The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  He asked me to give him a day’s delay and, indeed, I went to his office the next day and found a statement in Arabic announcing that the owners’ representative recognised the four-man committee as the management of the factory. I felt moved as I read the statement. It was a moment when I could see the victory of the revolution. I went back to the factory and made lots of copies and put them up everywhere. At that moment, the hesitaters and the doubters joined us. Some of the revolutionary workers directed harsh comments at them but I stopped them from doing them any harm. The revolution has to take from each according to his capacity—my father, God rest his soul, often used to say this in front of me, and here I am, alive, and understanding its importance. My father is always with me. I wish he could have lived to see the victory of the revolution, so that he could be sure that the sacrifices that he made during his life weren’t in vain. We have taken the factory over completely. It’s impossible for me to describe to you the workers’ discipline and their enthusiasm. They’re wonderful. The shifts change at precisely the right time. We are going to take over sales and will give the workers their dividends as specified in the contract and then send the revenue to the owners. The engineers have made detailed suggestions for putting the non-operational furnaces back into service and, according to studies, if we keep going this way, the factory will realise profits never seen during the period of Italian management. I regard the factory as a small-scale model of Egypt as a whole. Everything has changed with the revolution and it can’t go back to being what it was. The factory has never been in better condition. Of course, there are a few problems. Yesterday, a truck carrying cement was attacked after it left the factory. Thugs stopped it and fired in the air, made the driver and his mate get out, and took the truck with its load somewhere unknown. I told one of the lawyers from Legal Affairs to draw up a police report on the incident. The detective became enthusiastic and promised to work hard to arrest the thieves. When I phoned the officer to thank him, he told me, “Just doing my duty. Egypt belongs to all of us and we won’t permit chaos.”

  I apologise, Asmaa, for not being with you. I live at the factory. I sleep in an empty rest house that the Italian management used to use to put up its foreign experts. I only go to my flat in the centre of town every two or three days. I want to see you, of course, but you understand the situation better than anyone. You too are waging a battle in defence of the revolution. My greetings and good wishes to all the colleagues. I miss you very much. I will see you soon, God willing.

  Smile, my darling. When I see your smile (even in my imagination), I feel certain that we shall win.

  Goodbye, most beautiful of people.

  Mazen

  47

  Ashraf knew Priest Matthias and liked him. He was a slight, energetic man whose age was impossible to fix precisely because he had preserved an extraordinary liveliness. Ashraf went up to him and greeted him, Ikram vanishing into the interior of the flat, and opened the door to the reception room for him, inviting him to sit down. The priest smiled and said, “Thank you, but I don’t have time.”

  Ashraf looked at him in surprise as the man continued, “I know you’re fond of me and I’m fond of you. Do you trust me, Ashraf?”

  “Of course.”

  “In other words, if I were to ask something of you, you’d trust that it was for the best?”

  “For sure.”

  Father Matthias smiled and said, “Then you have to get dressed and come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “If you trust me, don’t ask. We are going to do good.”

  Ashraf stood there hesitating, but Father Matthias shoved him with childish good humour, saying, “Go and get dressed and don’t hold us up!”

  Ashraf went in and found Ikram making the bed in his room. He felt that she was waiting for him. While he was changing his clothes, he said, “I’m going on an errand with Father Matthias.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Ashraf said, as he dressed, “I’ve known him for ages. There are lots of priests I wouldn’t trust, but Matthias is different. To be honest, I like him and trust him.”

  “That’s why they sent him,” she said simply.

  He looked at her and asked, “Who?”

  “Don’t you understand why he’s here?”

  “He refused to tell me.”

  “He’s going to try and reconcile you with Madame Magda.”

  Ashraf didn’t reply. In his heart, he knew Ikram was right. She was always amazing him with her ability to read a situation. A single word would pop out from her, and the truth would be laid bare at one go. He brushed his hair and put on his favourite perfume, Pino Silvestre, while Ikram continued to stand next to the door. Feeling she was a bit sad, he hugged her and whispered in her ear, “You have to remember that I love you and can’t do without you. Okay?”

  She tried to smile and her beautiful face took on a miserable and affecting expression. He gave her a quick kiss on her lips, then quickly left. He got into the car with Matthias and they spoke of general matters. Ashraf was not surprised when Matthias steered the car onto Salah Salem Road, going in the direction of Heliopolis, then parked it in front of the block of flats where Magda’s family lived in Triomphe Square. They entered the building and got into the lift without speaking. Ashraf was driven by an insistent desire to take things to their conclusion. He wanted to face Magda and her family once and for all. What annoyed him most was the way Magda continued to conspire behind his back and mobilise people against him while playing the role of the victim. “I’m ready for the show-down, Madame Magda,” he thought to himself. “Do your worst!”

  In the spacious living room, he found three people sitting, as in a court. In the armchair next to the window sat his mother-in-law, Madame Wasima, with Magda to her right and Magda’s brother Amir to her left. Ashraf rushed over to his mother-in-law and shook and kissed her hand. He liked her, despite his problems with her daughter—an aristocratic lady of over eighty, good-natured, refined, and mild-mannered. When she got angry, she would give vent to her ire in French. Amir, as usual, was as smartly dressed as a film star; his hair was dyed black apart from a few white streaks left at the sides, and he wore a diaphanous patterned silk shirt and a chain of pure gold that disappeared beneath the thick white hair of his chest, while a diamond ring perched on his small hand. Amir was Magda’s only brother and owned the Barsoum jewellery shop on Mosque Square. He was a year younger than Ashraf and they’d never liked one another. To Ashraf, he was a boorish, arrogant character who made an ostentatious show of his wealth, and he was on the list of those to whom Ashraf was going to send a copy of his book, to shock him out of his complacency and show him the truth. At that moment, Ashraf wished he had a joint on him to calm his nerves. He didn’t shake hands with Amir and Magda but greeted them with a nod of the head. Amir responded with a gesture of his hand, and Magda ignored his greeting altogether. Ashraf noticed that she’d put on a white silk dress that she’d bought in Paris and had done her hair in ringlets, one of which she’d left dangling over her forehead, and painted her fingernails and toenails deep red. She was in full make-up but had adopted the look of the estranged wife whose dignity has been cruelly abused and who expects to have her proper standing restored immediately. Ashraf ignored her and began talking with Madame Wasima, who seemed to be caught between her genuine desire to welcome him and her sense of duty towards her daughter. Ashraf asked after her health. This was a favourite topic on which she liked to talk at length, reviewing first her medical condition and the types of medicine she was taking, then drawing comparisons between the bone-setters of yore and medicine these days, now that it had been turned into a business. An angry look appeared on Magda’s face and she shot her mother a glance full of significance, so the latter cut her speech short and said, “We must thank Father Matthias for bringing Ashraf to us. Have you decided not to talk to us, Ashraf?”

&n
bsp; This was the signal to begin, and Amir now said, to stake out a place on the battlefield, “To be honest, Ashraf, Magda’s very angry with you.”

  Ashraf decided not to lose his temper. He lit a cigarette and said, calmly, “The truth of the matter, Amir, is that I’m not the cause of the problem. Magda left the house and didn’t come back. It was her decision.”

  “It never occurred to you to come and make up with her?”

  “I’d make up with her if it was I who’d upset her.”

  Magda spoke for the first time and said, “Of course you upset me, Ashraf.”

  “I did not,” Ashraf replied firmly. “You left the house because you were afraid of the demonstrations.”

  “Then I got upset by your strange behaviour.”

  “My behaviour is normal. I explained it to you and you refused to understand my point of view.”

  “I’m not the only one who’s upset by your behaviour,” Magda responded sharply. “All the neighbours and the shop owners have spoken to me more than once and complained about the kids you bring to the ground floor.”

  In a loud voice, Ashraf replied, “First, I’ve already told you not to call the young people in Tahrir ‘kids.’ We have to respect them, because they have done what our generation couldn’t. Second, I’m the owner of the building and I have the right to do anything on the ground floor so long as I don’t break the law. Third, I’ve taken part in the revolution like millions of other Egyptians. What’s the problem?”

  “If you don’t mind, Ashraf,” Priest Matthias said, “I’d like to say a word.”

  “By all means.”

  “I think what Madame Magda means is that, as Copts, we have a special place in Egypt. Common sense says we should support the country’s president even if he’s a tyrant, in return for his providing us with security. Even Our Lord the Pope has warned his flock against taking part in the demonstrations.”

  “Our Lord the Pope announced his support for the revolution, once it had succeeded, and many Copts have taken part in the revolution. The truth is that Our Lord the Pope’s authority is spiritual, not political. If we are going to reproach the Islamists for mixing religion with politics, the church should stay out of politics too.”

  Priest Matthias smiled and said calmly, “The Pope never engages in politics. He gives us advice as children of the church and never imposes anything on us. Our Lord the Pope always sees further than us, based on his wisdom and his knowledge of the Holy Bible.”

  Unexpectedly, Ashraf asked, “Does the Holy Bible tell us to support injustice?”

  The priest emitted a tut-tutting sound with his lips, indicating displeasure, while Magda cried out, “Please, speak of the Holy Bible with respect!”

  “You’re not going to teach me how to respect my own religion,” Ashraf responded sharply, and a tense silence descended. Then Amir’s voice rose again to further provoke him, saying, “I, as a Copt, supported Mubarak, and was sorry when he stepped down. It was enough that he protected the Copts.”

  Ashraf replied, sarcastically, “Can you give me the number of massacres that took place during the era of Mubarak, this man who ‘protected’ us? Starting with the massacre at Kosheh and ending with the Saints Church massacre.”

  Amir yelled, “And you like it now? After Mubarak left, how many churches have been burned down? Every Copt in Egypt is living under threat.”

  “Everyone, let’s use our heads a little,” Ashraf said. “During the revolution, the police vanished completely, and despite that, there wasn’t a single attack on a single church from Alexandria to Aswan. How are we to explain that the assaults all happened after Mubarak’s downfall?”

  Amir said, sarcastically, “Do explain to us, Ashraf, so we can benefit from your wisdom!”

  Ashraf replied challengingly, “To be honest, Amir, if you could understand me, you would indeed benefit. All the assaults on churches were organised by the security apparatuses. We have lots of evidence. All the churches were set on fire using the same method, the same scenario: the military police are withdrawn from in front of the church, the electricity is cut, and then the thugs arrive and set fire to the church at their leisure. They disappear and the military police reappear. The old regime intends to terrify the Copts so as to make them hate the revolution and throw themselves on the mercy of the Military Council.”

  “Frankly,” said Magda, “I’m not interested in your theories, Ashraf. Because of this revolution of yours, we, as Copts, have lost our security and are in a terrible state. That is the truth.”

  “The revolution didn’t take power so that you could hold it to account.”

  “The fact is, you’re sitting with your friends from the revolution and don’t know what’s going on. Our churches are being burned every day, the Salafist groups attack us in our houses, and there’s no one to protect us.”

  “Egypt is changing,” Ashraf said calmly, “and every change has its price. Lots of people have paid the price of freedom. The Copts have to pay like everyone else.”

  At this, Amir’s voice rose and mingled with Magda’s in a blend of angry words, but the priest made a sign to them and they fell silent. Then he said to Ashraf, “It’s hard to persuade people to put up with attacks on their churches and their children for the sake of change.”

  “And why do we forget that thousands of Egyptians were killed during the revolution? Why do we only think about our woes as Copts? Why don’t we think about the young people who lost their eyes to shotgun pellets or received injuries that left them helpless?”

  Amir said, “Enough empty slogans! All those people who demonstrated took money to destroy the country.”

  “No one takes money so that he can die.”

  Magda shook her head and said disapprovingly, “I can’t believe that you’re thinking like this now, Ashraf.”

  Ashraf smiled and said, “You never did know how I thought, or care to find out. Everyone, let’s talk frankly. Are you upset with the revolution because of the burning of the churches or because business has come to a halt?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean, Amir, is that your jewellery business has certainly been affected by the revolution, and you, Magda, your accounting firm has surely been affected too.”

  “When someone is afraid for his work, he’s wrong?” asked Amir, disdainfully, while Magda muttered, in a low but audible voice, “Work was never something Ashraf cared about.”

  Ashraf looked at her angrily and said, “I will not permit you to treat me with disrespect. No one has spent a single pound on me to give him the right to say that.”

  The priest intervened, saying, “Ashraf, she didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Amir, however, decided to get in another blow. Smiling calmly, he said, “Anyway, if Magda and I are successful at our work and worried about it, it’s something for us to be proud of, and you should be proud of it too.”

  Ashraf looked down for a moment, then said, “Success is a relative thing. For example, if I’m a jeweller who gets stolen gold and melts it down and sells it and I get taken to court and pay a bribe so as not to go to prison, can one call that success? And if I’m an accountant whose job is to make fake budgets so that big companies can evade taxes, should one call that success, or fraud?”

  Everyone cried out in protest. Even the mother objected, saying, “That’s a very unkind thing to say, Ashraf. What’s got into you? Tu es devenu fou.”

  “See how the truth hurts?” said Ashraf. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m not a failure. I have rejected false, faked success. No one has the right to read me lessons. People who live in glass houses…”

  “Apologise immediately for what you said!” Amir shouted.

  Ashraf said, “Apologise for the truth? It isn’t true you were charged with stealing gold?”

  Amir leapt up and rushed a
t him, but Father Matthias held him back. Turning towards the door, Ashraf said, “Before I go, I want to tell you that I’m with the revolution. I will remain with the revolution till I die. Your home is at your disposal, Madame Magda. Whenever you come, you’re welcome. Those ‘young people from the revolution’ would be happy to see you. They’re happy to see anyone, provided that person isn’t corrupt and can understand what they’re trying to do. Goodbye.”

  The priest hurried after him, but Ashraf, breathing heavily, said, “Stay with them, Father. I’ll take a taxi.”

  48

  Anyone who’d been at the meeting would have felt sure that Uncle Madany had agreed to accept the blood money. True, he hadn’t actually said, “I accept,” but he hadn’t objected either. He’d gone on watching the sheikh and the colonel with complete calm, listening to them attentively as though what they were saying was expected and acceptable. He’d even asked how much he was to receive. However, just at the moment when the colonel opened the case and began taking out bundles of banknotes to give to Uncle Madany to count before signing the waiver, and at that moment only, Uncle Madany abandoned his silence, jumped up from his seat, and rushed out of the parlour to the front door of the flat, which he opened, shouting in a hoarse, strange-sounding voice, “Get out of here, the two of you!”

  A moment elapsed before the sheikh and the colonel grasped what was happening, but Uncle Madany, who at this point was looking upwards as though calling on some higher being to witness what he was doing, grasped the doorknob and began waving his other hand, shouting, “Get out, immediately!”

  The sheikh exclaimed, “God forgive us! Brother Madany, spite the Devil!”

  “You’re offering me money for my son’s life? Get out!”

  “It’s the legal blood money, as set by Our Lord,” the sheikh said.