harbored any angry or defiant feelings toward his father during his rebellion, a guilty conscience was a heavy burden for his sensitive heart, which was imbued with dutiful obedience. He had not defied his father verbally but had acted against his will and had done so repeatedly. Moreover, he had refused to swear an oath the day his father had asked him to, announcing with his tears that he would stick to his principles despite his father’s wishes. To his unbearable regret, all these acts had put him in the position, regardless of his good intentions, of being wickedly disobedient. He had not attempted to make peace with his father earlier from fear of scraping the scab off the wound without being able to bandage it. He had assumed his father would ask him to take the oath again as penance for what he had done and that he would be forced once more to refuse, thus reviving his rebellion when he wanted to apologize for it.
The situation today was different. His heart was intoxicated with joy and victory, and the whole nation was drunk on the wine of delight and triumph. He could not stand for a barrier of suspicion to separate him from his father a moment longer. They would be reconciled and he would receive the pardon he craved. Then there would be true happiness, unblemished by any defect.
He entered his father’s room a quarter of an hour before breakfast and found his father folding up the prayer rug as he mumbled a prayerful entreaty. The man no doubt noticed him but pretended not to and went to sit on the sofa without turning toward his son. He sat facing Fahmy, who stood at the door, looking ashamed and confounded. Al-Sayyid Ahmad stared at him impassively and disapprovingly as though to ask, 'Who is this person standing there and why has he come?'
Fahmy got the better of his consternation and quietly walked toward his father. He leaned over his hand, which he took and kissed with the utmost respect. He was silent for some time. Then in a scarcely audible voice he said, 'Good morning, Papa'.
His father continued to gaze at him silently, as though he had not heard the greeting, until the boy lowered his eyes in confusion and stammered in a despairing voice, 'I'm sorry…' Al-Sayyid Ahmad persisted in his silence.
'I'm really sorry. I haven't had a moment’s peace of mind since…' He found his words were leading him up to a reference to something he wanted with all his heart to skip over. So he stopped.
Before he knew what was happening, his father asked him harshly and impatiently, 'What do you want?'
Fahmy was overjoyed that the man had abandoned his silence and sighed with relief as though he had not noticed the harsh tone. He entreated his father, 'I want your approval'.
'Get out of my sight'.
Feeling the grip of despair loosening a little around his neck, Fahmy said, 'When I have your approval'.
Becoming sarcastic suddenly, al-Sayyid Ahmad asked, 'My approval!.. Why not?… Have you, God forbid, done anything to make me angry?'
Fahmy welcomed his father’s sarcasm twice as much as his renunciation of silence. Sarcasm with his father was the first step toward forgiveness. When he was really angry, he would slap, punch, kick, curse, or do all at once. Sarcasm was the first sign of a change of heart.
'Seize the opportunity,' Fahmy told himself. 'Speak. Speak the way a man preparing to be a lawyer should speak. This is your opportunity. Say, 'Answering the call of the nation should not be considered rebellion against your will, sir. I really didn't do much by way of patriotic deeds… distributing handbills to friends… What did that amount to? What am I compared with those who willingly gave their lives? I understood from your words, sir, that you were afraid for my life, not that you really rejected the idea of patriotic duties. I simply did a little of my duty. I'm confident that I actually did not disobey your wishes.'… And so forth and so on'.
Then Fahmy did say, 'God knows it never occurred to me to disobey you'.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad responded sharply, 'Empty words. You pretend to be obedient now that there’s no reason to rebel. Why haven't you asked for my approval before today?'
Fahmy said sadly, 'The world was full of blood and grief. I was preoccupied by sorrow'.
'Too preoccupied to ask for my approval?'
Fahmy replied ardently, 'I was too preoccupied to think about myself'. In a low voice he added, 'I can't live without your approval'.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad frowned, not from anger as he made it appear, but to hide the good impression his son’s words had made on him. 'This is the way a person should speak,' he reflected. 'Otherwise, forget it. He’s really good at using words. This is eloquence, isn't it? I'll repeat what he said to my friends tonight to see what impact it makes on them. What do you suppose they'll say? The boy takes after his father… That’s what they ought to say. People used to tell me that if I had completed my education I would have been one of the most eloquent attorneys. I'm quite an eloquent person even without a higher education and a law practice. Our daily conversation is exactly like the law in revealing one’s gift for eloquence. How many attorneys and important civil servants have cowered like sparrows before me at our parties. Not even Fahmy will be able to replace me one day. They'll laugh and say the boy’s really a chip off the old block. His refusal to swear that oath still troubles me, but don't I have a right to be proud that he participated in the revolution, even if only remotely? Since God has allowed him to live to see this day, I wish he had done something important in it. From now on, I'll say he waded into the midst of the revolution. Do you think he was content just to distribute handbills as he claimed? The son of a bitch threw himself into the bloody stream of events. 'Al-Sayyid Ahmad, we must acknowledge your son’s patriotism and courage. We did not wish to tell you this during the danger, but now that peace has come, there’s no harm saying it.' Do you disown your patriotic feelings? Didn't the people collecting donations for the nationalist Wafd Party commend you? By God, if you were young, you would have done much more than your son has. But he defied me! He defied your tongue and obeyed your heart. What can I do now? My heart wishes to forgive him, but I'm afraid he'll think then that it’s okay to disobey me?
He finally spoke: 'I can never forget that you disobeyed me. Do you think the meaningless oration you have delivered this morning, before I even had breakfast, can influence me?'
Fahmy started to speak, but his mother entered at that moment to announce, 'Breakfast is ready, sir'.
She was astonished to find Fahmy there. She looked from one to the other and tarried a little in hopes of hearing part of what was being said. But the silence, which she was afraid her arrival had caused, made her leave the room quickly. Al-Sayyid Ahmad rose to go to the dining room, and Fahmy moved out of his way. The boy’s intense sorrow was evident to his father, who hesitated a few moments before finally saying in a conciliatory voice, 'I hope that in the future you won't insist on being so stupid when you address me'.
He walked off, and the young man followed after him with a grateful smile. As they went through the sitting room he heard his father say sarcastically, 'I suppose you put yourself at the head of those who liberated Sa'd'.
Fahmy left the house happy. He went at once to al-Azhar, where he met with his colleagues on the supreme student committee. They were discussing arrangements for the enormous, peaceful demonstrations the authorities were allowing so that the nation could express its delight. It had been decided that representatives of all segments of the population would participate.
The meeting lasted quite a while. Then the participants separated, each going off about his business. Fahmy rode over to Ramses Square in front of the central railroad station, after learning of his assignment to supervise the groups of students from the secondary schools. Although the tasks he was customarily assigned could be considered rather secondary, compared with those of the others, he undertook them with precision, care, and joy, as though each was the happiest moment of his life. Even so, his industry was accompanied by a slight feeling of discontent, which he did not share with anyone else, originating from his conviction that he was less daring and forward than his other comrades. Yes, he had never hesitated to attend a demonstration the committee supported but he became discouraged when the trucks carrying soldiers appeared, especially once shots were fired and victims started to fall. One time he had sought refuge in a coffee shop, trembling. Another time he had run so far he ended up in the cemetery for theology students. What was he compared with the man who had carried the flag in the Bulaq demonstration, or massacre, as it had come to be called? That fellow had died a martyr, clasping the flag with his hands, standing his ground at the head of the procession, shouting at the top of his lungs for everyone to stand firm. What was Fahmy compared with that martyr’s companions who had rushed to raise the flag again only to be shot down around him with their breasts decorated heroically by bullet holes? What was he compared with that martyr who had grabbed the machine gun from the hands of the enemy at al-Azhar? What was he compared with all those men and the others whose heroism and martyrdoms were always in the news? Heroic acts appeared to him to be so dazzling and magnificent that they were breathtaking. He frequently heard an inner voice daring him
