Yasin found himself thinking once again about the “issue” of Maryam…. Maryam? He had never looked at her in the past if she came into view except in a cursory fashion. Fahmy's attachment to her had increased Yasin's desire to ignore her, until her scandal had been broadcast in the family. That had aroused his interest, and he had wondered for a long time what sort of girl she was. He would have liked to study her carefully and observe the girl who had aroused the desire of an Englishman sent to fight, not flirt. Yasin's anger at her was only a conversational device. He was actually enraptured by the presence nearby of a daring “fallen woman,” separated from him by a single wall. His broad, sturdy chest was pervaded by a bestial intoxication bringing out the hunting instinct in him, but he held back in honor of Fahmy's sorrow, for he loved his brother. He limited himself to a passive, emotional delight, although no one in the whole district so stirred his interest as Maryam.
“It's time to leave,” Khadija remarked as she rose. She had heard the voices of Ibrahim and Khalil, who were coming in from the hall. Everyone stood up. Some stretched while others adjusted their clothing. Only Kamal remained seated. He looked at the door of the sitting room mournfully, hisheart pounding.
67
A L - S A D AHMAD sat at his desk bent over his ledgers, immersing himself in his daily tasks, which helped him forget, if only temporarily, his personal worries as well as the bloody public ones that were in the news all the time. He had grown to love the store as much as his evenings of fellowship and music, because in both situationshe successfully freed himself from the hell of thinking. Although the store's atmosphere was full of haggling, selling, buying, making money, and similar concerns of ordinary, daily life, it restored his confidence that everything could return to normal, to the original condition of peace and stability. Peace? Where had it gone and when would it be ready to return? Even in his store there were distressing, whispered conversations about bloody events. Customers were no longer content just to bargain and buy. Their tongues kept belaboring the news and bewailing events. Over the bags of rice and coffee beanshe had heard about the battle of Bulaq, the massacres at Asyut, the funeral processions with tens of coffins, and the young man who had wrested a machine gun away from the enemy, intending to bring it back into al-Azhar Mosque, only to be killed before he could get there as swarms of bullets sank into his body. News like this, tinged crimson with blood, assaulted his ears from time to time in the very place where he had taken refuge, seeking to forget.
How miserable it was to live constantly in the shadow of death. Why did not the revolution achieve its objectives quickly before he or any of his family was harmed?… He was not stingy with money and did not begrudge it his emotional involvement, but sacrificing a life was another matter. What kind of punishment was God inflicting on His flock? Life had become cheap and blood was flowing…. The revolution was no longer a thrilling spectacle. It threatened his security whenever he came or went and menaced the life of his rebellious son. His enthusiasm for it, but not for its goal, had dwindled. He still dreamt of independence and the return of Sa'd, but without a revolution, bloodshed, or terror.
He chanted slogans with the demonstrators and was zealous with the zealots, but his mind was attached to life and struggled to resist this current, like a tree trunk in a flood, its branches torn off by storms. Nothing, no matter how great, would weaken his love for life. Let him keep his love for life to the end of his days. If only Fahmy felt that way too, so that he would not sacrifice his life; Fahmy, the disobedient son who had thrown himself into the stream without a life preserver.
“Is al-Sayyid Ahmad here?”
He heard the voice and sensed that someone was hurtling into the shop like a human projectile. He looked up from his desk and saw Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad in the middle of the room blinking his inflamed eyes, futilely trying to peer toward the desk. Al-Sayyid Ahmad's spirits rose. With a smile he shouted at the visitor, “Make yourself at home, Shaykh Mutawalli. We are blessed by your presence.”
The shaykh appeared reassured. He advanced, his torso swaying backward and forward as though he were riding on a camel. Al-Sayyid Ahmad leaned over his desk, putting out his hand to take his visitor's and press it firmly, saying gently, “The chair's to your right. Please sit down”. Shaykh Mutawalli leaned his stick against the desk and took his seat. Putting some of the weight of his shoulders on his hands, which were placed on his knees, he said, “May God preserve you and sustain you.”
The proprietor responded wholeheartedly, “How fine your prayer is and how much I've needed it”. Turning toward Jamil al-Hamzawi, who was weighing rice for a customer, he advised him, “Don't forget to prepare the parcel for our master the shaykh.”
Jamil al-Hamzawi responded, “Who could forget our master the shaykh?”
The shaykh spread out his hands and raised hishead, moving his lips in a quiet prayer of which only an intermittent whisper could be heard. Then he returned to his former pose and was silent for a moment. By way of invocation he said, “I begin with a prayer for the Prophet, our guiding light.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad said fervently, “The finest of all blessings and peace on him.”
“I ask a double portion of mercy for your father of blessed memory.”
“May God have great mercy on him.”
“Then I ask God to delight your eyes with your family and offspring for generations to come.”
“Amen.”
Sighing he continued: “I ask Him to return to us Our Effendi' the Khedive Abbas II, Muhammad Fand, and Sa'd Zaghlul.”
“May God hear your prayer.”
“And devastate the English for their past and present sins.”
“Glory to the Omnipotent Avenger.”
At that point, the shaykh cleared his throat and wiped his face with his palm before saying, “I saw you in a dream waving your hands. As soon as I opened my eyes I resolved to visit you.”
The proprietor smiled somewhat sadly and replied, “That's not surprising, because I'm in desperate need of your blessings, may God multiply them.”
The shaykh leaned his face toward al-Sayyid Ahmad affectionately and asked, “Is what I heard about the incident at Bab al-Futuh correct?”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad smiled and answered him: “Yes … I wonder who told you.”
“I was passing by the oil-pressing establishment of Ghunaym Hamidu when he stopped me and said, ‘Haven't you heard what the English did to me and your dear friend al-Sayyid Ahmad?’ In alarm I asked him to explain. So he told me, wonder of wonders.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad recounted the whole story with every detail. He never tired of repeating it, even though he had told it tens of times over the past few days.
As the shaykh listened, he recited the Throne Verse about God under his breath (Qur'an, 2:255). “Were you frightened, my son?” he asked. “Describe your fear to me. Tell me about it. There is no power or might save from God. Were you convinced you would be saved? Have you forgotten that fright doesn't just go away? You prayed for a long time and asked God for salvation. That's excellent, but you'll need an amulet.”
“Why not!… It will bring us added blessings, Shaykh Muta-walli. And the children and their mother - weren't they frightened too?”
“Of course … their hearts are weak, inexperienced with brutality or terror…. An amulet…. An amulet's the remedy.”
“You are goodness and blessing, Shaykh Mutawalli. God rescued me from a grave evil, but there's another evil still threatening me that keeps me awake nights.”
Once again the shaykh's face leaned toward al-Sayyid Ahmad affectionately. He asked, “May God forgive you. What's troubling you, son?”
The proprietor looked at him despondently and muttered angrily, “My son Fahmy.”
The shaykh raised his white eyebrows inquisitively or in alarm and commented hopefully, “He's safe, with the permission of God the Merciful___”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad shook hishead sorrowfully and said, “He disobeyed me for the first
time. The matter's in God's hands.”
The shaykh spread his arms out in front of him as though to ward off affliction and shouted, “I take refuge in God. Fahmy's my boy. I'm certain he's dutiful by nature.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad said with annoyance, “His honor insists on doing just what the other boys are doing at this bloody time.”
The shaykh was astonished and incredulous. He protested, “You're a resolute father. There's no doubt about that. I would never hcive imagined that one of your sons would dare oppose you in anything.”
These words cut him to the quick and drew blood. He felt upset and inclined to downplay his son's rebellion in order to defend himself, both to the shaykh and to himself, against the accusation of weakness. He said, “Of course he did not dare do so directly, but I asked him to swear on a copy of the Qur'an that he would not participate in any revolutionary activity. He wept instead of having the courage to say no. What can I do? I can't lock him up in the house. I can't keep him under surveillance at school. I'm afraid that the current of events at this time will be too strong for a boy like him to resist. What should I do? Threaten to beat him? Beat hiin? But what good is a threat when he doesn't mind risking death?”
The shaykh stroked his face and asked anxiously, “Hashe thrown himself into the demonstrations?”
Shaking his broad shoulders, the proprietor answered, “Of course not. But he distributes handbills. When I pressured him, he claimed he only distributed them to his best friends.”
“Why ishe interested in such activities?… He's the mild-mannered son of a mild-mannered father. These activities are for a different type of man. Doesn't he know that the English are brutes with rough hearts unaffected by mercy who feed on the blood of the poor Egyptians from dawn to dusk? Talk to him amicably. Preach to him. Show him the difference between light and darkness. Tell him that you're his father, that you love him and are afraid for him. For my part, I'll make several amulets of a special type and remember him in my prayers, especially the Dawn Prayer. It's God who is our help from first to last.”
The proprietor said mournfully, “Every hour there's more news of fatalities. That should be warning enough for anyone with half a mind. What's happened to his intellect? The son of al-Fuli, the milkman, was lost in an instant. Fahmy attended the funeral with me and offered his condolences to the boy's poor father. The lad was distributing bowls of curdled milk when he ran into a demonstration. He was tempted by fate to join it, without giving the matter any thought. Then in not much more than an hour he was slain in front of al-Azhar Mosque. There's no might or power save with God. We are from God and return to God. When he was late getting back, his father became anxious and went to his customers to ask after him. Some of them said he had brought the milk and departed and others said he had not passed by them as usual. When he reached Hamrush, who sells sweet shredded pasta bars, he found the boy's tray and the remaining bowls that hadn't been distributed. Hamrush told the father that the boy had left them with him while he participated in a demonstration that afternoon. The poor man went crazy and proceeded at once to the Gamaliya police station. They sent him to the Qasr al-Ayni Hospital, where he found his son in the autopsy room. Fahmy heard the story with all the details, just the way al-Fuli related it to us when we were at his house to offer him our condolences. Fahmy learned how the boy had been lost and might just as well have never existed. He witnessed the father's excruciating grief and heard the wails of the family. The poor lad perished, but Sa'd didn't return and the English didn't leave. If Fahmy were a stone, he would have understood something. Still, he's the best of my children, for which I praise and thank God.”
In a sad voice, Shaykh Mutawalli said, “I knew that poor boy. He was the oldest of al-Fuli's children, isn't that so? His grand-father was a donkey driver, and I used to hire his donkey to go to Sidi Abu al-Sa'ud. Al-Fuli has four children, but he was fondest of the one who died.”
For the first time Jamil al-Hamzawi entered into their conversation: “In these crazy times, people can't think straight, not even the youngsters. Yesterday my son Fuad told his mother he wanted to take part in a demonstration.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad said anxiously, “The young ones participate in demonstrations and the big ones are struck down in them. Your son Fuad's a friend of my son Kamal, and they both go to the same school. Hasn't he, haven't they both been tempted to join in a demonstration? … Huh? Nothing seems amazing anymore.”
Al-Hamzawi regretted having let that slip out and observed, “It hasn't gone this far, al-Sayyid Ahmad, sir. I disciplined him mercilessly for his innocent wish. Mr. Kamal never goes out unlesshe's accompanied by Umm Hanafi, may God preserve and watch over him.”
They were silent. The only thing that could be heard in the store was the rustling of the paper in which al-Hamzawi was wrapping the present for Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad. Then the shaykh sighed and commented, “Fahmy's a bright boy. He mustn't let the English threaten his dear soul. The English!… May God make it up to me. Haven't you heard what they did in the villages of al-Aziziya and Badrashin? …”
The proprietor was so perturbed he did not really wish to inquire what had happened. He expected it would be the same sort of thing he kept hearing about. He merely raised his eyebrows to seem interested.
The shaykh commenced: “The day before yesterday I was visiting the esteemed and noble Shaddad Bey Abd al-Hamid in his mandon in al-Abbasiya. He invited me to have lunch and supper, so I presented him with some amulets for him and the members of his household. There I learned what happened at al-Aziziya and Badrashin.”
The shaykh was silent for a bit. Al-Sayyid Ahmad asked, “The well-known cotton merchant?”
“Shaddad Bey Abd al-Hamid is the greatest of all the cotton merchants. Perhaps you knew his son Abd al-Hamid Bey Shaddad? He was closely linked with Mr. Muhammad Iffat once.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad spoke slowly to give himself time to think: “I remember I saw him at one of Mr. Muhammad Iffat's parties before the outbreak of the war. Then I heard he had been exiled following the fall of Our Effendi' Abbas II. What news is there of him?”
Shaykh Mutawalli replied quickly in passing, as though putting his words in parentheses so he could return directly to his original topic, “He's still in exile. He lives in France with his wife and children. Shaddad Bey is intensely worried he will die before he sees his son again in this world”. He fell silent. Then he began to shake hishead right and left, reciting in a musical voice as though chanting the opening of a poem in praise of the Prophet, “Two or three hours after midnight when the people were sleeping, a few hundred British soldiers armed to the teeth surrounded the two towns.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad's attention was rudely awakened. “They surrounded the villages when the people were sleeping? Weren't the besiegers similar to the soldiers camped in front of the house? They began by attacking me. What's the next step they plan?”
The shaykh slapped his knee as though trying to set the rhythm for his recitation as he continued: “In each village they burst into the home of the magistrate, ordering him to surrender his weapons. Then they penetrated the women's quarters, where they plundered the jewelry and insulted the women. They dragged them outside by their hair, while the women wailed and called for help, but there was no one to help them. Have sympathy, God, for Your weak servants.”
“The homes of the two magistrates! Isn't the magistrate a government official? I'm no magistrate, nor is my house the home of one. I'm just a man like any other. What might they do to people like us? Imagine Amina being dragged by her hair. Is it fated that someday I'll wish I were insane? … Insane!”
Shaking hishead, the shaykh continued with his account: “They forced the magistrates to show them where the village elders and the leading citizens lived. Then they stormed those houses, breaking down the doors and plundering everything of value. They attacked the women in a most criminal fashion, after killing those who tried to defend themselves. They beat the men violently. Then they moved out
of the towns, leaving nothing precious untouched and no honor undefiled.”
“Let them take anything precious with them straight to hell,” al-Sayyid Ahmad brooded. “But 'no honor undefiled'… where was God's mercy? Where was His vengeance?… The flood and Noah… the nationalist leader Mustafa Kamil…. Imagine! How could a woman remain under one roof with her husband after that? And what fault had she committed? How could he countenance it?”
The shaykh struck his knee three times before resuming his account. His voice had begun to tremble and he lamented, “They set fire to the villages, pouring gasoline over the poles and thatch forming the roofs of the houses. The towns awoke in dreadful terror. Residents fled from their homes, screaming and wailing as though they had gone mad. The tongues of flame reached everywhere until both villages were engulfed.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad cried out involuntarily, “O Lord of heaven and earth!”
The shaykh proceeded: “The soldiers formed a ring around the burning, villages to wait for the wretched inhabitants, who rushed off in ey ery direction followed by their livestock and dogs and cats, looking for some way to escape. When they reached the soldiers, the latter fell upon the men, beating and kicking them. Then they detained the women to strip them of their jewelry and divest them of their honor. Any woman who resisted was killed. Any husband, father, or brother who lifted a hand to protect them was gunned down.”
Shaykh Mutawalli turned to look at the stunned proprietor. He struck his hands together and shouted, “And they led the survivors to a nearby camp, where they forced them to sign a document containing their confessions to crimes they had not committed and their admission that what the English had done to them was an appropriate punishment. Al-Sayyid Ahmad, this is what happened to al-Aziziya and Badrashin. This is an example of the kind of punishment imposed on us, mercilessly and heartlessly. O God, bear witness, bear witness.”
A despondent, oppressive silence reigned while each of the men wrestled with his own thoughts and images. Then Jamil al-Hamzawi moaned, “Our Lord exists.”
The Cairo Trilogy Page 58
