“What are you going to write?” Umm Hany asks Fuad.
“I’m not a lunatic like him,” he says, guiding us to his Fiat.
We drive to the Citadel quarter. At the corner where our alley meets the main road, we get out of Fuad’s car, unable to take it any farther because of overflowing sewers. The stench accompanying us as we stumble over the crumbling pavement drives the drink from our heads.
Can the success I have now be sustained? Will I ever be able to escape from this slum, from this woman in her fifties who weighs a hundred kilos?
—
Tahiya and I had left the old house in the gravel market and were on our way to the theater, braving together the cold blast brought by the evening darkness, she with her black coat tightly wrapped around her voluptuous curves, I with the thought that her body was made for bed, not the theater, and that we were both in the wrong profession.
“I caught the boy during tea break sneaking hungry looks at you,” I said.
“Abbas? He’s only a kid.”
“He’s going to make an expert pimp someday.”
“He has nice manners. And he’s not to blame for what goes on in his house.”
“He’s Karam and Halima’s son. And in these times what can you expect?”
I realize now that I hadn’t understood at all what was going on in her mind.
“I never pictured you as the grieving lover,” Sirhan al-Hilaly said with a chuckle.
“Did you ever imagine that one day we’d cross the Canal and win?”
“She’s as poor as you are.”
“Tell her—please…”
“You imbecile! She’d already decided to leave the stage. What’s turned the trick is the fascination of marriage.”
“Go to the devil! I’m almost out of my mind.”
“You’re angry, that’s all.”
“Believe me.”
“The clever operator can’t take a defeat!”
“It’s not like that.”
“That’s all it is. Go back to Umm Hany right away, because you’re not going to find anyone else to support you.”
I hesitated before answering, “Sometimes I almost believe there is a God.”
Sirhan guffawed. “Tariq son of Ramadan, even madness has its limits!”
Afrah al-Qubbah proves to be a real hit, with success confirmed night after night. Sirhan al-Hilaly has at last found the play that will enrich his theater, and the daily wage he agrees to pay me revives both body and soul.
Fuad Shalaby asks me, “Are you pleased with what I wrote about you?”
I press his hand gratefully. “After more than a quarter of a century I finally have my picture in your magazine.”
“You’ll never look back from now on. But did you know that Abbas has come out of hiding?”
“Really?”
“He paid a call on al-Hilaly yesterday at home. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“He demanded a share of the profits.”
I laugh so loudly that Amm Ahmad Burgal, behind the bar, almost jumps out of his skin. “Halima’s son! What did al-Hilaly say to that?”
“He gave him a hundred pounds.”
“Hell! He doesn’t deserve it!”
“Abbas has no job and he’s working on a new play.”
“Bloodsucker! He’ll never write anything new that’s worthwhile.”
“The future’s in God’s hands, not yours.”
“Where was he hiding?”
“He didn’t tell anyone.”
“Fuad, my friend, aren’t you convinced he’s guilty?”
“Why would he kill Tahiya?”
“Because she confessed her infidelity.”
He shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.
—
When I saw her coffin being hauled through the entrance of the apartment building, a terrifying sensation of emptiness slammed the pit of my stomach and spread until I felt my whole self turning to nothing. Then came an attack of weeping, catching me unawares. It was only my sobs that disturbed the other mourners. Even Abbas was dry-eyed.
I left in Sirhan al-Hilaly’s car. “When I heard you crying,” he said, “when I saw what you looked like, I almost burst out laughing, God help me.”
“It surprised me, too.”
“I can’t remember ever having seen you cry before.”
I smiled. “Every racehorse has a tumble.”
Death brings back memories of love and defeat.
—
The news arrives at the artists’ coffeehouse where I always stop before leaving for the theater, and I rush to Sirhan al-Hilaly’s room to ask if it’s true.
“Yes,” he says guardedly. “Abbas was staying in a pension in Helwan. He hadn’t been seen for a long time. A suicide note was found in his room.”
“Has his body been found?”
“No, they haven’t found any trace of him.”
“Did he give any reason for committing suicide?”
“No.”
“Do you really believe he’s killed himself?”
“Why should he have gone into hiding at exactly the time when success invites him to display himself along with his work?” There is a depressing silence. Then I hear him ask, “Why would he commit suicide?”
“For the same reason the hero of the play does.”
“You’re determined to accuse him.”
“I challenge you to find any other reason.”
Among artists and theater people the news spreads like wildfire. The usual measures, in such circumstances, are taken, but the search for Abbas uncovers nothing, at which I feel a deep sense of relief.
The success of this play, I say to myself, will be limitless.
* * *
*1A quarter in the northwest section of the old Fatimid quarter of Cairo.
*2Prayer leader in Muslim prayers.
*3Refers to October 1973.
*4A feddan is roughly equivalent to an acre.
Karam Younis
Autumn, “harbinger of winter cold.” How will we be able to stand it? A lifetime peddling peanuts, melon seeds, and popcorn. And of this woman I’ve been sentenced to, like another imprisonment. In this country nearly everyone deserves to be locked up. Why single us out for jail? A law not founded on respect for its own workings is insane.
What are all these young boys going to do? What will happen to them? Wait till you see these old houses blown sky-high! A history reduced to rubble is pretty sad.
The woman never stops dreaming.
But what’s this? Who is this? Some ghost from the past? “Bring me a poisoned dagger.” What is it you want, you plague, you swamp of insects?
I turn to Halima and bark at her, “Look!” She jumps and we both speculate as to whether he’s coming to congratulate us or to gloat, while he stands there grinning, with his little eyes, thick nose, and heavy jaws, like a pig. Be tough with him, the way you were the other times.
“Tariq Ramadan! What brings you here?”
“Our first visit from a loyal friend,” Halima sneers, “since we returned to the face of the earth!” She’s agitated, unnerved.
“I couldn’t help it. I’ve been in a whirl, too.”
“You’re like a nightmare,” I say, turning my back on him to busy myself with a customer.
“I have bad news,” he says.
“Bad news doesn’t mean a thing to us,” says Halima.
“Even if it’s about Mr. Abbas Younis?”
“He’s a devoted son,” I snap back. “When I refused to return to my old job at the theater, he set us up in this little shop.”
“And his play’s been accepted,” the woman adds.
But it’s precisely about Abbas’s play that Tariq’s come here. Has jealousy driven him crazy? He’d rather die than see Abbas succeed. So let his jealousy kill him. He’s the source of all our trouble. No one can understand you better than I, Tariq: we both crawled out of the same dung heap.
“The sett
ing is this house,” Tariq persists. “It’s about you, and it reveals other crimes no one ever imagined.”
Is that possible? Abbas never said a word about the subject to anyone. But then he’s such a perfect little moralist. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Everything. Everything! Don’t you want to know about it?”
What’s he getting at? Why should Abbas compromise himself? “Even prison?” I ask.
“And that he’s the one who denounced you to the police and that he killed Tahiya.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“What do you mean?” the woman shouts. “You hate Abbas!”
But he’s said enough already to disturb me deeply. “Isn’t it just a play?” I say feebly.
“Abbas can explain everything,” Halima says.
“Go see the play for yourselves!”
“You’ve been blinded by hate!”
“Not by hate. By the crime!”
“You’re the only criminal! You’re crazy with spite!”
“My son may be stupid, but he is neither an informer nor a murderer,” I retort, hiding my anxiety.
“Tahiya’s murderer must be brought to justice!” he yells.
He and the woman begin a terrific row, but my own thoughts wander, until I finally get rid of him with a curse.
It is then that I find myself drowning in a sea of suspicion. Would Tariq have taken the trouble to come out this way to tell tales about Abbas that were groundless? The man is vicious, but he’s not stupid. When my doubts finally get the better of me, I glance at the woman, only to find her staring back at me.
We live together in this old house like two strangers. If it weren’t that Abbas would suffer, I’d divorce her. Abbas. The only thing that gives savor to this bitter life. He’s the only hope I have left.
“He’s lying,” the woman mutters.
I feel much more concern than she does, almost to the point of being sympathetic with Tariq. “Why should he lie?”
“He still hates Abbas.”
“But there’s the play, too,” I venture.
“We don’t know anything about it. Go and see Abbas.”
“Yes, I’ll certainly go and have a talk with him.”
“But you aren’t making any move!” Stupidity and stubbornness can make Halima quite intimidating.
“There’s no great rush.”
“He has to know what’s going on behind his back.”
“And if he confesses?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he admits that his play really does say what that swindler claims it does?”
“You’ll get an explanation for everything.”
“I wonder!”
“A real murderer doesn’t expose himself.”
“I don’t know.”
“Go see him, that’s the main thing!”
“Of course I’ll go.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“You haven’t got anything fit to wear,” I point out, reminding her how they’d seized all our money and how that son of a bitch of a detective beat me. “But that’s all in the past. It’s finished. We’ve got to concentrate on what happens to us now.”
“That cheap swindler. He’s lying.”
“Abbas just couldn’t accept our way of life, could he? So virtuous! You’d think he was a bastard, not my son! But he’s always been loyal to us. And why would he kill Tahiya?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I’m thinking aloud.”
“You believe what the wretch said!”
“And you believe him, too.”
“We’ve got to hear what Abbas has to say.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t believe him.”
“You’re raving.”
“Damn you!”
“I was damned the day I got tied to you.”
“The same applies to me.”
“I used to be pretty.”
“Did anyone else want you but me?”
“Everyone always wanted me! Just my bad luck, that’s all.”
“Your father was a postman, but mine was employed on the Shamashirgi family estate.”
“Which means that he was a servant.”
“I come from a family.”
“What about your mother?”
“Just like you.”
“You’re a windbag. You don’t want to go, do you?”
“I’ll go when it suits me.”
Collecting my wits, I decide that, come what may, nothing worse can happen to us. To think that when this woman and I came together for the first time it was with feverish passion, beautiful dreams! What’s happened to us? I’ll have to make this trip. Some afternoon. That’ll be the best time.
I don’t know anything about the place where my son is supposed to be living. After his marriage we lost contact and we’ve had nothing to do with each other since. He despised us and rejected our way of life, and I despised and disowned him. When he moved to Tahiya’s apartment I was glad not to see his scornful looks anymore. But now I’m running to him. It’s the only hope left. When we came out of prison he treated us with understanding, as a dutiful son should. How can he be the one who threw us into it?
—
I go up to the porter at Tahiya’s address a few days later to inquire about Abbas, only to be told that he left a couple of hours earlier, carrying a suitcase.
“Is he traveling somewhere?”
“He told me he’d be away for some time.”
“Didn’t he leave an address?”
“No.”
This unexpected obstacle upsets me. Why didn’t he tell us? Have Tariq’s accusations reached him? I decide to look up Sirhan al-Hilaly at the theater in Sharia Imad al-Din. I ask to see him and he lets me in immediately, standing up to welcome me, full of sympathy over my safe homecoming: “If it weren’t for my circumstances, I’d have come to see you and offer congratulations.”
“Sirhan Bey,” I say coolly, “that excuse is unacceptable.”
He laughs. Nothing fazes him. “You’re right.”
“Our association has been a long one. A lifetime. My lifetime as prompter of your company. And you had the use of my house. Until I was arrested.”
“I haven’t treated you right,” he mumbles. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“No coffee, no tea. I’ve come to see you about Abbas, my son.”
“You mean the controversial playwright? His work is going to be an unprecedented success. And you, Karam, above all people, should understand how I feel.”
“Good. But I didn’t find him at home. The doorman told me he’d left carrying a suitcase.”
“And why are you so upset about that? He’s started on a new play. Who knows? Perhaps he’s found a quiet place…”
“I’ve heard things about the plot of the play and I’m afraid it’s got something to do with his leaving.”
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Karam.”
“Tariq is malicious, and he…”
“Don’t talk to me about Tariq,” he interrupts. “I know him better than you. There’s no need whatever to worry about your son.”
“I’m afraid he may have…” I leave the sentence unfinished.
“The play is a fantasy. And even if it were true…”
“Tell me what you really think.”
“I don’t bother my head, not for one minute, about anything but the play itself. Any crime the hero commits onstage is good for the play. That’s all that concerns me.”
“But doesn’t he betray his parents and kill his wife?”
“And a very good thing, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“The elements of tragedy!”
“Don’t you believe that’s what actually happened?”
“It’s got nothing to do with me.” He shrugs.
“I want to know the truth.”
“The truth is, we have a great play. And I am, as you know, the owner of a theater, not a public prosecu
tor.”
“And I am in agony.”
Al-Hilaly laughs. “What are you talking about? You never loved him!”
“The present isn’t the past. You should understand that better than anyone else.”
“A play is just a play. Nothing more. Otherwise the law would have the right to put ninety percent of our authors in the prisoner’s dock.”
“You don’t want to offer me any comfort.”
“I wish I could. Karam, don’t get worked up over absurd conjectures. No one could share them with you anyway except your most intimate friends. As for the public, they won’t look beyond the play itself. By the way, why did you turn down your old job as prompter?”
“Thanks for asking. Abbas suggested that, and he told me you’d agreed. But I have no wish to go back to the past.”
Al-Hilaly laughs again. “I can see that. You’re your own boss now. And perhaps you make more money from the shop. That’s all right, my friend. But don’t get upset over Abbas. He’s trying to establish himself. He’ll surface at the proper time.”
Our meeting is over and I take my leave, weighed down by contempt for all mankind and thinking: No one cares about me, and I care for no one. I don’t even love Abbas, though my hopes are pinned on him. A treacherous murderer. Why should I blame him, though? I’m just like him. His outer paint has been peeled off, and he’s shown the true colors he’s inherited from his father—the naked self everyone pretends to honor these days, revealed without hypocrisy. What is goodness but mumbo jumbo, empty words said over and over in the theater and the mosque? There are pickup joints and rooms by the hour all along the Pyramids Road. How could he get me thrown into prison?
Who’s this? At the door of the cafeteria I run into Tariq Ramadan, who holds out a slimy hand. I refuse it and tell him to get out of my sight.
I didn’t do anything wrong. Drugs were chic, weren’t they? And I was a man with no inhibitions. I followed my instincts, that’s all. Other men were no different from me. What happened later was bad luck. Halima would say to me, “Do you expect my salary by itself to be enough to support your family?”
“You want a quarrel? I’m ready.”
“Opium ruins everything.”