I walked down the street stuffing my face with the falafel. Meanwhile I thought to myself after every bite, If you don’t eat, you’ll die. In the café I sat down at a table and, without a word, the waiter put a glass of water in front of me. After finishing the falafel, I ordered a coffee. It felt surprisingly good, and the food meanwhile began digesting in my stomach. The dizziness had passed, and I was now sweating.
I lit a cigarette. I noticed a street kid as he stopped at every crypt, garage, and food stand and shouted something or other to those sitting inside. I watched his muddy feet, the Chinese T-shirt two sizes too big for him that was tucked into a pair of shorts likewise two sizes too big and that he fixed to his waist with twine. By now he was close enough, so I could hear what he was shouting.
“Tonight, Palestinian the Terrible will return to the Bahtak to score a victory! After the Isha prayer he will finish off his victim.”
Once reassured that everyone had heard him, he went on. I took a drag of the cigarette and signaled to the waiter to get me another coffee.
I noticed Ramzi appear at the other end of the alleyway. He seemed careworn as he shuffled along, his hands in the pockets of his djellaba.
“Master Ramzi,” I said.
“Abu khoaga,” he replied, sitting down at once in the chair opposite me.
“I’ve heard that the Palestinian will fight tonight.”
“Yes, they brought a boy for him from Shubra, since no one in Arafa will take him on. Mohamed Gamal, whom he is fighting for, has offered a fortune for Amr to go up against him tomorrow.”
“He’s that good?”
“He is. And he shows no mercy to anyone in the ring.”
“Amr was injured in the last bout.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Good.”
“But it’s not so simple. Gamal was completely beside himself when I said no.”
“Why?”
“I figure he’s taking it badly when folks are saying that Amr will be the next champion.”
“I see.”
“He says it would be for the best if I reconsider while he is being nice about it.”
“What did you say to that?”
“That I would think about it. He offered lots of money.”
The waiter brought out the coffee and put it in front of me. Ramzi ordered a tea. After we drank it, we headed back home. Amr and his little sister were sitting out in the yard, again practicing reading. Lost in thought, Ramzi smoked while I, eyes closed, lay on the mattress.
Two hours passed by the time Ramzi spoke.
“Tomorrow you’ve got to fight, Amr. I didn’t want it, but I have no choice.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Mohamed Gamal is an influential man. And the police chief’s nephew. It’s not good to snub him.”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t want the cops to take you away.”
“No, sir.”
“So, you can fight?”
“Yes, sir. I will win; I won’t let you down.”
“Fine, then.”
I stood and went out to the yard. Ramzi looked at me.
“I have no choice,” he said.
I went back to the barrel, ladled out some water, and washed my face.
Ramzi wanted to go to the Bahtak to talk with Mohamed Gamal. I went with him. A big crowd had gathered on the square; lots of people wanted to see the Palestinian. We were separated from each other, but I didn’t care. I looked for a spot from where I’d have a good view of the match without having to stand too deep in the crowd. I cut across the square and leaned my back up against the alley wall. From there I could see everything. The fighters were not yet in the ring, but the betting was well underway. The men were making little bets with the bookmakers, who were easy to spot because they had big wads of cash in their hands. In the cacophony I could hardly make out that they were betting 5:1 for the Palestinian.
I lit up and stared at the crowd. I noticed Ramzi. He stood there, nervously gesticulating, with Mohamed Gamal and two other men. Gamal raised his hands several times to calm him down. Later he and Ramzi shook hands and kept slapping each other’s backs. Gamal headed toward the ring, which is when the first boy entered. Sinewy and of medium build, he wore blue sweatpants.
“Is this the Palestinian?” I asked the middle-aged man standing beside me.
“No,” he replied. “This is just the kid from Shubra. That there is the Palestinian.”
A tall, sixteenish kid stepped in among the barrels. His skin was shockingly light, almost as white as mine. He was bald, and his face was disfigured by deep scars, endowing him with an expression that looked as if he was constantly snarling. It was written all over him that he’d already seen a lot in his life. There was something disquieting about him, but I wouldn’t have been able to say what.
“Is he really Palestinian?” I asked.
“From Rafah, in the Gaza Strip. His parents were killed by the Jews, but the Devil saved him. At twelve he came alone to Cairo, but the dogs didn’t gobble him up. He gobbled up the dogs.”
The boy from Shubra was jogging in place and shadowboxing, The Palestinian slowly circled him while also punching the air as the betting went on. The same old man announced the start of the match who’d done so last time. The barrel let out a big clang as he hit it with the board, but through the clamor it wasn’t possible to hear what he was saying.
The two children stood face to face. The Palestinian raised his hands to protect his head as the boy from Shubra headed toward him. Several times he struck the air, since the Palestinian kept dodging his blows, practically dancing among the barrels. It was obvious that in contrast with his foe, he had learned to fight. For several long minutes he toyed with the boy from Shubra. Once his opponent began to slow down and was clearly out of breath, the Palestinian stopped and leveled a single blow, a faultless right hook, onto his nose.
A beautiful blow, it was; I could hear the nose crack. The kid was on the ground at once. The crowd was raving.
“That’s all?” shouted the Palestinian, spitting on the kid lying on the ground.
“What did you bring me? A lamb?”
“You show him!” came shouts from the crowd, “Show him!”
“Stand up already!” said the Palestinian, leaning down and, grabbing the boy by the hair, yanking him to his feet. Blood was flowing from both of his nostrils and he wasn’t completely conscious. He was tottering and gasping for breath, but on his feet.
“You thought you’d come here and take what’s mine?” asked the Palestinian, screaming for everyone to hear loud and clear.
“That’s what he thought!” shouted the crowd.
“You were badly mistaken!” said the Palestinian, again striking the boy on the face, sending him sprawling into the mud. But it seemed he was coming to. He began crawling about toward the edge of the ring. At first the Palestinian just stood there in the ring, celebrating himself. He let the boy get all the way to the barrels, and only then did he intervene.
“And just where are you going?” he shouted, grabbing the boy by the right leg and pulling him back to the middle of the ring. The boy gave a kick backward. It caught the Palestinian’s thigh, but it wasn’t strong. It wasn’t even enough to free his leg. The crowd laughed and raved. In response the Palestinian kicked the boy’s groin full-force. The boy writhed in pain and turned onto his back. The Palestinian again lionized himself with the crowd.
“What do they do around here with sheep?” he asked.
“They cut their throats!” screamed the wild crowd.
“Exactly,” said the Palestinian. And suddenly jumped on the chest of the boy lying on the ground.
Surely the ribs of the boy from Shubra has broken to splinters under the Palestinian’s weight. Even if those ribs hadn’t punctured his heart, no doubt they’d pierced his lungs. From the outside, though, all that was apparent was that the boy was lying helplessly on the ground, grimy from his own blood mixed with mud.
>
The Palestinian jumped up and down on the boy’s chest.
“Get this lamb out of my sight!” he shouted when he finally stepped off him.
The crowd had gone wild. They took the Palestinian on their shoulders and carried him around the square. For some twenty minutes they raved and cheered away. The boy from Shubra lay there in the ring just as the Palestinian had left him. An hour had passed before the crowd had calmed enough for the bookmakers to start paying out. The boy did not come to.
“I think he killed that kid,” I said to Ramzi on the way home.
“Yep,” Ramzi replied and spat on the ground.
“I am going to die.”
This is going through my head as I charge into the sand. I free my right foot and take one step upward. That step, too, sees my foot sink into the sand, but by putting my weight on it I am able to free the other foot as well. And so I go on, ascending the hill. This is not the first hill I’ve climbed, and I believe less and less that it will be the last.
It is scorching hot, the air choked with fine grains of sand. Everything is the color of sand, even the sun. The wind is strong but brings no relief. It burns, like red-hot steel, and the sand wafting about scratches at my skin. For some twelve hours I’ve been in the desert going up and down hills to reach the city I always glimpse from the top of the hill. I believe less and less that I’ll ever get there. I’ve been walking for half a day and seem no closer. Of course, it’s possible that I’ve been walking for much longer already. I lost time back in Alexandria. I don’t know for certain, where. Maybe in the Tugaria Café, on the Corniche, after breakfast, when I was reading the papers and the cardamom was still stinging my tongue. I didn’t look back to see what I was leaving on the table when I stood up. But it might have happened in the industrial port, by the docks, when I bought fish. I might have left it by the diesel-smelling fisherman as he wrapped the squid in yesterday’s papers. Or perhaps at the sandy beach of the Greek club, Omilos, along with my lifetime club membership, as I drank light beer under the blue-and-white striped parasol. Nor is it out of the question that she took it along with the child. It got into the suitcase while packing, between two diapers and baby food.
The point is that I had lost time and sought after it in vain, and an honorable finder had not turned up. Since then it has always been just now. So I don’t know exactly when I first heard the words, “I am going to die.” It must have been at the foot of some hill, as I prepared to ascend and touched my parched lips. All at once it struck me that I would die. I brushed aside the thought. It would be an hour at most before I would find myself standing in the kitchen of my own home, letting water run from the tap.
I’m going to die, I think at the foot of the hill.
“One more hour,” I reply, dragging myself further.
I’m going to die—the words ring in my ears at the top of the third hill.
Only forty minutes, I lie to myself even though the city seems not one bit closer than before.
My body gives up when least expected. I’ve just reached the top of a hill when my legs no longer move. Nor can I support my own weight: I collapse. My head hits the ground with a dull thud, my mouth filling with hot sand. I know it’s over. I feel an icy terror, but not even that stirs me anymore. I will die. I wait for my heart to stop.
I can’t say how much time passes like this. There are no clouds in the sky whose passing could allow me to guess at the passing of time, and nor does the sun move from its place. Then I notice a figure wobbling at the foot of the hill. At first, I think I’m hallucinating from dehydration, but the figure becomes bigger and bigger. It’s like a small child, with little hands and little feet, a little torso. Only his eyes and face reveal him to be terribly old. He is leading a donkey that is just as small as him.
“You are a little exhausted,” he says through a derisive grin.
“Leave me alone.”
“That can’t be done.”
“I want this whole thing to end.”
“You really think it matters at all what you want?”’
The dwarf steps to the donkey and takes various tools from the bag fixed to its side. He leans toward me and rips open my shirt.
“Leave me alone, please.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” he replies with a little whistle while examining my chest. “I’m not the one who sets the rules. . . . What do you know, found it already!”
With a quick yank he pulls open the skin on my chest. At work underneath—where there should be lungs, a heart, and muscles—is a complex mechanical structure. Interconnected cogs by the thousands turn away, copper wires tighten or slacken. The dwarf reaches into his pocket and takes out a keychain. After looking through it at length he chose an allen key and places it in the hole in my chest. It fits. He winds the key counterclockwise, quickly, with an expert hand. I cannot move.
“And we’re all set,” he says, unhurriedly starting to pack up, whistling as he puts his tools back in his bag and heads down the hill.
“Who are you?”
“Who are you?” he exclaims in return.
I stare after him until he vanishes, and then I stand up and head further toward the city.
I was sitting in the yard of the crypt, waiting for my heart to beat the opium out of it. It must have been a couple of minutes past noon. It was unbearably hot; what little wind there was, was blowing from the Mokattam Hills, scattering fine dust over the City of the Dead. I looked at the wash hanging out to dry. Faded, stretched T-shirts, sweatpants, and djellabas hung on the cord stretched tight between the two walls, water dripping onto the ground.
Amr was doing the laundry.
The boy was crouched in front of two huge plastic vats, rubbing clothes with laundry soap in one, rinsing them in the other, and then hanging them out to dry. For a long time, I watched him work. He was bare from the waist up, his sides showing purple hues and ribs pressing against skin. He’d just poured the water from one of the vats to the ground when the iron gate opened slightly with a loud squeak. Ramzi was returning from the street, a black plastic bag in his hand.
“So, you’ve woken up, Abu khoaga.”
He sat down beside me, reached inside the bag, took out a sandwich, and began eating.
“Want some?”
“No.”
“Alright. Hey, Amr!” he shouted, throwing the bag toward the boy, who caught it and looked back with gratitude.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and went back to the space he lived in with his little sister.
For a while Ramzi ate in silence beside me.
“They’re betting seven to one against Amr,” he said once done eating.
“After yesterday’s bout I’m not surprised,” I replied.
“Do you think he’ll lose?”
“I don’t know. The Palestinian learned to fight. And Amr’s side hurts.”
“Amr fights well, too.”
“When he’s not injured.”
Ramzi took out a cigarette and reached it out to me. We had a smoke.
Amr emerged from his room and stopped in front of us.
“Excuse me, sirs,” he said, his voice choking, “but I heard what you were talking about.”
“Would you allow me to say something. Mr. Ramzi?”
“Sure, boy.”
“Don’t worry about the bets. I will win tonight’s match.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“All the Palestinian can do is hit. If I get close to him he won’t be able to do a thing.”
“Have you seen him fight before?”
Amr nodded, and then turned toward Ramzi.
“Bet on me, sir. You can win lots of money with that, and I can maybe show my gratitude for your kindness.”
Ramzi nodded and stood up.
“I’m off to take care of it.”
From the gate he called back to the boy.
“You don’t owe me anything, by the way.”
After Ramzi left,
I remained alone with Amr. His little sister was in school.
“Did you really see the Palestinian fight?”
“Yes, sir, I saw three matches in fact. If I can pull him to the ground, I can beat him.”
“And if you can’t?”
“I can, sir.”
“How can you be so sure about this?”
“Because I’m fighting for something.”
“For what?”
“For this,” he said, waving his hand around the crypt.
We went out to the Bahtak early. Ramzi came to get us at the crypt. We walked beside each other wordlessly. The sun was still up and blazing strong.
The square was still completely empty; only the barrels indicated that this was where they held the matches. Ramzi went off to tie the bets. With Amr we sat in front of one of the garages. We stared at an old color TV as six grimy Egyptians repaired a black Lada inside. They didn’t really bother with us. I stared at the kid but saw neither nervousness nor tension on his face. He was watching TV. It was an American action flick, some James Bond movie filmed in Europe.
“Where you came from, sir,” asked Amr, “is life really like this?”
“In a few places.”
We fell silent.
“Why don’t you take your little sister and leave while you can, Amr? The Palestinian will kill you.”
“Don’t you worry, sir. There won’t be any trouble. Besides, where would we go?”
I lit a cigarette. Amr turned his attention back to the movie. I watched the empty square, the rusty barrels, the adobe walls charred from the burning trash. An hour must have passed this way. The sun was setting fast by the time I noticed the old man who opened the matches appear at the end of one of the alleyways. He was dragging along two slight-framed mongrels with cords around their necks. The animals were resisting. The old man pulled them all the way to the barrels, and there let go of the wire cord and stepped on it. The dogs were gasping for breath as the cord cut into their necks. Their tails between their legs, they were whining and trying in vain to escape. The man reached down beside the barrels and pulled out an iron rod. The animals were sobbing like hell. The man swung down the rod on the dogs four or five times. Silence. The old man then came toward us, stopped right beside me, and called in to the garage.
The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul Page 9
