“You won’t regret it, and I’ll be soon reminding you of this,” he said calmly.
My mother finally spoke out and said:
“You’re a true believer and one therefore doesn’t have to worry about you.”
“Your mother wasn’t wrong, Randa,” said my father.
This is, however, a brand-new life I shall have to be facing from now on, a life in which there is no trace of Elwan, one which I will have to patiently endure until I die. I was suddenly struck by the bitter sense that I was growing old, haunted by bleak visions of spinsterhood. My bedroom seemed old and shabby with its two ancient beds, its peeling cupboard and faded carpet with only traces of a design still visible. Even my sister Sanaa had become exasperating and nasty.
“You deserve to be congratulated,” she said coldly.
I was angry with Elwan. He proved to be weaker than I had imagined. He deserves to remain confused and aimless forever and ever. I can even see him getting into bad ways or selling himself to a woman like Gulstan. The fact is he’s tired of having to bear responsibilities. He’s trying to escape from this sense of inadequacy and imagines that no one will ever accuse him any longer of not being able to get married. I told myself that I should be congratulating myself on my freedom. I am lighter than I have ever been in the past. He has abandoned me; he has betrayed me. Who but him is ever to care about my excruciating unhappiness? I should be congratulating myself on my freedom. From now on, I can weigh matters rationally with a mind unfettered by the whims of the heart. I am free.… I am free! Enough of that! But what did Anwar Allam mean when he spoke to me? What endless unhappiness is that! Does time really cure one from the pangs of love? When and how, damn it! The more I am humiliated, the more contempt I have for him. My parents are being deliberately elusive and will probably remain so until they are once again able to handle matters. First comes defeat in victory, then the sense of victory. He fled and I have been freed. Nurse your pain courageously until it disappears.
I braced myself to meet him on his arrival at the office in the morning, bent on greeting him like any other colleague as though nothing had happened, determined to appear indifferent. But I could not. I was unable to look his way, thus revealing my unhappiness. I wonder how he spent the night? Had he shared my torment or did he sink deep in sleep, a restful sleep, the sleep of freedom? Our secret was going to have to be disclosed. It became known at the office and, on the face of it at least, a sense of gloom seemed to prevail. No one made any comment. The bankrupt must have rejoiced, for unhappy people find solace in like company.
When my turn came to appear before Anwar Allam, he seemed unusually serious at first. However, before I was allowed to go, he said:
“I’ve been told and am sorry!”
I kept quiet.
“But this was the inevitable end. I even believe it has come rather late in the day,” he continued. “A person like you should not have her future depend on a vague promise as though you had no idea of your real worth,” he added in a stronger tone.
I did not utter a single word, so he went on:
“When I once said that every problem had a solution, I had this end in mind. And, seeing that everything eventually disappears, sorrow will certainly not be the exception to the rule!”
Returning to his files, he added:
“My advice to you, Miss Randa, is that you should always remember that we are living in the age of reason. You should trust it blindly, for anything that goes counter to reason is false, false, false!”
Throughout our conversation he was eyeing me boldly. The barriers erected earlier were no longer there. I did not feel that he was more repulsive than before or less so; it was just that I no longer considered it a strange thing.
“I’d like to clarify something, Randa. If he were really and truly sincere, he wouldn’t have ever given you up,” said my father that evening.
Father is sarcastic and suspicious of people. He digs behind every good deed until he finds a nasty interpretation for it.
“He had to make a painful sacrifice because he could no longer bear to be blamed. I know him better than you, Papa,” I said, although I was half inclined to believe him.
“I predict that yours will be a happy end,” he said, smiling. When I failed to comment, he added, “Since we have freed ourselves from love, let us place our faith in reason. And then, there’s no escaping people’s opinion.”
“It’s a matter that concerns me alone,” I retorted, annoyed.
“No. It concerns us all.”
Too bad; Elwan recedes far, far away and here we are talking about a new life.
Muhtashimi Zayed
Praise be to God! All is fine were it not for Elwan’s sorrow. This year spring is pleasant: the khamasin winds are rare. But when will Elwan cheer up and get over it? Praised be the Lord! The day goes by in worship, the recitation of the Quran, food, songs, and films. When one is eighty, one can expect the arrival of the inevitable guest at any time. O God, may it all end well! O God, spare us the anguish and pain of old age, and sprinkle the dewdrops of Thy mercy upon this old house!
God’s world is beautiful, worthy of all one’s love. What is this evil spell that has been cast upon it? The sky, the River Nile, the trees, the pigeons, and this wondrous voice:
Surely in the creation of the heavens and the earth and the alternation of night and day and the ship that runs in the sea with profit to men, and the water God sends down from heaven therewith reviving the earth after it is dead and His scattering abroad in all manner of crawling things, and the turning about of the winds and the clouds compelled between heaven and earth—surely these are signs for a people having understanding.
If only I could be left to myself in my old age, I would be truly happy. But I am not left in peace. Cheers, then, to the days of naive faith as they filter through the memory, to the days of skepticism fraught with conflict! Here’s to the days of heresy involving bold and daring challenges and the days of reason with their interminable discussions! And, finally, cheers to the days of faith and hope! Death is now the last of the promised adventures. Its imminence helps alleviate one’s burdens. It will reveal itself at some point and I shall gently say: Pluck the fruit now that it is at its ripest.
One day as I was talking to Elwan about the new television series, he remarked:
“Grandpa, I congratulate you on your peace of mind.”
His words disturbed me.
“There is protest in your voice, Elwan,” I replied.
He laughed politely but said nothing, so I continued:
“There’s a last stage called old age. I stretch out my hand to grip the ring of the eighties at the peak of the mountain. I am now entitled to brood on my last days, leaving the woes of my country to its sons. In my days, I fulfilled my obligations to the best of my abilities. I tried my best to inculcate in you a sense of commitment. But I shall continue to warn you of the perils involved in premature aging. Your glossary consists of only one hero: a martyr. You spend days totally infatuated and spellbound; you are now wasting more time feeling confused and sorry for yourself. The least I can say about myself is that I have lived to see three of my pupils become ministers!”
“Do you consider this one of your achievements, Grandpa?” he asked, laughing.
I could not help laughing out loud myself.
“It may not be, but let history judge. You are faced with challenges fit to create heroes, not a lost generation!” I said. I patted his arm affectionately and went on, “Do your duty as opportunity arises so that you may ultimately be able to devote yourself to God with a clear conscience.”
Had only God endowed me with the power of working miracles, I would have found him a flat and made provisions for a dowry, but man proposes and God disposes. All he does now is struggle with his pain and wounds, and I can only pray for him. I recall the cynicism of Sulayman Mubarak, Randa’s father, years back.
“Has the wily dervish forgotten the bad old dissolute, hap
py-go-lucky days?”
“Love has replaced fear between God Almighty and myself,” I replied with a smile.
“You compete wholeheartedly with Satan and then aspire to forgiveness.”
“Even the dissolute old days I cherish among the fondest of life’s memories.”
“Hear, hear! Marvel at that modern dervish,” cried the man sarcastically.
“You fool! I have reached a point at which I can detect a Sufi strain in the song: ‘I am loved by many a one but it is you who are on my mind.’ ”
He let out a loud burst of laughter and then inquired:
“And how would you interpret the song: ‘The day I was bitten …’?”
“Mock to your heart’s content. The whims of the venerable teacher discreetly concealed behind a sedate front were but a naive thanksgiving prayer.”
“Muhtashimi, I testify that you are the rightful patron of the brothels on the Pyramid Road and the dens of the Infitah smugglers,” he then cried out.
The real problem is Elwan. I wonder if he considers me responsible for his unhappiness?
“Elwan, I would like to know how you feel about things.”
“The fact is I don’t quite know what to do with my life,” he said, irritated.
“The country will, one day, reach the shore safely.”
“I will have become an old man before that happens.”
“And he creates what you know not,” I sighed.
“Grandpa, you so easily seem to find solutions in beautiful words.”
“Elwan, when I was in my thirties, I was fired from my job on the charge of instigating students to go on a strike. I was, at the time, responsible for a family and children and exceedingly poor. I taught at the National Secondary School for a mere pittance. I also held the accounts of a grocer, a friend of mine. We spent a whole year eating nothing but lentils. Ask your father, he can tell you.”
He was only half listening to me.
“I have come to hate myself,” he then said angrily.
“This may be the sign of a new birth,” I said jokingly.
“Or a new death,” he replied sarcastically.
“Let our conversation center on life not death!” I cried.
“Death is also life!” he retorted sharply.
And I could hear the echoing of the glorious Sura:
Whosoever is guided is guided only to his own gain, and whosoever goes astray, it is only to his own loss.
Elwan Fawwaz Muhtashimi
My pride wounded and my heart broken, I wander aimlessly about like a stray dog. The heat does away with the pleasures of walking. Café Riche is a refuge from the pain of loneliness. I sit and order a cup of coffee, and prick up my ears. This is a temple where offerings are made to the late hero, who has become a symbol of lost hope, hope for the poor and the alienated. Here, too, torrents of indignation are poured upon the hero of victory and peace, victory that has turned out to be but a dirty game, and peace, surrender. All this within earshot of Israeli tourists. I find solace in just sitting there listening.
If this kind of talk disturbs you, then just take a look at the street. Watch the passersby closely: ceaseless, uninterrupted, brisk motion. Sullen faces. What do they conceal? Men, women, children, and even pregnant women no longer stay at home: the tragic or the comic sums them all up. Furniture stores and boutiques are all crammed with goods. How many nations live side by side in this one nation? The lights in the square are bright and nerve-wracking, and equally exasperating are the bottles of mineral water on the tables of tourists. And what about us. What do we drink? And then the weirdest songs blast out from crazy radio stations in taxicabs. Only the trees and buildings remain the same. Some speech on the radio is being broadcast from some place. Lies fill the air and mingle with the dust. Fatigue, fatigue … Let’s return to the gossip: a tiny place falling in ruins selling for a hundred thousand pounds, academic crimes in university circles. How many millionaires are there? Relatives and parasites, smugglers and pimps. Shiites and Sunnis. Stories far better than the A Thousand and One Nights. The waiter has a story and so does the shoe-shine boy. When will the famine begin? Open bribes at top voice. The confiscation of lands. And who will cause sectarian rifts to flare up again? The People’s Assembly was a place for dancing; it has now become a place for singing. Imports with no transfer of funds. Different kinds of cheese. New banks. What do eggs cost today? The showering of banknotes on singers and dancers in nightclubs on the Pyramid Road simply as a token of appreciation. And the breaking up of the engagement! What did the Imam of the mosque say within earshot of the soldiers of the Central Security Forces? No public lavatory in the entire district. Why don’t we rent it furnished? He’s nothing but a failed actor. My friend Begin; my friend Kissinger. The uniform is Hitler’s; the act, Charlie Chaplin’s. Total silence as a woman coming up the street proceeds toward a brothel behind the café. A parallel is drawn between the swelling of her buttocks and public inflation in general. An optimist insists that she works in order to amass the necessary funds for her doctoral dissertation and that her heart is as good as gold. A homosexual proposes homosexuality as a means of solving the crisis of love among the classes with a fixed income and also as a means of achieving the objectives of family planning. A return to the Arabs and war, an everlasting war, and woe unto the agents of normalization. Enough, enough! There’s little time for dallying. Trying to escape from you is futile, Randa. Love sickness is cured only slowly and I’m afraid that it might be one of those chronic illnesses. The only consolation in my having harmed her is that I have been twice as hard on myself.
Looking at my parents at dinnertime, I quite envied them. Work has relieved them of many worries: work has consumed them. That’s a good thing. Not as I had imagined.
“Spare us this talk of yourself and the country! You would imagine we were toiling away just for your sake. Solve your own problems by yourself and let God handle those of the country,” they told me quite firmly.
I can still recall my father’s enthusiasm. He hailed the Revolution, mourned its defeat, and was quite ruined by the Infitah.
“The days go by and I find time neither for a haircut nor for paring my fingernails,” I have heard him say. “I shove myself into the bus and draw Hanaa close to me to shield her from the eyes of the hungry. On Friday—our day off—obligations pile up: one must find time for a bath, for condolences, for apologies, and then there’s just one hour left for relaxation, during which I’m swamped by your worries and those of the country.”
In my state of confusion, I run into my professor at the Graduates’ Club. Professor Alyaa, I have broken off my engagement. She thinks it is wrong, and asks me to arrange for a meeting between her and the two of us. Farewell, Professor! Gone are the days of idle talk. I promise you I shall be a staunch enemy of words for the rest of my life. It seems to me that al-Mahruqi has solved his problems by simply defecting. He believes he has had the upper hand, manipulating the times to serve his own ends. What has he done with himself? He has learned the skills of plumbing and has thrown his certificate in the nearest dustbin. I asked him: How about the store?
“I walk about carrying a bag of tools and cry out: Plumber! Plumber! On the spot, I’m showered with requests for repairs. I shall soon be richer than Sayyidna Zubayr,” he said, not smiling, for rarely does he smile.
“I invite you to join a new religion called Islam, that is, ‘surrender.’ ”
When I found myself alone in the company of Anwar Allam, he said:
“I’m sorry but I think you did the right thing. Now the world will be a happier place for you.”
A few weeks later, he asked me to stop over at his Dokki flat for some urgent work. When the job was done, he invited me to dinner. I had been expecting that from the very start. Nor was I surprised when Gulstan joined us. She intimated in passing that she was sorry about the engagement. Then the conversation centered on modern singing. Anwar Allam made us listen to a variety of tapes.
“You seem to like it, sir.”
“To say the least, I don’t dislike it,” he remarked casually.
Gulstan and I exchanged fleeting glances which revealed unconcealed sympathy: warm, deep, and furtive. She makes no attempt to hide her charm or poise, as though she were telling me: I’m a virtuous woman but I cannot help exuding charm. How about this for feminine wiles besetting young men? As far as I’m concerned, it’s first and foremost a matter of hunger. She may consider me a lamb, but I myself eye her more like a wolf. What a relief if she would only consent to become my mistress! But how, when, and where?
“In a month’s time, at the very most, Gulstan’s new villa will be ready and she’ll move in, leaving me here all alone,” said Anwar Allam.
To keep the conversation going, I asked:
“Why don’t you move in with her, sir?”
“I’m thinking of getting my flat ready for settling down. It’s about time I got married!” he replied.
Randa Sulayman Mubarak
Time begets hope: it too brings about both death and life. Some day the microbe will be killed and recovery will be in sight. God will not forsake a true believer. Now we actually talk to each other and collaborate as would two colleagues working in the same office, like colleagues, indeed, but also like strangers who have never tasted the sweetness of a kiss. And sometimes, like me, he invites pity. I no longer condemn him but neither do I respect him. I am now involved in a new experience: Anwar Allam. He is unusually friendly, addressing me in a flirtatious fashion that spells out admiration and sympathy. I have expectations. I sit and brood. My pride will not give in to defeat. Mother now considers the truce to be over and thinks that it is time she spoke up.
“I heard that Ibrahim Bey is ready to propose again,” she said one day as we were sitting together in the living room. He’s an elderly man, the owner of a mining factory, who had proposed two years ago and was turned down. She seems to have noticed that I was annoyed.
“We’ve agreed that as long as you have no one in mind, the matter should be settled rationally,” she said.