We walk past the key shop. The key man came to our house three times after Baba left when Mama forgot her keychain inside. He put a flat piece of metal like a knife in the side of the door and opened it. Mama thanked him and asked God to protect him. Afterwards she said she didn’t trust him. He made her uncomfortable. It was too easy to steal a house. She would start locking the door from the inside at night.
There are piles of newspapers on the pavement outside the juice shop. Dido takes one and puts a coin in the man’s hand. He wants to read the interview with the supreme guide who is the ruler of the Muslim Brotherhood. The president banned them from running in elections for parliament and now there is a long interview about it. The journalist who conducted it is courageous, or he might be a Brotherhood member too. How does he know if someone is Muslim Brotherhood? He squeezes my hand. It’s complicated. I hold his hand tighter. We are quiet, then Dido tells me the elections were two months ago. Why did the president ban them? What does it mean? They tried to kill two presidents before. They tried to kill Nasser, and then they tried to kill Sadat. They did kill Sadat. People like them killed Sadat. Mubarak is scared they will kill him too, so he is being iron-fisted now that he’s president. Iron-fisted means strict. I nod my head. The Brotherhood hate the president. They are violent and want Egypt to be like Iran. I ask about Iran. It’s a dark place with no freedom. The number of women now wearing the veil is a red flag. Mama is also scared of the women with scarves on their heads. Dido nods. Egypt never used to be like this. But Baba told me before that nothing would change because Egyptians like to have a good time. Dido laughs. It’s possible, he says. He tells me that next year the president will be reelected for his second term and he wants to make sure the Brotherhood can’t challenge him. I look at him. It’s like a race, and the president is cheating in his own way so that he can win. Who does he want to win? Neither. He thought Mubarak might be different but already he is proving he is just an old scrooge. I tell him Baba called the president a pharaoh. And he also said the pharaohs invented dictatorship. Dido laughs loudly.
Dido is a communist. It means he keeps to the left. He goes to meetings downtown and they talk about books. Baba said it’s dangerous to be a communist. The government doesn’t like them. It takes them away like all the other people we know. One of Baba’s friends from school was in prison for five years because he was a communist. He wrote in a newspaper and the president didn’t like what he said. He was twenty-three. When Baba told us the story we were at the beach in Alexandria sitting outside Granny’s cabin. He was laughing and said nothing would ever change. Look. He pointed across the bay to where Nasser’s and Sadat’s cabins were and shook his head. Don’t forget we had two revolutions, he told Dido. Nineteen fifty-two but also 1919. They came and went and all their hopes were shattered. Dido wore a communist-colored necklace and read books that Baba said could get him in trouble. He said he wasn’t scared and that the revolution would come one day. I heard the word revolution all the time but didn’t know exactly what it meant. Nobody answered me when I asked.
We cross the street. Dido points to a small square in the newspaper and tells me that our first president is sick. He has been living in isolation for thirty years. Why? Because life is unfair. We walk past the fruit shop where Mama buys our fruits. She calls by phone. They bring the fruit home in brown paper bags that tear at the bottom. The price is on the bag written with Biro. Today there are bananas, tangerines, watermelons, and melons, the green kind that Baba likes. They are piled like pyramids on the pavement. The fruit man holds up one side of his galabia. In the same hand he has a black bag with his money. He smiles and gives me a banana. He asks if Baba is back. He calls him Bey. I shake my head. He points to Dido’s newspaper. Anything new? There is a picture of the president on the front page at the top. It is the same picture every day. On the front page at the bottom there is a picture of the president’s wife. Everyone calls her Mama Suzanne. It’s what they tell us on television. A girl in school said she wanted to be like Mama Suzanne. I told Mama. She told me to wash my mouth with soap. I got up. I started to walk slowly towards the bathroom. Mama shouted that she never wanted to hear me say Mama Suzanne again. All my cousins call her Mama Suzanne. Nobody tells them anything. Every morning at assembly they sing the national anthem and then say, We love Baba and Mama Suzanne. At our assembly we only sing hymns. Dido is the only one who doesn’t call her Mama Suzanne. Uncle says he is rebellious and doesn’t understand how he turned out that way. Dido looks at the paper. He whispers but I hear him. He says a bad word. I eat my banana.
Dido takes the peel. He tells me that his life is politics and he hopes mine will be too. I look at him. We start walking. He takes a deep breath and says no one will ever compare to Nasser. He was a real man and one of the people. Baba also likes Nasser even though he made mistakes. Mama doesn’t. She and Baba would sometimes fight. They would only ever fight about Nasser and money. Mama would scream about all the things that Nasser took from Grandpa. Baba shouted back that he gave his father his whole life. Mama would say Uncle’s name and that it was all about wasta. Connections. When I asked Mama why she was upset she took me to the window and told me to look out. Our street is long and filled with flame trees. Only one tree has purple flowers but only a few. The jacaranda. At school we learn that the British brought it to Egypt to make the country more beautiful. At night people paint bad words on the walls of buildings. In the afternoon men come and paint over them with black. Mama pointed to the red villa and asked me if I saw it. Yes. The white villa on the corner. Yes. The villa across the street that’s a school. Yes. Her friends used to live in those villas, then Nasser took them and they had to leave. Where did they go? They left the country. They packed their bags and left at dawn. They didn’t even say goodbye. Was she sad? Very. Mama lost many friends because of Nasser. Her best friend was the daughter of the king and had to leave. Her other best friend was Jewish and also had to leave. Why did Nasser make them leave? Because life is unfair and it was something I would have to learn. I looked at her. Mama had green eyes that changed color sometimes. I always looked to see what color they were. Baba told me once that if they were brown I should keep away. I asked her who would teach me about life being unfair. She said time.
—
We stop at the ful shop on the corner. The walls are tiled white like our bathroom. Dido lifts me onto a stool. There is a thin wooden counter to eat on. I put my hand on it. It sticks. I ask for a tissue. The man gives me a piece of newspaper. I wipe the paper on the counter. The sticky part turns black. Dido shakes his head. He turns back and asks the man for three sandwiches. And two bottles of Sinalco. Mama never lets me drink Sinalco. It is bad for my insides. It will turn them orange. Dido says Mama is too strict. But without discipline I would become listless like the others. He gives me a sandwich and sits next to me. Discipline can go either way, he says. It’s the country that makes us listless. I ask him what listless means. It means to wake up every day and not know what to do. It means to feel there is nothing to look forward to in life. He laughs. Except football. I watch him. He takes a bite of his sandwich and stuffs a pickled carrot in his mouth after it. He looks at the street. There is a small blue pickup truck with policemen on it. They are dressed in white. In winter they wear black. They jump off the truck outside the ful shop. A woman is sitting on the pavement with two baskets in front of her. One basket has tomatoes. The other cucumbers and lettuce. She tries to get up quickly but trips. She is wearing a colored galabia and has a large scarf around her head. One policeman takes her elbow. He pulls. The other takes her two baskets. He throws them onto the truck. She screams. What is she saying? Dido is staring at them and doesn’t answer. People in the street stop and watch. Two cars stop. Four. Five. The traffic stops and cars behind start honking. There is shouting. One policeman pushes her into the truck. She screams, Yalahwee. He gets in after her and slams the door. The other policeman puts one hand on the back of the truck and jumps onto it. There is
more shouting. More. They drive away. Dido shakes his head. The people who were watching walk away. The stopped cars go. Dido says a bad word. I ask him why they took her. He says the system is wrecked. And she doesn’t have a permit. They don’t give people a chance at an honest living. Why didn’t he help her? He doesn’t say anything for a long time then shakes his head. He takes another bite of his sandwich. I watch him. He chews slowly, still shaking his head. After a while he asks if I remember what he taught me about the waves. I nod. If it’s going to hit me in the face I have to dive under it. He raises one eyebrow and tells me to remember that in life too. He takes our sandwich wrappers and scrunches them into a ball. He puts the empty bottles on the counter. He gives the man five piastres. The man puts his hand to his head and salutes him. He calls him Basha.
I ask if we can get mango ice cream from El-Abd. Baba used to take me every Friday after school. He pats my head and takes the purple backpack from my shoulder. We walk to the curb. Three cucumbers are squashed on the pavement. I press on one with the tip of my shoe. Cucumber seeds squirt from one side. Dido raises his hand. A black-and-white taxi stops. Downtown. He opens the back door. I slide across the leather chair. It’s boiling and I sit on my hands. Dido gets in the front next to the driver. He puts my bag between his legs and rests his elbow on the window. His arm hangs out. The driver has his arm the same way. Their arms might get cut off by a speeding car, but I don’t say anything. The driver has a long nail on his little finger. Our driver also has a long nail on his little finger. So does the man who sells fruits. Their nails are even longer than Mama’s. I imagine taking scissors and cutting them off. Dido talks to the driver. I move closer to the window and stick my head out. The taxi goes towards the bridge where the billboards are. Two men on ladders are carrying buckets of paint. Two other men are dipping their paintbrushes into the buckets. One of them is painting the head of a woman. Her dress is blue with white dots and the tops of her breasts show in the way Mama says is not for my age. He paints yellow streaks onto her brown hair. The other man is painting a word. The taxi driver slows down. He shakes his head. When are they ever going to finish? They have been painting the billboard for three weeks now. Dido tells him it’s an art. The poster will be up for years. The driver flicks his head. They talk about time moving at a pace of its own.
I listen to them with my head out of the window. Two women in short dresses come out of Simonds. They are wearing high heels and have bags on their arms. Their hair is up like Mama’s. They have dresses like Mama’s. They have necklaces like Mama’s. They look different. They are laughing and throwing their heads back. I remember when Mama looked like them. They walk to the edge of the street and stand talking. I look back at them. We pass a new building. There used to be only two buildings on the island. Then people started building everywhere. It’s not what it used to be. Everyone is always saying that. That’s why our house is special. Now they are even building a bridge. There are piles of sand and bricks and big trucks every night and Mama complains about the noise. On TV they tell us the president will build five new bridges. Mama calls it a catastrophe. I try to imagine the island still just fields and houses. The taxi is the car like Grandpa had, white with an open top. He would take Mama to Simonds, but the one downtown, and they would have bombe glacée. It was a famous ice cream that they don’t make anymore. Mama said it was something of the past. Everything is of the past.
—
At home Dido sits on the sofa where Mama usually sits. It’s Baba’s place. I sit on the armchair next to him. He picks up the blue address book from the table. He turns it over. It’s Baba’s. He looks at me and puts it down. It’s hot. I get up and turn on Granny’s fan. Dido asks about Mama’s plant mister on the table. I hand it to him. He sprays himself and says he loves the house. It makes him sad now. He misses Granny’s lunches. I ask him where Mama went. He puts his elbows on his knees and leans close to me. He mists me. I squint. We laugh. Mama had some business to do. Does he miss Baba? Of course, just like me. Let’s watch TV, he says. I get up and switch it on. There is a documentary about Egypt on Channel One. Dido tells me to leave it on. I frown. But it’s always documentaries. He stares at the screen. First there are pictures of the king. He is standing on a boat holding a baby. The queen is next to him. She is dressed like Mama and doesn’t look like a queen. They are leaving from Montazah Palace where we used to go in the summer. All of Montazah Gardens used to belong to the king, Dido says. That’s why ’52 was good. It gave the gardens to the people. If there had been no revolution our summers would be different. Alexandria would be different. I ask again. Revolution. What does it mean? You could say it means change. Do Mama and Baba think it was good? It’s complicated. Mama told me the story once but I forgot. He tells me the story. The revolution happened in the summer. Granny and Grandpa would move from Cairo to Alexandria. The whole government would move to the coast during the summer months. It was too hot to be in the city. Mama, Granny, Nesma, and all the family would be there. They would go to the beach while Grandpa was at work. Grandpa was a judge in the royal court. It was very early in the morning when the revolution happened. Mama was on the balcony having breakfast. They heard a rumble from far away. Minutes later they saw army tanks. They went by right under their balcony, right along the corniche and towards Montazah Palace. Granny and Grandpa both said a prayer. I remember that part. Mama told me that she could tell from their faces that something bad was happening. She doesn’t remember anything else except that the summer ended suddenly. Dido says the revolution was bad for people like Grandpa because it took things away from them. But how come they didn’t take our house when they took all of Mama’s friends’ houses? It’s just one of those things. Mama says the house is the only thing we have left. Dido doesn’t say anything. I love the house but I liked it better before, I say. Before what? Before it became so empty. Before everyone died and Baba left. Before people stopped coming and everything changed. He looks at me. Is that a revolution too? I ask.
Dido turns to the TV. They are showing pictures from inside a museum. The camera shows two glass cabinets. Opera music plays. One display has fields, mud huts, donkeys, men in galabias, women with big dishes on their heads, children playing in the canal. The other has roads and nice buildings and a red bus and men dressed like Baba. The camera zooms close to the writing on the displays. What does it say? I can’t read so quickly. He reads. Before the revolution. And—he unzips his jeans—after the revolution. I watch him. He gets up and starts to pull them down. He says the house feels like a furnace. He doesn’t remember it being so hot. I stare at him from the side of my eye. He is wearing shorts underneath. Blue ones with pink stripes. I turn my head and look. There is a man outside the school who also unzips his trousers but he has nothing underneath, I say. When did this happen? He is there on many days. Have I told Mama? I shake my head. Why? I am scared she will get angry. He tells me I shouldn’t tell anyone and that it’s very bad. He will take care of it. I also saw something else. I saw my girl cousin kissing another girl on the mouth. Is it bad? He tells me it’s not a secret but I should never talk about it to anyone. I nod. Why do they always play the film about the war on Fridays? Because everyone is watching TV waiting for the football match. They want people to remember and to forget. What do they want us to remember? How we won in 1973. What did we win? We crossed the Suez Canal and won back the Sinai from Israel. What do they want us to forget? About 1967. I already know about the Naksa. It was the war Baba wanted to fight in. He thought we were winning but then he looked up at the sky and knew. What did he know? That we had lost. That the president had lied. Why did the president lie? To protect us. When I asked him how he knew we had lost, he said the Israeli planes were flying right over his head. How did he know they were Israeli? The blue star. Baba said that day changed everything.
—
Every Saturday the two men would come to the house. They would ring the bell twice. The first time they came Mama was still asleep. I looked out
of the window. They were wearing safari suits. The kind the president wears when he opens factories. They had papers in their hands. When they saw me they called me little girl and asked for Baba. He hasn’t come back. Mama? She is still sleeping. Can you come down and take these papers? I’m not allowed. I put my head back in and closed the window. I went inside and spied on them from the bathroom. They stood at the gate for a long time. When Mama woke I told her. She shouted and said I should never open the window by the door again. She picked up the phone and dialed a number. She spoke French. I stood at the corner of the doorway watching. She talked for a long time then put the phone down loudly. Get dressed, she said, and went into her bedroom. Her red silk robe was open and the sash fell to the floor. I rushed to pick it up. She closed her door. I stood with it in my hand and waited. There was no sound from her room. After a while I rolled it and put it on the floor. I moved it to the right to make sure Mama would see it when she came out. I went to my room and looked out of the window. The street was empty but I could hear the street sweeper. He had a straw broom and you could hear him on weekends and in the middle of the night. I changed out of my pajamas into red trousers and a white T-shirt. I put on white socks and my favorite blue shoes. I had three pairs of shoes. I went back outside and sat on the sofa. I waited with my hands on my lap.
Chronicle of a Last Summer Page 3
