Trying to catch her breath, she replied, “The English are filling the street below our house.”
The young man jumped out of bed to run to the window. Looking down, he saw a small encampment on Palace Walk under the cistern building at a vantage point for the streets that branched off there. It consisted of a number of tents, three trucks, and several groups of soldiers. Adjacent to the tents, rifles had been stacked up in groups of four. In each bunch the muzzles leaned in against each other and the butts were separated, forming a pyramid. The sentries stood like statues in front of the tents. The other soldiers were scattered about, speaking to each other in a foreign language and laughing. The young man looked toward al-Nahhasin and saw a second encampment at the intersection of al-Nahhasin with the Goldsmiths Bazaar. There was a third encampment in the other direction at the corner of Palace Walk and al-Khurunfush.
His first impulse was to think that these soldiers had come to arrest him, but he soon decided that was silly. He attributed the idea to his rude awakening, from which he had not quite recovered, and to his sense of being followed that had not left him since the revolution had broken out. Then the truth gradually became clear to him. The district that had frustrated the occupying forces with its continual demonstrations had been occupied by troops. He went on looking through the blind, examining the soldiers, tents, and wagons while hisheart pounded with terror, sorrow, and anger. When he turned away from the window he was pale and muttered to his mother, “It's the English, just as you said. They've come to intimidate people and to stop the demonstrations at their source.”
He began to pace the room back and forth, while he commented to himself resentfully, “Incredible … preposterous.”
Then he heard his mother say, “I'll wake your father to tell him about it”. The woman made that statement as though it were the only alternative left. She implied that al-Sayyid Ahmad, who solved all the problems of her life, was equally capable of finding a solution for this one and of guiding them to safety.
Her son told her sadly, “Leave him alone until he wakes up at the normal time.”
Terrified, the woman asked, “What are we going to do, son, with them stationed outside the entrance of our house?”
Fahmy shook hishead anxiously and repeated her question: “What are we going to do?” Then in a more confident tone he continued: “There's no reason to be afraid. They're only trying to frighten the demonstrators.”
Swallowing because her mouth felt dry, she remarked, “I'm afraid they'll attack peaceful citizens in their homes.”
He thought for a little while about what she had said. Then he murmured, “Of course not… If their goal had been to attack the houses, they wouldn't have waited there quietly this long”. He was not totally sure about his statement but thought it was the best thing to say.
His mother came back with yet another question: “How long will they stay here with us?”
He replied with a blank stare, “Who knows?… They've pitched tents, so they're not leaving soon.”
He noticed that she was addressing questions to him as though he were a military commander. He looked at her affectionately and did not let her see the ironic smile that had formed on his pale lips. He thought for a moment about teasing her, but the situation was distressing enough to deter him. He became serious once more. Similarly, when Yasin recounted one of their father's exploits to him, the very nature of the anecdote would make him want to laugh, but the anxiety that afflicted him whenever he learned something about the hidden side of his father's character would restrain him.
They heard footsteps hurrying toward them. Then Yasin, followed immediately by Zaynab, stormed into the room. His eyes looked swollen and his hair was disheveled. He shouted, “Have you seen the English?”
Zaynab cried out, “I'm the one who heard them. So 1 looked out the window and saw them. Then I woke up Mr. Yasin.”
Yasin continued: “I knocked on Father's door until he woke up, so I could tell him. When he saw them himself he ordered that no one should leave the house and that the bolt on the door should not be opened. But what are they doing?… What can we do?… Isn't there a government in this country to protect us?”
Fahmy told him, “I don't think they'll interfere with anyone except the demonstrators.”
“But how long are we going to remain captives in our houses? … These houses are full of women and children. How can they set up encampmentshere?”
Fahmy muttered uneasily, “Nothing's happening to us that isn't happening to everyone else. Let's be patient and wait.”
Zaynab protested nervously, “All we hear or see anymore is something frightening or sad. God damn the bastards.”
At that point, Kamal opened his eyes. He looked with astonishment at all the people unexpectedly assembled in his room. He sat up in bed and looked inquisitively at his mother, who went to him and patted his large head with her cold hand. Then in a whisper she recited the opening prayer of the Qur'an, while her thoughts wandered off.
The boy asked, “Why are you all here?”
His mother wanted to break the news to him in the nicest way, and so she said gently, “You won't be going to school today.”
He asked with delight, “Because of the demonstrations?”
Fahmy replied a bit sharply, “The English are blocking the road.”
Kamal felt he had discovered the secret that had brought them all together. He looked at their faces with dismay. Then he ran to the window and looked for a long time through the blind. When he returned, he remarked uneasily, “The rifles are in groups of four”. He looked at Fahmy as though pleading for help. He stammered fearfully, “Will they kill us?”
“They won't kill anyone. They've come to pursue the demonstrators.”
There was a short period of silence. Then the boy commented, as though to himself, “What handsome faces they have!”
Fahmy asked him sarcastically, “Do you really like their looks?”
Kamal replied innocently, “A lot. I imagined they'd look like devils.”
Fahmy said bitterly, “Who knows? … perhaps if you saw some devils you'd think they were handsome.”
The bolt on the door was not pulled back that day. None of the windows overlooking the street was opened, not even to freshen the air or let in sunlight. For the first time ever, al-Sayyid Ahmad conducted a conversation at the breakfast table. He said, in a voice that implied he knew what he was talking about, that the English were going to take strong measures to stop the demonstrations and that it was for this reason they had occupied the areas where most of the demonstrations had taken place. He said he had decided they would stay home all day until matters became clearer.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad was able to speak with confidence and preserve his customary awesome appearance. Thushe prevented anyone from discerning the anxiety that had afflicted him since he had hopped out of bed in response to Yasin's knocks.
It was also the first time that Fahmy had dared question one of his father's ideas. He remarked politely, “But, Father, the school may think I'm one of the strikers if I stay home.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad naturally knew nothing of his son's participation in the demonstrations. He replied, “Necessity has its own laws. Your brother as a civil servant is in more jeopardy than you are, but you both have a clear excuse.”
Fahmy was not courageous enough to ask his father a second time. He was afraid of angering him and found his father's order forbidding him to leave the house an excuse that eased his conscience for not going into the streets occupied by soldiers thirsty for the blood of students.
The breakfast group broke up. Al-Sayyid Ahmad retired to his room. The mother and Zaynab were soon busy with their daily chores. Since it was a sunny day with warm spring breezes, one of the last of March, the three brothers went up on the roof, where they sat under the arbor of hyacinth beans and jasmine. Kamal got interested in the chickens and settled down by their coop. He scattered grain for them and then chased them, delighted with t
heir squawking. He picked up the eggshe found.
His brothers began to discuss the thrilling news that was spreading by word of mouth. A revolution was raging in all areas of the Nile Valley from the extreme north to the extreme south. Fahmy recounted what he knew about the railroads and telegraph and telephone lines being cut, the outbreak of demonstrations in different provinces, the battles between the English and the revolutionaries, the massacres, the martyrs, the nationalist funerals with processions with tens of coffins at a time, and the capital city with its students, workers, and attorneys on strike, where transportation was limited to carts. He remarked heatedly, “Is this really a revolution? Let them kill as many as their savagery dictates. Death only invigorates us.”
Yasin, shaking hishead in wonder, observed, “I wouldn't have thought our people had this kind of fighting spirit.”
Fahmy seemed to have forgotten how close he had been to despair shortly before the outbreak of the revolution, when it took him by surprise with its convulsions and dazzled him with its light. He now asserted, “The nation's filled with a spirit of eternal struggle flaming throughout its body stretched from Aswan to the Mediterranean Sea. The English only stirred it up. It's blazing away now and will never die out.”
There was a smile on Yasin's lips when he observed, “Even the women have organized a demonstration.”
Fahmy then recited verses from the poem by the Egyptian author Hafiz Ibrahim about the ladies' demonstration:
Beautiful women marched in protest.
I went to observe their rally.
I found them proudly
Brandishing the blackness oftheir garments.
They looked like stars,
Gleaming in a pitch-black night.
They took to the streets;
Sa'd's home was their target.
Yasin was touched. He laughed and said, “I'm the one who should have memorized that.”
Fahmy happened to think of something and asked sadly, “Do you suppose news of our revolution has reached Sa'd in exile? Has the grand old man learned that his sacrifice has not been in vain? Or do you think he's overcome by despair in his exile?”
57
THEY STAYED on the roof until shortly before noon. The two older brothers entertained themselves by observing the small British encampment. They saw that some of the soldiers had set up a field kitchen and were preparing food. Soldiers were scattered between the intersections of Qirmiz Alley and al-Nahhasin with Palace Walk in an area otherwise deserted. From time to time many would fall into line at a signal from a bugle. Then they would get their rifles and climb into one of the vehicles, which would carry them off toward Bayt al-Qadi. This suggested that demonstrations were underway in nearby neighborhoods. Fahmy watched them line up with a pounding heart and flaming imagination.
When the two older brothers finally went downstairs to the study tin ey left Kamal alone on the roof to amuse himself as he saw fit. Fahmy got his books to review what he had missed during the past days. Yasin selected Abu Tammam's medieval collection of Arab ic poetry, called al-Hamasa, and Jurji Zaydan's historical romance The Maiden of Karbala and went out to the sitting room. He was counting on these books to help pass the time, which accumulated as plentifully behind the walls of his prison as water behind a dam. Although novels, including detective stories, had the greatest hold over his affections, he was also fond of poetry. He did not like to exert himself too much when he learned a poem. He was content to understand the parts that were easy to grasp and to enjoy the music of the difficult sections. He rarely referred to the marjain of the page packed with glosses. He might memorize a verse and recite it, even though he understood very little of its meaning. He might ascribe a meaning to it that bore almost no relationship to the real one or not even try to attribute a meaning to it. Nevertheless, certain images and expressions settled in his mind. He considered them a treasure to brag about and exploit determinedly when appropriate and even more often when not. If he had a letter to write, he prepared for the assignment as though he were a novelist and crammed it full of any resounding expressionshe could recall, inserting whatever remnants of the poetic heritage of the Arabs God allowed him to remember. Yasin was known among his acquaintances as eloquent, not because he really was but because the other men fell short of his attempts and were stunned by his unusual accumulation of knowledge.
Until that time, he had never experienced such a long period of enforced idleness, deprived of all forms of activity and amusement for hour after hour. If he had possessed the patience for reading, that might have helped, but he was only accustomed to read when he was with other people and then only during the short periods preceding his departure for his evening's entertainment. Even on those occasions, he saw nothing wrong with interrupting his reading to join in the coffee hour conversations or to read a little and then summon Kamal to narrate to him what he had read. He enjoyed the boy's passionate response to storytelling, typical of children of that age. Consequently, neither the poetry nor the novel was able to brighten his solitude on such a day. He read some verses and then a few chapters of The Maiden of Karbala. He choked on his boredom, drop after drop, while he cursed the English from the depths of hisheart. He passed the time until lunch in a bad mood, feeling vexed and disgruntled.
The mother served them soup and roast chicken with rice, but there were no vegetables because of the blockade around the house. She ended the meal with cheese, olives, and whey, substituting molasses for the sweet. The only person with a decent appetite was Kamal. Al-Sayyid Ahmad and the two older brothers were not much inclined to eat, since they had spent the day without any work or activity. This nourishment did assist them to escape from their boredom by helping to put them to sleep, especially the father and Yasin, who were able to fall asleep whenever and however they wanted.
Yasin got up from his nap shortly before sunset and went downstairs to attend the coffee hour. The session was short, since the mother was not able to leave al-Sayyid Ahmad alone for long. She had to withdraw to return to his room. Yasin, Zaynab, Fahmy, and Kamal remained behind to chat with each other listlessly. Then Fahmy excused himself to go to the study. He asked Kamal to join him, leaving the couple alone.
Yasin wondered to himself, “What can I do from now till midnight?” The question had troubled him for a long time, but today he felt depressed and humiliated, forcibly and tyrannically separated from the flow of time which was plunging ahead outside the house with its many pleasures. He was like a branch that turns into firewood when cut from the tree.
Had it not been for the military blockade, he would have been in his beloved seat at the coffeehouse of Ahmad Abduh, sipping green tea and chatting with his acquaintances among its patrons. He would have been enjoying himself in its historic atmosphere. He was captivated by its antiquity, and his imagination was stirred by its subterranean chambers buried in the debris of history. Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse was the one he loved best. He would not forsake it, unless scorched by some desire, for as they say: “Desire's a fire”. It was desire that had attracted him in the past to the Egyptian Club, which was close to the woman who sold doum palm fruit. Desire had also been responsible for tempting him to move to al-Sayyid Ali's coffeehouse in al-Ghuriya, situated across the street from the home of the lute player Zanuba. He would e xchange coffeehouses according to the object of his desire. He would even exchange the patrons who had offered him their friendship. Beyond satisfying the desire itself, the coffeehouse and his friends there were meaningless. Where were the Egyptian Club and those friends? They had gone out of his life. If he ran into one of them, Yasin might pretend not to know him and avoid him. It was now the turn of Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse and its regulars. God only knew what coffeehouses and friends the future had in store for him.
In any case, he did not spend too much of his evening at Ahmad Abduh's. He would soon slip over to Costaki's grocery store, or, more exactly, to his secret bar to get a bottle of red wine, or “the usual,” as he liked to call it. Wh
ere was “the usual” on this gloomy night? it the memory of Costaki's bar, a shudder of desire passed through his body. Then a look of great weariness showed in his eyes. He seemed as fidgety as a prisoner. Staying home appeared to him to be prolonged suffering. The sharpness of the pain intensified when he entertained the images of bliss and memories of intoxication associated with the bar and the bottle. These dreams tormented him and doubled his anguish. They encouraged his ardent longing for wine's music of the mind and the games it played with hishead. Those made him warm and happy, overflowing with delight and joy. Before that evening he had never realized how incapable he was of patiently abstaining from alcohol for even a single day. He was not sad to discover how weak he was and how addicted. He did not blame himself for the overindulgence that had ended up making him miserable for such a trivial reason. He was as far as one could be from blaming himself or being annoyed. The only cause for his pain that he could remember was the blockade the English had set up around his house. He was consumed by thirst when the intoxicating watering hole was near at hand.
He glanced at Zaynab. He found her examining his face with a look that seemed to say resentfully, “Why are you so inattentive? Why are you so glum? Doesn't my presence cheer you up at all?” Yasin felt her resentment in the fleeting moment their eyes met, but he did not respond to her sorrowful criticism. To the contrary, it annoyed and riled him. Yes, he disliked nothing so much as being forced to spend a whole evening with her, deprived of desire, pleasure, and the intoxication on which he relied to endure married life.
He began to look at her stealthily and wonder in amazement, “Isn't she the same woman? … Isn't she the one who captured my heart on our wedding night? … Isn't she the one who drove me wild with passion for nights and weeks on end? … Why doesn't she stir me at all? What's come over her? Why am I so restless, disgruntled, and bored, finding nothing in her beauty or culture to tempt me to postpone getting drunk?”
The Cairo Trilogy Page 47
