Chronicle of a Last Summer

by Yasmine El Rashidi

  In the car once Baba explained that it was because of Sadat we had apples and nice soap. It was like Christmas every day after the deprivations of Nasser. Nobody could have anything then. Mama replied that it was better not to have too much from the outside. It created greed. They argued. I looked out of the window and tried not to hear them. There was nothing to look at but I imagined there was a battle in the desert like in the film they always played on TV. I take out the soft white cheese and a loaf of fino bread. Mama sends Mustafa the bawab to buy it on Saturday mornings. She gives him twenty-five piastres and he comes back with thirteen loaves. Mama mutters how he takes two for himself. She then empties the loaves from one bag to another. The bakery bag is black. They use black bags to hide the dirt. I sit at the kitchen table eating my cornfleks, watching her. I mix the cornfleks in the milk until they become soft. My favorite part is the milk at the end, after the cereal is gone. I want to ask why Mustafa takes the bread. Why doesn’t she tell him off? I want to ask many things but Mama doesn’t like me asking too many questions. I spread a piece of white cheese in my bread and put the box back in the fridge. I wrap my sandwich in newspaper. I wish I had an apple.

  I am late. The school bell has already rung. I tiptoe into the hall for assembly and stand at the back. The headmaster will tell me later not to be tardy again. He puts a mark in the book by my name. Four marks then a diagonal one through it, like hangman. There are three of these now. The first time they asked I said the driver was late. Then I said the car stopped. Then my stomach hurt. Then I stood and looked at the teacher and turned my head down to my shoes. He growled through his mustache, The timing of the locals. This time the headmaster asks about Baba. He is still away. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, then pats my shoulder and asks me to set my alarm clock for earlier. I tell Mama when I get home. I had become tardier that summer. My alarm clock rang and I would get out of bed and get dressed. We had to tuck our shirts in. Girls couldn’t wear trousers. We had to wear our hair in ponytails. No jewelry. I started to spend longer looking in the mirror. Everyone said I looked like Baba. I started to go into Baba’s study. The door was kept closed but Umm Ahmed would go in once a week to dust. On those days I would come home from school and find Mama at Baba’s desk. She would be sitting, looking at nothing. I would go to my room. In the mornings I started to go and sit at the desk too. Baba had a big leather chair that swirled. It was my favorite chair in the house. I could almost see the top of the desk from it. There were piles of papers. Nothing I could understand. Most of them were in Arabic. Numbers. Some papers had the American flag. Others had the Russian flag. We learned world flags at school. Some of the papers also had the old Egyptian flag. It was green with stars and the moon. We never learned this in school, but Granny had told me.

  Baba’s office was the only place that still smelled of him, but only a little and only if you opened the drawers. I would open the third drawer of his desk and put my nose to it. I opened it just a crack so that the smell wouldn’t escape. There was a picture of Grandpapa on the desk. It was black and white but his lips were painted pink. Grandpapa looked like a walrus. He was fat. Mama said businessmen liked to be fat. It was a sign of prosperity. On the wall behind the chair were pictures of Baba shaking people’s hands. I knew I was going to be late for school because I could hear the driver honking the horn of our small white car. It was an old car and the leather of the roof was falling in. The driver took a stick from the garden and put it across the roof on the inside to hold it up. He honked five times five minutes before we had to leave. For every minute I was late he would honk twice. Nobody told him to honk like this. Mama asked him to stop. He kept honking. He honked as we drove, even on empty streets. Baba said it was a product of circumstance. People like to be heard and this was the only way to assert oneself in a country like this. Mama and Baba said it was the worst thing a person could become. I started to wait longer, sitting in Baba’s chair.

  We took the same route to school each day. Down our street past the Libyan embassy then right. The building on the corner was where the important journalist Hassanein Heikal lived. When Baba read the newspaper in the morning he would nod and say that Heikal knew. I didn’t know what he knew, but Baba pointed to his building each time we drove by. I wondered if he had power cuts. Baba also said once that a famous American writer used to live there too. Her name was Maya. She was black and friends with Malcolm X. She worked at a newspaper downtown. Baba said Maya was an angel. I told the American girl at school about Maya being an American angel and living on our street. She laughed and said Angelou, then skipped away. I watched. Her yellow plait bounced on her back.

  My favorite part of the drive was the long street on the Nile. There were people rowing boats in the mornings. You could see them through the fence along the river. When Mama was little there were no fences. She would take her book and beach chair and walk down to the water. She would sit reading with her toes dipped in. The Nile was blue. Then it became green. Mama would never dip her toes in the water now, but Grandmama said that to have a sip of the Nile is like drinking ancient magic. If you make a wish it comes true. She said the same about the white beads around her neck. When I see her I put my fingers on them and make wishes in my head.

  We drive around the island to school. I make a map in my head each Monday. Cars, signs, shops, pieces of garbage, donkeys, billboards, food carts, posters stuck to lampposts, villas. I memorize them and give them numbers, like points. If they are still there the next day I get the points. On Fridays I add them up and write them on a small paper that I keep in my shoe. There are some things that are never there the next day. There are some things that are always there. Like the billboard with the president on it. There are some things that are there for a very long time then disappear. One day they pulled down the white villa on the Nile. Mama said they did it overnight so that nobody would know. The red car that was parked on the corner by our house piled with dust was also always there. It was always on my map, for ten points. It got dirtier and dirtier. One day someone pushed their finger into the dirt and wrote a bad word on the glass. The car was still there but with the word I didn’t get the points. Then one day the police came and took it away. I didn’t see but I heard Mama on the phone. The police would come sometimes and take things. They took the cart of the peanut seller on our street. They took the kiosk by the school that sold chocolates and Cleopatra cigarettes by the one. They took the man who worked for Uncle Mohsen. They also took the boy who cleaned cars at the garage next door. In the cartoon Abla Fatiha they told us that if we were naughty they would take us too. I heard a teacher say that they took my friend’s papa. When I asked Mama she tssssked and told me it was nonsense. Uncle was in Geneva. I wondered if that was where Baba was too.

  Once we had a new cleaning lady who stole from Mama. She never came back but the police caught her. Mama and Baba took me with them to the prison to see her. They wanted to make sure she was the right thief. We went in Baba’s car, over the bridge, past buildings, until we were far, where the desert was. They took us inside. We went up dirty stairs. It was dark and smelled of pee. She was in a small room behind bars like a cage. There was a wooden stool like Abdou used to have and a dirty red towel hung from the wall. When she saw Mama she started crying and saying sorry. Sorry. I am sorry. The policeman shouted to her shut up. He used the bad word. She kept crying, sorry. Mama turned her face away and took my hand. She squeezed it and pulled me. I didn’t know if she had accepted her sorry. I wanted to ask but my lips were sealed. The prison was frightening. People were screaming and shouting from places I couldn’t see. One man looked at us from behind bars and roared like a lion. His hands were black. We went down and waited for Baba in the car. Later I heard Baba say that they had gone to her house in the night and taken her away. They made a racket so that everyone in the neighborhood could hear. They took her away in front of her children. What would they do with her? He didn’t answer. Every time I see a policeman going into a buil
ding I think maybe they will take someone away. In class I write a story called The Disappearing People. I write about going to the prison. I write about the people they take away. It happens only at night. My teacher gives me zero out of ten and says I shouldn’t be writing such things at my age. At home I cry to Mama and show her the story. She reads it and sits without saying a word on my bed. I think she is angry. It scares me when Mama is angry. Sometimes she shouts when she is angry and sometimes she is just quiet. The quiet angry is much worse.

  —

  The teacher writes a date on the blackboard. The Independence of Great Britain. We don’t have to remember it this term, we will come back to it later. A boy in the front puts his hand up. He is from India. Nanchal is the only one who asks questions. He asks about the Independence of Egypt. The teacher tells him we will be concentrating on British history for now. Nanchal tells her that he has already learned these things in India. It is his first year at school with us. He thought that in Egypt he would learn new things. He is eager to learn about Egypt and its great civilization, eager to learn about when Egypt stopped being a colony. I have never heard the word eager before. The teacher tells him to see her after class.

  At break I go to the bars shaped like an igloo. The boy from primary five with a ponytail is hanging upside down. I tell him Baba is away on business. He doesn’t care. I watch him. He pushes his waist into the air and swings. His arms fly and move in circles. Again. He twists and jumps into the air. He lands next to me. I notice his shoes. They are not proper shoes and he has fluorescent laces. They call me Chief, he says. His hands are on his hips. I look at him and don’t know what to say. He tells me he saw God earlier. He was wearing white and blue stripes and had on spectacles. He was writing in a big book like the headmaster’s one. What was he writing? The secrets of life. He asks me where Baba is. I think maybe he is in Geneva. I ask him if God can see everything. Does God know where everyone is and what they are doing? God was very busy today. How does he know God is writing the secrets of life if he doesn’t know Arabic? God was not writing in Arabic. The language of the book is English. Our teachers tell us this too. Every morning they read from the Bible and talk about God. I tell Chief about the writing on Abu Ali’s door. It’s the words of God and it’s Arabic. Mama says it’s bad. His dad says the same thing. His dad works at the American embassy. I tell him that Uncle says the people at the American embassy are spies. Baba too. He knows lots of spies. Once after a trip I heard him tell Mama about meeting a famous Egyptian spy. But the Egyptian spies are not bad like the American ones. Uncle and Baba said the American spies at the embassy are trouble. The only embassy we go to is the English one, and I don’t think they are spies. They take us there for school on the queen’s birthday. We have to dress smart and sing to God so that he saves the queen. Otherwise she might die. Mama makes me wear shiny shoes and a red dress with frills. I ask her not to make me wear shiny shoes. Please not the dress with frills. The other girls wear what they want. She doesn’t care what other people do. We are not other people. We are not English. I know she wouldn’t like it if I had a boy friend with a ponytail. If Baba were here he wouldn’t mind. He would tell Mama to relax and that a little bit of mischief builds character. When Baba was a boy he used to take books from the library and hide them under his shirt. He also used to write things on his arm in tiny writing before tests. Grandmama told me. Baba laughed when I asked if it was true. I tell Chief about going to the desert with Baba. He has a big tile factory in the desert and we ride his Jeep fast up and down the dunes. Maybe he could come with us to the desert when Baba came back? Baba would like him. He says it would be awesome and asks when he’s coming back. My shoulders drop. I stare at him. I don’t know. He’s late. He shrugs. It will be awesome. I repeat the word awesome to myself as we go back up to class. When I say awesome in front of Mama later she tells me to mind my language.

  —

  The teacher tells us to curve our letters. Relax your hand. She looks over our shoulders. She slaps a wooden ruler on her palm. Taps the wall. Doorknob. Dictionary. Desk. Another desk. My desk. My handwriting is too small. It won’t do. She gives me another sheet. Make your letters bigger. She tears one boy’s paper. He is a disgrace. Go and wash your hands. We laugh. She claps her hands. Silence. The girl in the front giggles. Her father is the Ambassador of England. The teacher never tells her off. Mama says my handwriting is like Baba’s. I try to make it bigger. We hand in our sheets. For the rest of the class we will be writing a letter. We can write it to anyone we know. On the blackboard she writes: Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Grandmother, Grandfather, Uncle, Aunt, Teacher, Friend. I wonder if I should write a letter to Mama. Mama is always writing letters. Sometimes when she is having her siesta I go through the drawers of the bookshelf and find letters. Some of them are to Baba. I don’t know if they are letters she gave Baba or not. One of them is about money. I don’t know if they are new letters or old letters. I showed Dido a letter once and he shook his head hard and said Mama was upset. It explained a lot but maybe I was too young for these things. Dido’s real name is Dawood but everyone calls him Dido. He is the oldest cousin and says my school will repress me. It is the only thing left of the monarchy and colonialism. Mama and Baba are antirevolutionary for sending me there. Where did their nationalism go? He also says the Palestinians are our brothers. I need to remember these things even if I don’t understand them yet. When I’m older I will thank him. He pats my head. Dido is my favorite cousin. Maybe I should write my letter to him. I look at the lines of my notebook for a long time.

  I will write to Nesma. I will tell her about Mama’s letter to Baba. I will tell her about Baba in Geneva and the house being empty now. I will tell her that Mama washed and ironed all her clothes and they are still in her cupboard. I might tell her that I stole Mama’s upset letter to Baba and hid it under my mattress. I will also tell her that we found a spell under my mattress. It was on a small paper folded many times filled with tiny writing. When I showed it to Mama she whispered to herself then got a woman to the house who walked around me with incense saying Quran. She burned the spell on the stove and pricked it with pins. Mama threw the ashes from the window and said Quran. Sometimes Mama says Quran is okay and sometimes it’s bad. This time it was to remove the devil from me. I cried. Mama said there was nothing to be afraid of. It was just something that happened sometimes.

  —

  Dido is outside the gate after school. He is wearing a black T-shirt with splashes of blood. Colored string bracelets fill his wrist, the kind Mama calls scruffy. He came back from the beach for a football match. Everyone says he will be famous. I hug his waist and he kisses my head. He says we can go to the shop before we go home. All the older children from school go to the shop. They used to go to the kiosk to buy a cigarette until the police took it away. Now they go to the shop. The shop isn’t really a shop. It’s a hole in a wall with a wooden counter and shelves in the back. Only one person fits in it. When it’s closed it looks like a garage. The shop isn’t allowed to sell cigarettes by the one but they do. You have to buy something else too if you want a cigarette. Most of the boys and girls buy Chipsy or a can of juice. The man uses black bags like the kind the bread comes in. Dido asks me what I want. An ice cream cone. I have to get something else. A red packet of Chipsy. He tells the man to add two to it. The man tells him the price. Dido tells him to do him a favor. Impossible. Come on, be a man. They talk more. Dido puts the money in the man’s hand and slaps his shoulder. He owes him. I want to sit on the brick and eat my ice cream. Dido stands over me. I see him take two cigarettes from the bag and put them in his back pocket. I watch the English girl whose father is ambassador choose four packets of chips and two juices. She gives the man one pound. Her money is always new. He puts it in the drawer and looks past her. She stares at him. Another boy comes from behind. The man nods at him. A chocolate. He gives him the coins. He sits on the pavement near me and unwraps it. It’s the inappropriate kind. The English g
irl is still there. The man turns his back to her. I watch. She waits longer. After a while she walks away. Once I gave the man ten piastres for a sweet that cost five. I put the money in his hand. He didn’t say anything. Someone came after me and asked for a Chipsy. I waited like the English girl, then walked back to find the driver.

  —

  Dido and I walk home. Mama took the driver on an errand and will be back later. When? Later. But we can do anything I want until then. He asks about my day. The teacher caught me saying a word in Arabic and made me do lines. I had to write a hundred times, I will not speak Arabic. He shakes his head. The teacher is mean because she has never been married. Grandmama says that only when a woman is married is she fulfilled. He shakes his head more. I ask him to tell me a story. He holds my hand. We turn the corner onto the long street that goes from one side of the island to the other. Dido tells me it was named after the revolution. Have I learned about the Free Officers? I shake my head. They launched the revolution that saved Egypt from the British. They got rid of the king. They made Egypt independent. Baba’s uncle was a Free Officer. He was the most principled man in the revolution. He resigned as vice president when the revolution goals were forgotten. He went and hid at Grandpapa’s house. He put his diaries under the mattress. He stayed there for five days. When they came looking for him, they found him watching TV. Baba was on his lap. Then what happened? He shrugs. But the children of the men who made the revolution are corrupt, he says. I look at him. To be corrupt means to steal. My friend’s grandfather was the president and great, but his children…