Otared

by Mohammad Rabie

  I shouldn’t be walking around so aimlessly, I told myself, and I remembered that there was a karbon lab on the roof of a building at the end of Abdel-Aziz Street. I’d known about the place for a while, and I knew its owner. I’d only called in a few favors from him in exchange for services I’d rendered, and had never taken any of his karbon without paying the full price. He would give the karbon that Farida needed upfront—he’d be fine with me putting off payment for a few days, or weeks, even: I would say I’d pay later and he wouldn’t object. But there’d be no later, now. I knew that the end was very near.

  On one corner, a fuul cart was set up, very early indeed. The cart’s owner had his work overalls on and was getting ready for the customers who wouldn’t be coming for at least another hour. He was muttering something I couldn’t hear—prayers, perhaps, or entreaties—with a fool’s optimism, shielding himself with supplications amid all that was taking place, stirring the fuul in its pot with the long-handled ladle, looking over the bowls of taamiya, fried potato, and pickles laid out atop the cart, making sure they were full and in good condition, checking the little bowls beside him were clean, making a quick call to the bread man, asking him not to come late like yesterday, lightly tapping the bottles of oil to see that they were full and in place, then turning his back on the lot and resuming his humble, muttered pleas. Someone who truly deserved to live in hell. If I was killing those who knew where we were so that they might go to heaven, if I really was a mercy and not a torment, if I was so very important, then I must leave this man to live.

  I was walking toward the karbon lab when I heard a disturbance behind me. I turned and saw a group of cockroaches. As usual, they were all wearing just their trousers, and their heads were wrapped in sheets of newspaper. They quickly came to where the man stood by his cart, and the racket they made swelled in the dawn silence.

  They didn’t touch him, but immediately fell to smashing his bowls of food and tossing the contents in the air. They removed the huge pot of fuul and emptied it onto the ground. They didn’t hit the man at all, but when he grabbed his big knife in a trembling hand they circled around and started baiting him. It wasn’t an all-out assault at first, just pinches and jabs to various parts of his body; then things developed, and they were slapping him hard on the back of his neck. He was turning around and around inside the circle they’d formed about him, trying to answer his captors’ attacks or escape them, and when he started to bleed, I made my move. No way would I leave this man to die.

  I shouted at them and swore, pointing the Beretta at their faces and threatening to shoot, and when I got close I slipped the magazine in. The sound of metal on metal excited them and they made for me, their bodies radiating evil. This was the first confrontation I’d been involved in for a while, the first ever with men in masks, and it was then that I knew what it meant not to see the expressions of agitation on your opponent’s face. I opened fire on them, one after another. As each one fell, the rest kept coming on with quick deliberate steps, and I held one round back for the fifth and final youth, who advanced with incredible assurance until he was just a meter away. He pulled a knife from his pocket and raised his arm to strike, but I shot him in the head.

  The fuul seller was very angry, shouting and asking me why I’d done it. He walked up to me in a rage, scolding and swearing, then grabbed the barrel of the gun—which was still in my hand—and, holding the muzzle against his temple, said, “Shoot.” He started abusing me, growing more and more upset as he said, “Shoot!” over and over. Then he let the gun go and wept with a bitterness I hadn’t expected. I couldn’t understand the strangled words he spoke as he wept and groaned. His face had switched from rage to sorrow in an eye-blink, and between the sobs I managed to make out that he wanted to die, for everything to be over.

  I left him sobbing and went on my way. It would have been easy for me to have killed him, and then everything really would have been over, but I had immediately vetoed the idea. This was a man trying to come to terms with his surroundings. He surely knew that we were in hell, but he still had the remnants of hope: he cared about his work and he was trying to succeed, even though it was only selling fuul; he’d defended the cart and his fuul, and he’d raised the knife, playing the part of the man clinging to life. Was this what they called schizophrenia? And not only that, he even got up early to earn his crust! You’ve certainly surprised the custodians of hell, my friend, and now you’ll have to live your illusion until you die a natural death—no one’s going to kill you so you can cheat your beautiful dream. The thing that upset me most was killing the five kids wrapped in newspaper. They had been custodians of this world, one of the sources of the terror heaped on terror, and killing them was a loss indeed. I was genuinely sorry. It hadn’t been accidental: I’d shot them deliberately. So I thought of the great victory I’d won for hell when I saved the fuul man, and I weighed that gain against the loss of the young men, and I found that I’d come out ahead.

  Maybe I would have to choose my targets with more care from now on, guided by nothing but instinct and my victims’ acquiescence.

  8

  FARIDA HAD GONE OUT AN hour ago, and now I had to go to work as well. I got the Beretta ready, filled two clips, and took along a box of ammunition, to be ready in case a sudden burst of enthusiasm came over me. My phone rang.

  I heard a voice—“Otared?”—which I couldn’t immediately identify, but it was deeply familiar and when I answered in the affirmative it wasted no time: “It’s Kamal al-Asyuti.”

  The major general seemed less exhausted than before. His skin was softer and the paleness had gone; he had even put on a little weight. Deputy minister for general security was a comfortable post and an important one, too. He rarely left the ministry and didn’t carry a gun: others carried them to protect him. He could get the details of any case in minutes thanks to a team of helpers and hangers-on, and the files containing the really red-hot scandals were always on his desk.

  Kamal al-Asyuti had been appointed deputy minister following the evacuation, during Khalifa Sidqi’s first government, and when the minister had been ousted, al-Asyuti had held onto his job. Then the promoted general had been elected president, and in Sidqi’s third government the minister and most of the Interior had been moved on, yet still al-Asyuti kept his post. It didn’t take a genius or some expert in the backroom machinations of government to get it: al-Asyuti was the real minister and the man sitting in the minister’s office was window dressing. Both were comfortable with the situation. His Excellency happily took the massive salary, the well ordered way of life, the wary bodyguards, the lavish convoys, and the media glitz, while his deputy made do with a somewhat reduced share of the same, coupled with limitless powers. When he got it right, the minister got the glory; and when he got it wrong, it was the minister who was charged with coming up short. And this, I believe, suited al-Asyuti down to the ground.

  The man didn’t stop smiling from the moment I entered the room. He greeted me effusively and left his desk to sit beside me with an ease of manner I hadn’t anticipated. I had only met him the once—the time he’d given me my final mission to kill—and yet he was being very affectionate.

  “Where have you been, my friend? What are you up to?”

  It seemed as though he knew just what I was up to; the way the question was phrased carried not the slightest trace of blame.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m living with a girlfriend, and God bless the ministry’s pension.”

  The answer didn’t appear to satisfy him.

  “And you’re happy, are you? That’s no kind of life for a man who’s served his nation and joined the resistance against the occupier. You deserve a lot better than this.”

  By his own world-bound, patriotic logic, that was certainly true, but what use was all that now?

  He smiled and went on: “I want you to come back to the Interior. I want someone like you who can be relied upon. Every man who knows how to respect orders and carry them o
ut to the letter is vital if we’re to restore security to the country. If you’d prefer an easy job without too many difficulties or duties, it’s there for you. If you’re exhausted, or fed up, or you just don’t have the desire to work any more, then at least let us find you a nice desk to sit at and a fat salary.”

  I could think of nothing to say. I remained silent and, when he saw I was going to stay like that, he became irritated. The man genuinely cared about me. He wanted to make me happy any way he could.

  “I know you’re in a somewhat complicated situation. Your girl’s job is perfectly legal, but it’s not what many would choose. I also know you’re the middleman in lots of deals involving karbon—and the truth is, I can’t turn a blind eye to this much longer. You might find yourself caught up in a case, and I won’t be able to help you, and that’s just what I don’t want. Of course, it wouldn’t happen on purpose. No officer would ever seek to get a colleague thrown into jail, and you know it. But don’t you think all this is a dead end for an excellent officer?”

  A question. I would have to find an answer, even if there was no meaningful answer to be had. But how to reply to someone who was talking to me about a world that was only an illusion?

  Seeing me silent, he continued: “I’ve really got no idea what’s bothering you. I’m assuming you’re over the shock. You killed a lot of people for Egypt’s sake, and I had taken it as read that the people you shot in Ataba must have affected you considerably. The man’s had enough and he’s not coming back, I told myself. Of course, I completely understand that you might feel like this. Any one of us might see something criminal about such killing. Even me! I might change my mind tomorrow, leave this job of mine, and go home. That’s why I never asked to talk with you, or blamed you for getting out. But what you’ve been doing these past few weeks has stunned me.”

  Finally, we had gotten to the point.

  “Prior to the evacuation, we were killing people as part of a master plan, which, as you have seen, succeeded. But your recent killings are meaningless, motiveless. I can’t understand why you’re doing it.”

  A real dilemma! Why had I come here? I could have ignored the invitation and run off somewhere to hide.

  On he went, genuinely bewildered: “Have you lost your mind, my friend? The occupation’s over and you’ve started killing people at random, without a system—and what’s more, you’re doing it out on the street, not hidden away like the trained sniper you are. Has the lust for killing robbed you of your reason? Tell me, Otared, what happened?”

  Otared. It had been a long time since I’d been called by my last name. My silence stretched out. The major general would be convinced of my insanity; there was no other explanation for what I was doing, no other reason for this silence of mine. After this meeting, my mission would be that much more difficult, perhaps impossible. I was a cancer abroad in the street, spreading and killing people without mercy, and the Interior must root it out as quickly as they could.

  There was no point in denying it. If I denied it, the major general would certainly be angry and accuse me of stupidity. But was there any way to duck his questions? Could I tell him I was on a mission, just as I’d been on missions in the past?

  It was only then, sitting in Major General Kamal al-Asyuti’s air-conditioned office, that everything became clear.

  Zahra’s words, not all of which I’d understood at the time, now made sense. We were on a mission to send people to heaven, she had said, all of us: myself, the Saint, al-Asyuti, and the rest of my colleagues at the Interior. We were a mercy to those in torment here. The tragedy was that they did not know.

  I remembered the message delivered to me on the Day of Martyrs.

  “Who wrote the order I received on the Day of Martyrs?” I asked him.

  He was extremely upset at this—a change of subject that conveyed my indifference to what he’d said; a question about a trifling detail that didn’t concern him in the slightest. But whoever had sent that order to me had known the truth for certain.

  Brow furrowed, he said: “What kind of question is that? You know we weren’t officers back then; we employed complex routes to deliver orders to members of the resistance. Do you even remember how the orders reached you?”

  “I certainly do,” I replied. “A man wearing a horsehead mask came around and gave me a piece of paper that said, ‘At 7 p.m., send them to heaven. The Tiring Building, Ataba,’ and nothing else.”

  “That’s not the way orders are written, and you know it—but the time and place were perfectly correct. You found the gun and ammo there, and you successfully performed your mission.”

  He paused for a moment, then said: “The Saint was responsible for distributing orders, and what you’ve just told me fits with his sense of humor. Then again, maybe he meant to ensure that he wouldn’t get in trouble if he was arrested, so he used a code to get the information across . . . but then again, the sentence is perfectly transparent—the code wouldn’t serve its purpose.”

  The Saint! That explained everything.

  “Well, I don’t understand how it can have happened, but it hardly matters. The result you can see for yourself, my dear man: we’ve taken back the country and the occupier’s been expelled.”

  He grew more agitated and shifted to the edge of his seat, body tilted toward me and eyebrows raised: “We’re trying to rebuild Egypt, to repair the damage done to the state in recent years. This damage didn’t just happen under the occupation. No, it’s the product of decades of improvisation, lack of planning, repeated failure, of correcting mistakes with mistakes more destructive still. The only way to safeguard the security of the state is to increase punishments and speed up the processing of court cases. This is what we’ve been doing in recent months. Delayed justice is fatal, and the state’s on the brink of death for many reasons. We’re putting pressure on everyone here to try to secure it. Soon, we’ll be able to stop hanging criminals in police cells because we don’t believe the law deters them, and because we know there are a million loopholes through which they can escape, and because we know how hopeless, and ignorant, and utterly stupid the judges are—we can forget all this, because at last the lawmakers and judges have realized that the only way to bring Egypt back to life is by tightening our grip, by fast-tracking court cases, by handing out severe punishments and implementing them with even greater rigor. We’ll keep executions public to deter people. We’ll devise new forms of death sentence to make anyone considering committing a crime tremble at the thought of it. If the Knights of Malta did anything for this country, it was making executions public. Do you want us to become a shambles like those African states? Don’t you want Egypt to rule once more? To become Mother of the World again? Greater than the world? If that’s what you want, then stop what you’re doing and come back to us.”

  A powerful desire to applaud the big man’s speech swept over me. I was on the brink of laughter, and how I managed not to mock all that shit he’d just spouted I’ve no idea. The state? You fool.

  On he went, unperturbed: “As I said, we’ve taken back the country, and there’s no time to relax. Now’s the time to go to work, Otared. Having done your duty so well on the Day of Martyrs, what you’re doing now makes no sense.”

  “But the people didn’t rise up,” I said. “The occupiers left without a revolution.”

  He cut me off sharply: “That’s enough! The Knights of Malta feared a bloodbath. They never dreamed we’d do what we did. Their soldiers and officers presented their superiors with petitions requesting to leave this insane country. Ultimately, your actions had the greatest possible impact on the Knights of Malta.”

  Carefully, and still harboring some small measure of respect for him, I said, “You’re not listening to me, sir. I’m trying to tell you that the people didn’t run from my bullets; they welcomed them with open arms. I was shooting at the passersby and they didn’t run, sir, and afterward I realized that they’d been deliberately standing in the line of fire so that I wo
uld kill them.”

  He waved his hand. “Pure fantasy! You’re imagining it. Why would anyone want to die like that? Or want to die at all?”

  He paused again, then raised his eyes to the window where the light came bright into the room.

  “Unless, that is, he was escaping some torment?”

  I was momentarily stunned. He must know, too, but he can’t say. Kamal al-Asyuti knows! This was my chance to speak.

  “Perhaps they were fleeing a torment we don’t know about: high prices, a terrible life, the occupation itself. Perhaps you and I are both fleeing the same torment without realizing it, escaping it by staying put in an air-conditioned room or clutching ice cubes.”

  Was that a foolish thing to say, or did he really know? His face was wooden, unmoved and expressionless; my words, my hints, had taken him by surprise—I must strike the final blow and bring an end to this conversation once and for all.

  “Sir. We are in hell. You know this. And what I am currently engaged in is of a piece with all our missions—your mission and the mission of everyone who works in this building. We really do send people to heaven, and it makes no sense to obstruct me or stop me working. All that’s happening is that I’m operating outside the structure of uniforms and official orders, and truth be told, I’m doing it absolutely perfectly, maybe better than ever before.”

  There. It was out.

  He could have said many things, could have given any number of dishonest responses, could have twisted and turned, but he did nothing of the sort. He was silent for a long while. I had nothing to say; he had nothing to say. The time for talk was over and there was no longer any point to me apologizing for my bluntness or excusing myself. No longer any point to continuing the meeting.

  I rose from my place and walked to the door. For an instant, I paused, grasping the door handle, waiting for him to say a word, anything at all, and I glanced behind me to see him sitting there, head bowed, elbows resting on his knees, and his fingers locked together.