the driver open the taxi door for them and watched as they entered through the gate. Then we heard the iron gate close, and the taxi quietly drove toward us down the uneven street. I didn't want to look at ‘Abd al-Salam's face, and maybe he felt the same way. As soon as the taxi passed us, we both turned and saw her looking at us through the glass. Was she looking at me or at ‘Abd al-Salam? Neither of us said a word.

A few minutes later, I found myself alone. How did I fail to notice my friend turning toward his house? Did he say good night to me, and I have forgotten? Why am I looking around as though I've lost something? I went up to my apartment and opened the window. My God! I hadn't even noticed the cold sea breeze at the entrance to the building!

I looked at the endless darkness and the faint light of a faraway ship. This ship has been anchored outside the harbor for a month now. I'm sure it is the same ship, although there haven't been any storms to prevent it from leaving. I listened to the sound of the waves—angry, content, or cowardly, I couldn't tell. What if I threw myself onto those solid rocks? Would I die? So be it. That stupid sea has been doing nothing except ebb and flow for millions of years, all by itself, refusing to share anything with anybody, indifferent to the ships riding it, the garbage dumped into it, or the fish fighting in its depths. Would the world even miss one of its forgotten creatures? But then I thought about the reception for the President when he returned from Jerusalem in a few days.

6

Suddenly, the people were talking of nothing except Shaykh Lashin, who gave the sermon at Friday prayers in the Sidi al-Qabbari Mosque. Every Friday, the mosque became as crowded as Mount ‘Arafat on the day of the Hajj. People were packed in the streets and on the roofs of houses around the mosque. Everyone was attracted to the fiery sermons of the Shaykh, who talked about issues that were not usually part of the Friday sermon. It became known that Shaykh Lashin did not memorize the sermon dictated by the Ministry of Awqaf, and that he did not improvise either. He memorized his sermons out of books that were inaccessible to everyone else.

A few weeks ago, he ended his sermon with a prayer in which he said, “May God make the armies of the Muslims victorious over the armies of the Franks and the Tartars. May God support the Caliph of the Muslims, Al-Mustakfi Billah Suliman, and bless the ‘Abbasids. May God aid our Sultan, Muhammad bin al-Malik al-Mansur Qalawun, and his soldiers. . . ” and the crowds continue to come. . .

What inspired me to be so daring? Was it the mystery of the house of jasmine? Did I really hope to find the girl in the window? If that were true, then I was quite unlucky. If my mother's death were a punishment for my plans to get married, then my bad luck must have been a punishment for my mother's death. What vicious circle from hell is this? Perhaps that was why I hesitated. But as soon as the three buses arrived at Damanhur, I made them stop. I took Usta Zinhum aside, but he spoke before I could say anything: “I do not feel comfortable about it this time.”

For a minute I was dumbfounded, then I said, “Neither do I, but let's go back, and come what may.”

I signaled to the two other drivers to join us. Usta ‘Abbas had done this with me before, but the third driver said, “You will take two pounds from the payment of each worker, and that makes eight hundred. Do you seriously intend to give each of us a hundred pounds and keep the whole five hundred for yourself?”

“So you're not against the plan in principle?”

“The money should be divided fairly.”

“You will take the hundred pounds or nothing at all.”

It was as if I had set myself on a suicidal course. A few of the workers were looking at us and laughing. Many of them had gone out with me before, and they were usually the ones who convinced the others. I gave each worker three pounds. The administration had decided to give them five each. When we arrived at Alexandria, the third driver took a hundred pounds, and left, laughing. I knew that he had realized that he had to accept what I gave him, and that he couldn't rat, because there were four hundred workers and two other drivers ready to deny that any of his claims were true.

In the evening, I went to see ‘Abdu al-Fakahani.

“You bought my house, and sold it for three thousand pounds within the same year. You blackmailed me twice. I will not pay you anything more, and I will find a way to get back what I have already paid you,” I said to him, then left. I imagined that I had a torch burning in my hand and was running with it like a madman, burning down houses and stores. He trotted behind me, and when he finally caught up, he stood in front of me, his head barely level with my chest, and stretched his arms out to block my way. A knock on the head would have scattered his brains. I was puzzled to see that he was smiling. We returned back to the shop, as people watched this strange scene.

“Who did you hear bought the house for three thousand pounds?” he asked me.

“Ahmad Karioka.”

“Does he own two pennies to rub together? Do you really believe that? Besides, that was a long time ago. I haven't asked you to pay the two hundred pounds you owe me, and I have even torn up the IOU you wrote for me.” He was smiling as he spoke very confidently. He reminded me that this Ahmad Karioka fixed kerosene stoves and probably didn't earn much these days.

“Mr. Shagara, it was indeed I who bought the house both times. Both Holy Yahya and Ahmad Karioka, and their like, are my puppets. Garbage.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“First, your house really wasn't worth more than a thousand pounds. Second, you work in a government office, and know nothing about what we do. And you'll find out in a few days anyway. Besides, I have rented out the rest of the apartments in your building for three thousand pounds each. So I was generous with you, and you may ask the rest of the tenants about it.” His smile was getting wider as he spoke. I was almost standing on the tips of my toes.

“Ha!” I said. “All the renters are in the Gulf countries.”

“Well, the oil will run out some day, and they will come back. Oil wells are not bottomless, and maybe there will be a war, and all hell will break loose. . . ”

“Have you actually torn up the IOU?”

“As you wish!” He continued to smile. I threw the two hundred pounds in his face, and he pulled the IOU out of his pocket. As I grabbed it, I noticed that his fingernails were red. Then I left, and I don't know why but I felt like laughing.

#

“How much is in your bank account now, Mr. Shagara?” The chairman of the board asked me after he stood up and came from behind his desk to stand in front of me. I looked at al-Dakruri, who looked like he had shrunk, standing by the desk and biting his lower lip.

“What account, sir? I don't have an account,” I replied.

“You take half of what we decide to give the workers, and only take them halfway to their destination.”

I felt like swallowing my saliva, but my mouth was dry. I didn't reply. He was moving closer to me as though he were about to slap me.

“And I got you out of your trouble with the police. I, who was a general in the army—and believe me, the Israelis never took me lightly! Now I discover that you have been cheating me. I will find a way to put you in jail.” As he spoke, he made a full circle and went back to sitting behind his desk. I looked at him closely as he sat down. I was, in fact, astounded to hear what he said, but I noticed that he was looking down at the floor and had almost closed his eyes. I was amazed, but I realized that I would come out of this a winner.

“I am innocent, and I believe that you once received a thank-you letter for my efforts. Also, al-Dakruri has taken the workers out several times, and if what you say were true, he would have known it. Al-Dakruri, did you know about any of this?” Al-Dakruri didn't answer.

“The last trip was very difficult. No one received us, and we had to stand on the road to the airport by ourselves. It was a big mess, and nobody knows who really participates in the President's receptions anyway.” I actually managed to go on saying all this. It must have been someone else saying it. Al- Dakruri's face had turned yellow, and I thought that he was going to disappear. My story about the road to the airport was based on pictures and headlines I had seen in the newspapers on the day following the President's return.

“Get out. Get out of my face!” the chairman yelled, so I left. Al-Dakruri ran after me and put his hand on my arm, but I pushed it away and ran in panic.

I kept the remaining three hundred pounds, in preparation for any punishment I might receive. Every man and woman working in the administration smiled at me or at the floor every time we met. So it became clear that the news had spread as quickly as the turning of the machines, and my disgrace was now complete. I discovered that most of the employees knew who I was, when I had thought that I was alone and anonymous in my office with only the files around me. The third driver came to swear to me that he had not said a word to anyone, and he offered to return the hundred pounds I had given him. I told him that I was the only one responsible for what had happened, and that if he expressed his thoughts to anybody, we would all get in trouble, and maybe all get fired. In the evening ‘Abdu al-Fakahani stood in my way and said, laughing, “I sold the house for ten thousand pounds.”

“Why should I care about that?” I asked.

“I told you that you would find out in a few days.”

At that moment, if I had had his neck in my grip, I would have choked the life out of him.

“Did you sell it to yourself again?”

“No. This time I sold it to another merchant. I think you understand now.”

#

I confessed everything to Hassanayn, Magid, and ‘Abd al-Salam. I hesitated at first. Maybe I just needed to get a load off my chest. I almost stopped in the middle of the story. I was afraid that they would understand nothing more than the basic facts—that I was a thief. But they only laughed. Maybe they were just trying to avoid hurting my feelings, but they kept laughing. They never criticized any of what I had done. Every night they asked me to repeat the story, and then laughed at it again. I said that although I shared their laughter, I felt afraid every day when I went to work. At the very least, the chairman could force me to pay back what I had taken of the workers' money. In that case, I would have no choice but to return the apartment to ‘Abdu al-Fakahani and become homeless.

Hassanayn said that people quickly forgot scandals, and Magid said that there might even be some people who secretly approved of what I have done. Then Hassanayn reminded me that it had been two weeks since my meeting with the chairman, and that if he were planning to do anything about it, he would have done it by now.

#

I opened my first bank account with the three hundred pounds. I couldn't believe my eyes when I read the news in the
Al-Ahram
newspaper on the bus one morning. I remembered our meeting, and how the chairman had seemed really shaken, even while he was threatening me. He must have known it then. The poor man!

“You're lucky, Shagara,” said al-Dakruri when he came to my office later that afternoon. I hid my smile.

“The chairman of the board has been in a difficult situation since the January demonstrations. The national security police discovered that the shipyard was a communist den, and that there was no record of a worker named Sayyid Birsho, and by the way, they have not found him yet. This week, they arrested three workers who were affiliated with secret organizations.”

“Did the chairman write a report about me? Does the new chairman know anything about it?”

He smiled and said, “No. I just came from a meeting with him. He invited me and the department managers to meet with him on his first day.”