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 Mutawalli. 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 his head 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 have 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 him? But what good is a threat when he doesn't mind risking death?'
The shaykh stroked his face and asked anxiously, 'Has he 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 is he 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 grandfather 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 unless he’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 mansion 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 his head 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
