The Yacoubian Building

by Alaa Al Aswany

  Hagg Azzam agreed and he and his son rose with El Fouli and they all moved to a distant table picked out by the guards in the farthest part of the restaurant closest to the fountain. They sat down and the bodyguards settled at a nearby table at a distance calculated to permit them to protect the other table without allowing them to hear what was said at it. The conversation started with generalities—mutual inquiries as to each other’s health and children and the usual complaints about how exhausted they were from work and increasing responsibilities. Then El Fouli said to Hagg Azzam in an affectionate tone of voice, “By the way, your campaign in the People’s Assembly against indecent television advertising is excellent and has struck a chord with people.”

  “All credit to you, Kamal Bey—it was your idea.”

  “I wanted people to get to know you as a new member of parliament. Praise God, all the newspapers have written about you.”

  “God grant us the capacity to repay your favors!”

  “Think nothing of it, Hagg. You are a dear brother to us, God knows.”

  “Do you think, Kamal Bey, that the television will respond to the campaign and forbid these disgusting advertisements?”

  With “parliamentarian eloquence,” El Fouli roared, “They will respond whether they like it or not! I told the minister of information at the meeting of the Political Bureau, ‘This outrage cannot go on! It is our duty to protect family values in this country! Who can accept his daughter or sister watching the dancing and shamelessness that go on on television? And where? In the land of el Azhar!’”

  “Those girls who appear half-naked on television, I wonder what their parents think they’re doing? Where is the father or the brother of a girl like that, that they allow her to appear in that filthy way?”

  “I don’t know whatever happened to self-respect. Anyone who lets his womenfolk go about naked is a complacent husband and the Messenger of God—God bless him and grant him peace—has cursed the complacent husband.”

  Hagg Azzam nodded his head sagely and said, “The complacent husband, above all, is destined to go to Hell—a dreadful fate, God save us!”

  This conversation acted as a kind of overture, pulse-taking, and sharpening of the faculties, like the warm-up exercises that soccer players perform before a match. Now that any shyness had disappeared and the company was in good fettle, Kamal el Fouli leaned forward, smiled, and said in a meaningful tone, twiddling the mouthpiece of the waterpipe between his fat fingers, “By the way, I forgot to congratulate you.”

  “Thank you. On what?”

  “On getting the Japanese Tasso car agency.”

  “Ah.”

  Azzam responded in a low voice, his eyes gleaming with a sudden attentiveness. Then he hung his head and took a slow pull on the waterpipe to give himself a chance to think. Weighing each word carefully, he said, “But the matter isn’t settled yet, Kamal Bey. I’ve just recently put forward a request for the agency and the Japanese are making inquiries about me. They may agree and give me the agency or they may refuse. Just say ‘O Lord!’ and pray for us, for the Prophet’s sake.”

  El Fouli let out a loud laugh and slapping the Hagg’s knee with his hand he said, “Get on with you, old timer! Do you think I’m going to fall for that stuff? My dear fellow, you got the agency this week and you got the fax with the agreement on Thursday, to be precise. What do you say?”

  He looked at Azzam in silence, then went on in a serious tone, “Look, Hagg Azzam. My name’s Kamal el Fouli and I’m as straight as a sword.” (He made a gesture indicating straightness with his hand.) “I don’t go back on my word. I think you’ve tried me out.”

  “May Our Lord preserve your favors!”

  “Shall I tell you the bottom line? That agency, Hagg, has profits of three hundred million a year. Of course, God knows I wish you well, but a mouthful like that is a bit much for you to swallow all on your own.”

  “Meaning what?” exclaimed Azzam with a touch of sharpness in his voice.

  El Fouli answered, looking at him hard, “It means it won’t do for you to eat it all, Hagg. We want a quarter.”

  “A quarter of what?”

  “A quarter of the profits.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  El Fouli laughed loudly and said, “What kind of a question is that, Hagg? You were born and bred here and you know the score.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m trying to say that I’m speaking for the Big Man. The Big Man wants to be your partner in the agency and take a quarter of the profits. And as you know very well…what the Big Man wants, he has to get.”

  “Troubles never come singly” is what goes through Hagg Azzam’s head whenever he thinks of that day.

  He left the Sheraton at around ten o’clock that evening having agreed to Kamal el Fouli’s demand. He’d had no choice but to agree, since he knew the power of the Big Man, even if he was still seething with rage at the idea of giving him a quarter of the takings. There he was, exhausting himself and slaving over and spending millions on big profits and along comes the Big Man and expects a quarter of the profits on a plate? Foul play and thuggery, he told himself rancorously, making up his mind that he’d do his best to find a solution that would put an end to this injustice.

  The car was making its way back to his home in El Mohandiseen when Hagg Azzam turned to his son Fawzi and said, “Go up to the apartment and tell your mother that I’ll be spending the night out. I have to talk to people about the Fouli business.”

  Fawzi nodded in silence and got down at the apartment after kissing his father’s hand. Hagg Azzam patted him on the shoulder and said, “Tomorrow we’ll meet early, God willing, at the office.”

  Hagg Azzam leaned back on the car seat and felt more comfortable. He asked the driver to take him to the Yacoubian Building. He hadn’t seen Souad for days because he’d been busy with the Japanese agency. He smiled as he pictured her surprise at seeing him. How would he find her? What would she be doing on her own? How he needed a night with her, a night when he could rid himself of worry and wake up refreshed! It occurred to him to call her on the car phone so she could get ready for him but decided in the end to drop in on her without warning to see how she would receive him.

  The driver changed his route, and Hagg Azzam went up to the apartment, quietly turned the key, and entered the reception room, where he heard a voice coming from the direction of the living room. He approached slowly, and there he found her, stretched out on the couch, wearing red pajamas and with her hair up in curlers and her face covered with cream. She was watching television, and as soon as she saw him, she cried out a welcome, jumped up, and embraced him, saying reproachfully, “Is this any way to treat me, Hagg? You might at least have called me so I could get myself ready, or do you like to see me looking dreadful?”

  “You look great,” whispered the Hagg. He glued himself to her and gave her a hard hug. She felt the jab of his desire and pulled her head back, saying in a saucy voice as she slipped out of his grasp, “My oh my, Hagg, what a grabby boy we are! Wait till I’ve been to the bathroom, and I’ve made you something to eat.”

  They spent the night as usual. She prepared the charcoal and the waterpipe for him and he smoked a number of pipes of hashish while she got herself ready in the bathroom. Then he undressed, took a shower, put his white gallabiya on over his bare body, and slept with her. He was one of those men who rid themselves of their anxieties through sex and his performance with her that night was unaccustomedly ardent and lavish—so much so that, when they had finished, she kissed him and whispered, rubbing her nose against his, “It’s the old chickens that’ve got the fat!”

  Then she let out a loud laugh, leaned her back against the end of the bed, and said merrily, “I’ve got a riddle for you.”

  “What kind of a riddle?”

  “Ouff! You’ve forgotten already? The riddle, Hagg. The thing you’re going to do to prove that you love me.”

  “Oh yes, right. So
rry. My mind’s full of things tonight. Go on, my dear. Ask me the riddle.”

  Souad turned to face him and looked at him without saying anything. Then a broad grin appeared on her face and she said, “On Friday I went to the doctor.”

  “The doctor? Is everything all right?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She laughed loudly and said, “No. It turned out to be a good sickness.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Congratulations, my darling. I’m two months pregnant.”

  The big van stopped in front of the Yacoubian Building. It was completely closed apart from a few small wire-covered openings. The soldiers led Taha out, beating him and kicking him with their huge boots, and before pushing him inside the van, they put a tight blindfold over his eyes. They pulled his hands behind his back and put them in handcuffs, and he felt his skin break under the pressure of the steel. The van was crowded to the utmost with detainees, who throughout the journey kept up a constant chant of “There is no god but God! Islamic…Islamic…!” as though through their cries they might get the better of their fear and tension.

  The soldiers let them chant, but the van drove at top speed so that more than once the students fell down on top of one another. Then it stopped suddenly and they heard the grating of an ancient iron gate and the van moved forward slowly for a little. Then it stopped again, the back door was opened, and a troupe of soldiers shouting insults burst in on them. They had taken off their boots and used these to beat the students, who fell from the van screaming. Next, they heard the barking of police dogs, which quickly fell upon them. Taha tried to get away by running, but a huge dog pounced on him, pulled him to the ground, and started snapping at his chest and neck with its teeth. Taha turned over where he lay to protect his face from the dog’s fangs. It occurred to him that they wouldn’t let the dogs kill them but that if he did die he would go to Paradise. He hung on and started reciting verses from the Qur’an under his breath and thinking of bits from the sermons of Sheikh Shakir. He discovered that his bodily pain would reach a certain peak, which was terrible, but that after that his awareness of it would slowly diminish.

  The dogs suddenly went away as though at a signal and they remained lying in the courtyard for a few minutes. Then the soldiers launched a new round of vicious beating, after which they started to lead them away one by one. Taha felt that he was being pushed down a long corridor. A door opened and he went into a large room full of cigarette smoke. He could make out the voices of seated officers, talking and laughing normally among themselves. One of them came up to him, struck him hard on the back of his neck, and shouted in his face, “What’s your name, momma’s boy?”

  “Taha Muhammad el Shazli.”

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “Taha Muhammad el Shazli.”

  “Louder, you son of a bitch!”

  Taha shouted at the top of his voice, but the officer slapped him and asked him again. This was repeated three times. Then blows and kicks poured down on him till he fell to the ground. They pulled him up and for the first time a deep, quiet voice arose, speaking confidently and slowly—a voice that Taha would never forget.

  “Enough, boys. That’s enough beating. The lad looks sensible and intelligent. Come here, lad. Come closer.”

  They pushed him in the direction of the source of the voice, who Taha was sure must be their boss and must be sitting at a desk in the middle of the place.

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Taha Muhammad el Shazli.”

  He spoke with difficulty and could feel the acrid taste of blood in his mouth. The boss said, “Taha, you look like a good kid and from a decent family. Why are you doing this to yourself, son? See what’s happened to you? And that’s nothing. You still haven’t seen a thing. You know those soldiers? They’ll keep beating up on you till nighttime, then they’ll go home to eat and sleep and other soldiers will beat you till the morning. And in the morning, the soldiers who went home will come back and beat you again till nighttime. You’ll go on that way forever, and if you die from the beating, we’ll bury you here, right where you’re standing. It makes no difference to us. You’re not a match for us, Taha. We’re the government. Are you a match for the government, Taha? See what a mess you’ve got yourself into, Taha? Listen, kid. Would you like me to let you out right now? Would you like to go home to your folks? Your mum and dad must be worried by now.”

  He spoke the last sentence as though he was genuinely upset. Taha felt a great shudder go through his whole body. He tried hard to hang tough but failed and a high-pitched sound like the howl of an animal escaped from him. Then he abandoned himself to a hot, uninterrupted bout of weeping. The officer came over to him and patted his shoulder, saying, “No, Taha. No lad, don’t cry. I swear to God I really feel sorry for you. Listen, there’s a good boy. Just give us some information about your organization, and I swear on my honor I’ll let you go right now. What do you say?”

  Taha shouted, “I don’t have an organization!”

  “So why do you keep a copy of the Islamic Action Charter?”

  “I was reading it.”

  “Son, that’s organization literature. Out with it, Taha, like a sensible lad. Tell us what your responsibilities are in the organization.”

  “I don’t know any organizations!”

  The blows rained down anew and Taha felt that his pain had gone beyond its terrible peak once more, turning into something more like an idea that he grasped from the outside. The officer’s voice came to him, as quiet as ever, “What are you trying to do to yourself, sonny? Just say what you know and get yourself out of this.”

  “I swear to Almighty God, sir, I don’t know anything.”

  “It’s up to you. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself. Just remember I’m the only good one here. Those other officers are unbelievers and criminals and they don’t just beat, those guys do really nasty things. Do you want to talk or not?”

  “I swear to Mighty God, I don’t know anything.”

  “Okay. It’s up to you.”

  As though this were a secret signal, no sooner had the officer finished saying the words than the blows rained down on Taha from all sides. Then they threw him facedown on the ground and several hands started to remove his gallabiya and pull off his underclothes. He resisted with all his might, but they set upon him and held his body down with their hands and feet. Two thick hands reached down, grabbed his buttocks, and pulled them apart. He felt a solid object being stuck into his rear and breaking the tendons inside and he started screaming. He screamed at the top of his voice. He screamed until he felt that his larynx was being ripped open.

  With the coming of winter Abduh started his new life.

  His national service term with Central Security came to an end and he took off his military uniform, forever swapping it for Western clothes, and he started work at the new kiosk. It wasn’t long before he sent for his wife Hidiya and his son Wael, who was still a babe in arms, to come from Upper Egypt. They lived together in a room on the roof of the Yacoubian Building that Hatim Rasheed rented for them. Abduh’s health improved, he put on weight, and he seemed settled. Having lost the miserable, underfed appearance of the conscript, he looked more like a successful young Cairo shopkeeper full of self-confidence and energy (even though he kept his heavy Sa’idi accent, his nails remained long and dirty, and his teeth—which he never brushed—continued to be stained yellow with cigarette smoke and the accumulated effects of food). He made a reasonable income selling cigarettes, candy, and soft drinks and the people of the roof accepted him and his family just as they did any new neighbor, with a welcome shrouded in reserve and curiosity. As the days passed, however, they came to like Abduh’s wife Hidiya with her trim, slim figure, her black gallabiya, her dark complexion, the dark tattoo beneath her chin, her Sa’idi dishes (millet bread and okra), and her Aswan accent that they loved to imitate.

  A
bduh told his neighbors that he worked as Hatim Rasheed’s cook, but they didn’t believe him because they knew about Hatim’s homosexuality and because he would spend the night with him at least twice a week. Among themselves, they would joke about these “midnight feasts” that Abduh would prepare for his master, knowing the truth and accepting it. In general their behavior with any deviant person depended on how much they liked him. If they disliked him, they would rise up against him in defense of virtue, quarrel bitterly with him, and prevent their children from having anything to do with him. If, on the other hand, they liked him, as they did Abduh, they would forgive him and deal with him on the basis that he was misled and to be pitied, telling one another that everything in the end was fate and that it was not unlikely that God, Almighty and Glorious, would set him on the straight path—and “How many others have been worse than that but Our Lord set them straight and inspired them and they became saints.” They would say this smacking their lips and nodding their heads in sympathy.

  Abd Rabbuh’s life proceeded virtually without problems, but his relationship with his wife Hidiya remained tense. She was happy with her cosseted new life, but something deep and sharp continued to smolder between them—it would flare up, then die down and sometimes disappear from sight, but it was always there. When he came to her after a night spent with Hatim, he would be shamefaced and irritable, avoiding her eyes and rounding on her furiously for the least mistake. She would meet his outbursts with a sad smile that provoked him even more, so that he’d scream, “Say something, you dumb cow!”

  “God forgive you,” Hidiya would answer him in a soft voice and leave him alone till he had calmed down. When they were together in bed, at a moment of passion, Abduh would often think of his lover Hatim and then feel as though she were reading his thoughts and bury his worries in her body, making love to her extremely violently, as though he were trying to stop her thoughts or assaulting her to punish her for knowing about his homosexuality. When he had finished, he would lie on his back and light a cigarette and stare at the ceiling of the room and she would lie at his side, the sharp thing suspended between them, impossible either to ignore or to acknowledge.