Khaled continued to be top of his class and each year got a mark of Very Good and a paltry monthly sum from the college. Once, though, he’d said to his father, “By the way, I deserve to get Outstanding, but of course that’s reserved for the children of the big shots.”
Madany didn’t understand, so Khaled had explained that the administration only gave Outstanding to the sons of professors and high officials, as that guaranteed their appointment as teaching assistants. “But that’s not fair!” Madany said angrily.
“Of course it’s not fair.”
“You should file a complaint.”
Khaled laughed and said, “What complaint, Hagg Madany? We’re in Egypt. Injustice is the rule.”
Madany had grudgingly fallen silent but the next day he waited for an opportunity and described what was going on to Eng. Essam, who smiled politely as though listening to an old tale, and said, “Don’t waste your time on complaints and all those headaches. Tell Khaled to apply himself and graduate, and I’ll get him a contract in the Gulf. He’ll go there for a few years, make his nest egg, and come back and open a decent clinic.”
Madany was convinced by Essam’s logic, and whenever Khaled complained about the state of the country, he’d criticise him and say, “Why are you so upset, son? The country’s theirs and they can do what they like with it. Concentrate on your studies and, as soon as you graduate, you can go abroad, God willing.”
Khaled had told his father about Khaled Said’s murder and showed him a photograph of him, his head smashed up from the torture, and Madany had displayed mild, practically formal disgust, saying, “God have mercy on him and grant his family patience.”
“We have to bring the criminals who killed him to trial!” Khaled said excitedly.
His father smiled affectionately and said, “Our Lord will hold them to account. You work hard so that God is good to you.”
The day before, Madany had returned home at around 3 a.m. Noticing the light on in Khaled’s room, he knocked on the door, opened it, and found his son sitting at his desk. Looking at him tenderly, he said, “Still up?”
“I have to study.”
“Did you have supper?”
“Hind made me a sandwich.”
“Need money?”
“I have some, thanks be to God.”
“Goodnight.”
After Madany had closed the door, Khaled waited a little, then bent down and extracted from under the bed a number of posters, on which were written “For Dignity’s Sake, Take to the Streets on the 25th!,” “Down with Hosni Mubarak!,” and “Enough of Injustice and Corruption!”
He had hidden his political activism from his father. He thought he’d never understand what he was doing and never support him. If he were to find out, he’d live in a state of anxiety and tension that he could do nothing about. Khaled limited himself to talking about change with Hind, who shared his opinions. He’d urged her to record a video calling on everyone to demonstrate on 25 January, but she’d hesitated and asked, “Why me specifically? Any of your female colleagues could make a video.”
In a serious tone, he’d answered, “I chose you because you’re beautiful and you look cheerful and normal. Any man who sees the video will feel like you’re his sister or his daughter.”
Anxiously, she asked, “What shall we do if Father sees the video?”
Khaled laughed and said, “You think your father goes on Facebook?”
He then wrote out some words for her in large letters on a board, which he held up behind the camera, and he recorded her several times till she had overcome her embarrassment. He put the video up on Facebook, where it got wide exposure. Khaled was expecting a demonstration on the Tuesday and hoping that thousands of Egyptians would take to the streets to proclaim to the regime that there were people in Egypt who would defend freedom and dignity. He heard the call to prayer, made his ablutions, and prayed the morning prayer. He felt tired but checked the posters one last time and put them in his leather bag, then turned off the light, stretched out on the bed, and thought about Danya. He liked to think about her before he went to sleep.
16
Dear Asmaa,
Yesterday, I got back late. I didn’t call you on the phone, so as not to disturb you, but I left you a message. What had happened, to be brief, was that the workers had gone on strike because management hadn’t given them their dividends, so I went to show solidarity. Essam Shaalan invited me to dinner and then tried to persuade me to give up on the workers. I refused, of course, and when I decided to go back to the factory, he refused to give me a lift in his car, even though he’d promised to do so. I got a minibus on the Corniche and reached the factory at around 3 a.m. Then I noticed something unusual. There were people I’d never seen before standing around the factory. Uncle Idris, the security man, came out from his kiosk and caught up with me before I could reach the gates. He told me, “The police have broken up the strike. They’ve arrested a lot of people and left goons everywhere. Go, quickly, or they’ll arrest you.”
I thanked him and left. I crossed the street quickly and was lucky enough to find a minibus, so I got in and went back to the centre of the city. Then I understood what had happened. Essam Shaalan had deceived the workers. He’d let them continue striking and ordered them a hot meal. Then he’d left the factory, knowing that the police would attack them. He’d invited me to dinner to keep me away and had refused to give me a lift back to the factory because he was afraid I’d be arrested. My relationship with Essam Shaalan is one of the problems of my life. I’ve known him since I was a child and I love him because he was my father’s best friend, not to mention that he used his contacts to get me a job at the factory. To be honest, he’s been good to me, but in his capacity as the factory’s manager, he’s playing a very bad role on behalf of management. The workers hate him and call him an obscene name I can’t write down. I’m confused by my contradictory feelings towards him. I can’t reach a clear position on him and I can’t understand the change that’s come over him. Essam Shaalan was a warrior who made sacrifices and spent years in detention in defence of his principles. How did he come to be so transformed and to betray his history in such a way? If my father were alive, I’m certain he’d hold fast to his positions to the end.
When I got home, I was dying to get some sleep and I fell on the bed in my clothes. I woke up at noon and made some phone calls. It was then I found out that the police had detained twenty workers, who were interrogated by National Security and brought before the prosecutor, who ordered them held for four days pending investigation. The lawyers found signs of torture on the workers’ bodies and made a police report recording these, but they aren’t optimistic and believe the workers will be referred to the National Security prosecutor on a charge of incitement to strike. I went to the Enough! headquarters and, with my colleagues, issued a statement entitled “New Crime by the Interior Ministry.” In it, we explained the workers’ legitimate demands and stressed that striking is a constitutional right and that the Egyptian government has signed international agreements recognising that right. Then we demanded the workers’ immediate release. We distributed the statement to the newspapers and then I went to the factory, where I found that the workers were angry and anxious about the fate of their friends. I gave them the statement and explained to them that the case was political and therefore the more fuss we made in the media, the greater the pressure we’d bring on the regime to release them.
The problem with the workers (and many other Egyptians) is that they think of professional rights as being separate from politics, meaning that they’ll rise up to demand their rights to dividends, but they don’t have much interest in electoral fraud or the Emergency Law. Our duty, Asmaa, is to explain to people that they can only live a decent life in a democratic state. What happened at the factory may be for the best. Lots of workers told me that they will take to the streets with us in
the demonstrations on Tuesday. They’ve begun to understand that their struggle isn’t with the Italian management but with the regime. Asmaa, I know that you’ll take part in the demonstration. I want you to be with me. The routes for the demonstration we’ve announced could all change at any moment, to mislead the police. I’m going to start demonstrating with my colleagues on Tuesday at 4 p.m. in front of the Lawyers’ Syndicate. Please come. I’d be so happy if you were at my side. Naturally, you won’t be cruel to me and leave me without a smile. I need to see those dimples. Thank you for being in my life, Asmaa. Goodnight.
Mazen
P.S. My address is 6b Sharia El Sherifein, 5th Floor, Flat 20. Keep this. You may need it at any time.
17
Ashraf Wissa excluded the usual places. It would be impossible to take Ikram to the Four Seasons, or After Eight, or the Automobile Club. He wasn’t ashamed to have her as a companion. The problem was that he had lots of friends who frequented them; Ikram’s presence with him would pique their curiosity and the news would be passed around until it reached his wife. He had to find somewhere quiet and isolated. After extensive field research, he ended up with a small open-air restaurant tucked away in front of the old Qasr El Eini hospital and looking out over the Nile. He went once on an exploratory visit and found it completely empty but for a few courting couples too preoccupied with their passions to notice anything around them.
They decided on Tuesday for their rendezvous as it was Ikram’s day off. At 3 p.m., Ashraf was waiting for her at the gates of the hospital, to make their meeting look ordinary and as though they were visiting a patient. He was wearing wide sunglasses and had placed a wide woollen scarf around his neck so that he could, if need be, cover his face and no one would recognise him. He waited a few minutes until Ikram arrived and then, for a moment, didn’t recognise her. She had taken off her headscarf, tied her smooth black hair back in a ponytail, and covered her face with thick make-up. She was wearing a long blue dress more appropriate for a soiree than a daytime outing. It was a bit too large, so he realised she must have borrowed it. She’d made great efforts to appear worthy as his companion. There was something wrong about her crude, over-the-top appearance, but it was naive and moving, as though she were a little girl trying her mother’s big shoes out on her little feet. She smiled and looked at him enquiringly, as though waiting for her new look to have its effect on him. He shook her hand and said, jokingly, “How chic you look, Madame Ikram!”
She smiled gratefully and he felt the softness of her hand and guessed she must have rubbed it with cream. She snuggled up against his shoulder, put her hand under his arm, and then raised her head and walked along at his side, looking happy and proud. He led her across the street and they passed through the door of the restaurant together. Most of the tables were free and an aged, dark-skinned waiter wearing a white shirt and a worn white jacket with a crooked old black bowtie quickly appeared. He looked like a drawing of a character just emerged from the pages of a comic book. He smiled, his mouth seemingly empty of all but a few widely spaced teeth, then exclaimed jubilantly, “Welcome to His Excellency the Bey!”
Ashraf replied with a friendly smile and advanced with Ikram till he arrived at a table on its own at the very end of the restaurant, looking directly over the Nile. Ikram ordered a glass of tea and Ashraf a cold beer. Then he said to her, “What do you say to having a beer with me, when you’ve finished your tea?”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” she replied.
“Because it’s a sin?”
“No, I tried it a long time ago and hated the taste.”
“Beer is lovely, but you have to get to know it the proper way.”
In a dreamy tone, Ikram responded, “I don’t need beer. Don’t people get drunk to be happy? When I’m with you, I’m happy without having to drink.”
Ashraf was moved and sent her a kiss through the air, and she whispered, “My darling!”
A portentous silence hung between them, which ended when they heard a song coming from a boat on the Nile. The waiter brought the tea and the beer and left. Ashraf took a sip from the tall glass, then looked around him as though reconnoitring and lit a joint, the smell of hashish suddenly everywhere, and strong. “Ashraf Bey!” Ikram cried out in terror. “You can’t smoke hashish here!”
“Don’t worry.”
“How shouldn’t I worry? If they catch us with hashish, we’ll be in a terrible mess.”
He smiled and said confidently, “Believe me, Ikram. It’s not a problem. I came here on my own and smoked hashish and nothing happened. The smell gets lost in the air and we’re sitting too far away for anyone to notice.”
She continued to look around anxiously, so he said, to change the subject, “By the way, you’re looking very beautiful today.”
She smiled and said, “Oh come on! What am I next to the ladies you know?”
“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” he whispered, taking her hand.
In joking tones she said, “Listen, Ashraf Bey. While we’re sitting here enjoying ourselves, I have some questions I want you to answer.”
“Fire away!”
She pursed her lips, making herself look like a little girl about to start an exciting game, and said, “First question: What is it you like about me?”
Ashraf gazed at the expanse of the Nile as though gathering his thoughts, and said, “To be frank, at first I liked your body. In other words, what I wanted was just sex. Later, when I got to know you, I found that you were a good and sensitive person and had self-respect. From then on, I loved you altogether.”
She laughed with pleasure and put her hand on his. Then she brought her head close to his and gazed into his eyes, so that they looked, at that moment, like any ordinary pair of lovers.
“Second question: Do you think you’ll ever get sick of me?”
“What kind of silly questions are these, Ikram?”
“Give me an answer, for my sake.”
“That’s impossible, of course.”
“Third question: you love me and I love you. What do you think that love will lead to?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“That’s not true. You don’t want to understand.”
“The weather’s really lovely.”
“Please don’t change the subject. I’m asking you, what will the love between us lead to?”
Ashraf lit his second joint and took such a deep drag that it made him cough hard. Then he said, “Look, Ikram. I’m fifty-five years old. In other words, I don’t have many years left on this earth. Most of what I have in my life are things I didn’t choose. When I find something I really want, there’s no way I’m going to part with it.”
“Explain, please?”
“In Egypt, a person’s destiny is more or less determined at birth. The room for choice is extremely limited. If you, for example, had been born into a rich family, you would by now have finished your education and married a rich man, and you’d be living the best of lives. If I had been born poor, like you, I might by now have become a thief or a thug. In Egypt, a person inherits his circumstances and it’s very difficult for him to change them. We don’t even choose our own religion. You were born a Muslim and I was born a Copt, and if it had been the other way around, your name might be Teresa and mine might be Muhammad.”
She interrupted him laughingly and said, “Teresa’s a nice name, as it happens.”
He, however, went on seriously, “After all these years, when I find a woman I really love, I think I have the right to hold on to her.”
Moved, she replied, “I couldn’t believe that I’d found you either and there’s no way I can part with you, but sometimes the future scares me.”
He drank from his glass of beer and said, “In our situation, it’s wrong to think about the future. We know nothing. We don’t know when we’re go
ing to die and we don’t even know what’s going to happen in an hour’s time. How will worrying about the future help us? Let’s enjoy our happiness, and what will be will be.”
She said nothing for a moment as though taking this in, then she said, “You’re right, but I’m still afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I’m afraid of Madame Magda finding out about our relationship.”
Ashraf smiled sadly and said, “Don’t worry. The only thing Madame Magda cares about is work. As far as she’s concerned, I don’t matter at all.”
“You mean she isn’t jealous about her husband, like any other woman?”
“She’d be jealous for her reputation, not because she loves me.”
“So if she finds out, she’ll make a big problem for us?”
“She won’t find out. And even if she did, to be honest, I no longer care.”
There was silence again. Then Ashraf said, “If you, Ikram, found out that Mansour loved another woman, what would you do?”
She pursed her lips and made a moue with them, indicating disappointment, then said, “I wish! I’d thank her for ridding me of his mess-ups and the headaches he causes.”
“That’s the difference between your class and mine,” Ashraf said. “We have complexes that make us cling to appearances at any price. You have simplicity and directness.”
“You’ve known lots of women, right?”
The Republic of False Truths Page 13
