Mr. Ibrahim al-Far, the copper merchant, rushed in. He cried out breathlessly, 'Have you heard the latest news?… Malta!' He struck his hands together and proceeded: 'Exile to Malta. None of them is left here with us. They've exiled Sa'd and his colleagues to the island of Malta'.
They all exclaimed at the same time, 'Exiled them!' The word 'exile' stirred up sad old memories that had stayed with them since childhood concerning the revolutionary leader Urabi Pasha and what had happened to him. They could not help feeling anxious, wondering if the same fate lay in store for Sa'd Zaghlul and his colleagues. Would they really be exiled from their nation forever? Would these great hopes be nipped in the bud and die?
Al-Sayyid Ahmad felt a kind of grief he had never experienced before. It was a heavy, dull sorrow that spread through his chest like nausea. Under its weight he felt rigid, dead, choked. They began to exchange eloquently somber and gloomy looks that screamed out their feelings soundlessly, inciting each other without a single shout. There was a bitter taste in all their mouths.
On the heels of al-Far came another friend and then a second and a third to repeat the same news, hoping the other men would be able to calm their inflamed souls. All they found was silent sorrow, dejected gloom, and suppressed rage.
'Will today’s hopes be for naught like those of yesterday?'
No one answered. The questioner kept looking from face to face, but to no avail. There was no answer to comfort a soul’s turmoil, even though they refused to admit publicly the fear that was killing them. Sa'd had been exiled… That was true, but would Sa'd return, and if so, after what length of time? How would Sa'd return? What power could bring him back? If Sa'd did not return, what would become of these vast hopes? From their new hope a profound and fervent life had sprung that was too overwhelming to abandon to despair. Yet they did not know how their souls could justify reviving it again.
'But isn't there any way that the information might be a false rumor?'
No one paid any attention to that suggestion. Even the person making it was not surprised to be ignored. He had only offered his remark in an attempt to find some escape, however imaginary, from the stifling despair.
'The English have imprisoned him… Who is there to stand up to the English?'
'He was a man unlike other men. He inspired our lives for a dazzling moment and vanished'.
'Like a dream… He'll be forgotten. Nothing more will be left of him than is left from a dream by midmorning'.
Someone exclaimed in a voice hoarse with pain, 'God exists!'
They all shouted together, 'Yes… and He’s the most merciful of all who are compassionate'. The mention of God’s name was like a magnet attracting and assembling around it their roving thoughts which had been scattered by despair.
That evening, for the first time in a quarter century or more, the assembled friends seemed averse to fun and music. They were overwhelmed by gloom. All their comments concerned the exiled leader. Sorrow had subjugated them. Even if one of them was torn between his sorrow and a desire to drink, sorrow would win out over drinking, because of his respect for the feelings of the group and his sense that it was inappropriate under those circumstances. When the conversation had dragged on until they had exhausted all aspects, they took refuge in silence. A covert anxiety afflicted them that revealed the itching addiction to alcohol active within them. They seemed to be waiting for a sign from someone daring enough to lead their forces.
Mr. Muhammad Iffat said suddenly, 'It’s time for us to return to our homes'.
He did not mean what he said. He merely wanted to warn them that they were allowing the time to pass and would soon be forced to go home. Their long familiarity with each other had taught them to understand each other’s hints.
Abd al-Rahim, the flour merchant, was encouraged by the hidden content of this warning to say, 'Are we to part without a glass of wine to lighten today’s suffering?'
His statement cheered them up the way a surgeon’s does when he leaves the operating room to tell the family of a sick patient, 'Praise God… the operation was a success'.
Yet a man whose sorrow was struggling with his desire to drink pretended to protest, while concealing the relief gladdening his heart: 'Should we drink on a day like this?'
Al-Sayyid Ahmad cast him a knowing look. Then he said ironically, 'Let them drink by themselves and we'll go outside, you… son of a bitch'.
They laughed for the first time, and bottles of wine were brought in. Apparently wanting to apologize for this behavior, al-Sayyid Ahmad said, 'A little fun won't alter what’s in a man’s heart'.
They applauded his words. Throughout the evening they had hesitated a long time before answering the call of their physical yearnings. Stirred by the sight of the wine bottles, al-Sayyid Ahmad soon observed, 'Sa'd’s rebellion was intended to cheer the Egyptians, not to torment them. So don't let your sorrow for him make you feel embarrassed about drinking'.
His own grief did not prevent him from joking, although it was not an enjoyable or carefree evening. Al-Sayyid Ahmad described it later as 'a sick night which had to be treated with doses of wine'.
The family began their coffee hour with unprecedented gloom. Fahmy launched into a long revolutionary speech with tears in his eyes. Yasin listened sorrowfully and sadly. The mother wanted to dispel the despair and lighten their affliction but was afraid she would only make things worse. Then the infectious sorrow soon passed into her heart. She felt sorry for the old man they had taken away from his house and wife to a distant place of exile.
Yasin commented, 'It’s a sad affair. All our men: the Khedive Abbas II, the nationalists Muhammad Farid and Sa'd Zaghlul… all have been driven far from the nation'.
Fahmy exclaimed passionately, 'What rogues the English are!.. We address them in the same terms they used to gain sympathy during their ordeal and they answer with military threats, exile, and banishment'.
The mother could not bear to see her son so upset. She forgot about the leader’s tragedy and said gently and soothingly, 'Don't take it so hard, son. May our Lord be gracious to us'.
This gentle tone only made him more upset. Without turning to look at her he shouted, 'If we don't confront terrorism with the anger it deserves, may the nation never live again. It’s unthinkable for the nation to be at peace when its leader who has sacrificed himself for it suffers the torments of captivity'.
Yasin commented thoughtfully, 'It’s fortunate that Hamad Basil Pasha was one of those exiled. He’s the chieftain of a ferocious tribe. I doubt that his men will keep quiet about his banishment'.
Fahmy replied sharply, 'What about the others?… Aren't there men behind them too?… The case doesn't just concern one tribe, it concerns the whole nation'.
The conversation continued without interruption and grew even more bitter and violent. The two women kept still out of anxiety and fear. Zaynab could not understand the reasons for this emotional outburst. It seemed meaningless to her. So what if Sa'd and his men had been exiled? Clearly, if they had lived the way God’s children should, no one would have thought of banishing them. But they were not content to live like that. They wanted things it was dangerous to desire. There was no necessity for what had occurred. Regardless of what had happened to them, why was Fahmy so insanely angry, as though Sa'd were his father or his brother? Indeed, what was making Yasin, a man who never retired to bed sober, so sad? Were men like him and the others really saddened by Sa'd’s banishment? Did her life need anything else to upset it so that Fahmy had to spoil the serenity of this brief gathering with his tantrum? She thought about this as she observed her husband from time to time with vexed amazement. Her expression seemed to say, 'If you're really sincere about your sorrow, then don't go out this evening, just this one evening, to the bar'.
She did not utter a word. She was too wise to cast her icy reflections into that fiery stream. Her mother-in- law resembled her in this. Her courage rapidly evaporated when confronted by anger, no matter how trivial. For that reason, she retreated into silence and kept her intense discomfort to herself as she apprehensively followed the raging, unruly conversation. She was better able than Yasin’s wife to fathom the reasons for these storms. She remembered Urabi with her mind, and her heart still felt sad about 'Our Effendi,' the Khedive Abbas II. Yes, the word 'exile' was a meaningful concept to her. Indeed, the way she understood the term it lacked the hope that could tantalize a person like Fahmy. In her mind, like those of her husband and his friends, it was not associated with any possibility of return. If it meant something else, where was 'Our Effendi'? Who deserved to return to his nation more than he did? Would Fahmy’s sorrow last as long as Sa'd’s banishment? What was so unlucky about these days that coming and going brought news to shake their security and destroy their peace of mind? How she wished peace would return to its abode and that this gathering would be pleasant again, the way it had been all
