Street to get there before the crowd. On his way he passed by the House of the Nation and, as always, gazed at it, moving his eyes from the historic balcony to the courtyard, which had witnessed such momentous events in the nation's history. The building had an almost magical fascination for him. Here Sa'd Zaghlul had stood. Here Fahmy and his comrades had stood. On this street bullets had lodged in the breasts of the martyrs. His people were in perpetual need of a revolution to combat the waves of oppression that prevented their rebirth. Periodic revolutions were necessary to serve as a vaccine against this dread disease, for tyranny was the nation's most deeply entrenched malady.
Kamal's participation in this patriotic holiday had successfully reinvigorated him. Nothing mattered to him except the need for Egypt to reply emphatically and decisively to Hoare's declaration. He held his tall, slender body erect and his large head high as his feet pounded against the pavement. He had lofty affairs and significant deeds on his mind as he passed by the American University campus. Even a teacher occasionally had to join a revolution with his students. He smiled almost in despair. He was an instructor with a big head, destined to teach the fundamentals of English and nothing more, even though this language had introduced him to countless mysteries. His body occupied a tiny space on the swarming surface of the earth, while his imagination spun round in a whirlpool embracing all the secrets of nature. In the morning he asked what this word meant and how to spell that one. In the evening he pondered the meaning of his existence this riddle that follows one puzzle and precedes another one. In the morning his heart was ablaze with rebellion against the English but in the evening it was chastened by a general feeling of brotherhood for all mankind as he felt inclined to cooperate with everyone in order to confront the puzzle of man's destiny.
He shook his head rather forcefully as if to expel these thoughts. As He approached al-Isma'iliya Square he could hear people shouting. He realized that the demonstrators had reached Qasr al-Ayni Street. The combative spirit animating his breast made him hesitate. Perhapshe would join in the day's demonstrations after all. For too long the nation had patiently endured the blows it received. Today it was Tawfiq Nasim, yesterday Isma'il Sidqy, and before that Muhammad Mahmud. This ill-omened chain of despots stretched back into prehistory. 'Every bastard has been deluded by his own power and has claimed to be the chosen guardian for us children…. Not so fast! The demonstration is raging ahead furiously, but what's this?'
Disturbed, Kamal turned to look back. The sound he heard shook his heart. As He listened intently, the noise of shots rang out once more. He could see demonstrators in the distance, milling around chaotically. Groups of people were rushing toward the square, while othersheaded for the side streets. English constables on horseback were galloping in the direction of the demonstrators. The shouting grew louder. Screams mixed with angry voices, and the firing became more intense. Kamal'sheart pounded as, overcome by a troubled rage, he worried with each beat about Abd al-Muni'm, Ahmad, and Ridwan. Turning right and then left, he noticed a coffeehouse at the corner nearby and made for it. The doors were almost closed, and on entering he remembered the pastry shop in al- Husayn district where he had first heard gunfire.
There was pandemonium everywhere. Initially the rapid firing was frightening, but then the shots became less frequent. The sound of breaking glass was audible as well as the neighing of horses. An increase in volume of the furious voices showed that rebellious bands were dashing at breakneck speed from one location to the next. An elderly man entered the cafe. Before anyone could ask him what he had seen, he exclaimed, 'The constables' bullets rained down on the students. Only God knows how many were hit'. He sat down, breathing hard, and then added in a trembling voice, 'It was treachery pure and simple. If their goal had been to break up the demonstration, they would have fired into the air from their distant positions. But they escorted the demonstration with calculated calm and then stationed themselves at the intersections. Suddenly they drew their revolvers and began firing. They shot to kill, showing no mercy. Young boys fell writhing in their own blood. The English were beasts, but the Egyptia n soldiers were no less brutal. It was a premeditated massacre, my God.'
A voice called out from the rear of the room, 'My heart told me that today would end badly.'
Another answered, 'These are evil times. Since Hoare announced his declaration, people have been expecting momentous events. Other battles will follow. I promise you that.'
'The victims are always students, the most precious children of the nation, alas.'
'But the shooting has stopped. Hasn't it? Listen.'
'The main part of the demonstration is at the House of the Nation. The shooting will continue there for hours to come.'
But the square was silent. Minutes dragged by heavily, charged with tension. Darkness began to fall, and the lamps in the coffeehouse were lit. There was total silence, as if death had overtaken the square and the surrounding streets. When the double doors of the coffeehouse were opened wide, the square — empty of pedestrians and vehicles was visible. A column of steel-helmeted policemen on horseback circled it, preceded by their English commanders.
Kamal kept wondering about the fate of his nephews. When traffic in the square hesitantly picked up again, he left the coffeehouse and hurried off. He did not return home until he had first visited. Sugar Street and Palace of Desire Alley to reassure himself that Abd al-Muni'm, Ahmad, and Ridwan were safe.
Alone in his library, his heart filled with sorrow, distress, and anger, he did not read or write a single word. His mind was still roaming around the House of the Nation, thinking of Hoare, the revolutionary speech, the patriotic chants, and the screams of the victims. He found himself trying to recall the name of the pastry shop where he had hidden long ago, but memory failed him.
120
The sight of Muhammad Iffat's house in al-Gamaliya was a familiar and beloved one for Ahmad Abd al-Jawad. The massive wooden door looked like the entrance to an ancient caravansary. The high wall hid everything but the tops of lofty trees. Shaded by these mulberry and sycamore trees and dotted with small henna and lemon trees as well as various types of jasmine, the courtyard garden was marvelous. Equally amazing was the pool in the center. And then there was the wooden veranda stretching along the width of the garden.
Muhammad Iffat stood on the veranda steps, waiting to welcome his guest as he pulled his cloak tighter around him. Ali Abd al-Rahim and Ibrahim al-Far were already seated beside each other. Ahmad greeted his chums and followed Muhammad Iffat to the couch at the center of the veranda, where they sat down together. They had all lost their girth, except for Muhammad Iffat, who looked bloated and had a red face. Ali Abd al-Rahim had gone bald, and the others' hair was streaked with white. Wrinkles spread across their faces. Ali Abd al-Rahim and Ibrahim al-Far appeared to have aged more than the other two. The redness of Muhammad Iffat's face seemed almost to suggest a vascular disorde r.
Although Ahmad had lost weight and his hair was turning white, he had retained his unblemished good looks. He loved this assembly and admired the view of the garden, which extended all the way to the high wall on al- Gamaliya Street. He leaned his head back a little as if to allow his large nose to inhale the fragrance of jasmine and henna. He closed his eyes occasionally to concentrate on hearing the chirps of the small birds flitting about in the branches of the mulberry and sycamore trees. Still, the most sublime feeling entertained by his heart just then was one of brotherhood and friendship for these men. When his wide blue eyes gazed at their beloved faces, which were masked by age, his heart overflowed with sorrow and sympathy, not only for them but for himself The most nostalgic of them about the past, he was enthralled by anything he could remember about the beauty of youth, its passionate emotions, and his chivalrous escapades.
Ibrahim went to a nearby table to fetch the backgammon set, asking, 'Who will play with me?'
Ahmad, who rarely joined in their games, said disapprovingly, 'Wait a bit. We shouldn't lose ourselves in that from the very beginning.'
Al-Far replaced the box. Then a Nubian servant brought in a tray with three teas and one whiskey and soda. Muhammad Iffat smiled as he took the whiskey glass and the othershelped themselves to tea. This allocation, repeated every evening, often made them laugh. Waving his glass and gesturing toward their tea, Muhammad Iffat said, 'May God be merciful to time, which has refined you.'
Sighing, Ahmad Abd al-Jawad responded, 'It has refined all of us and you more than the others, for you always were an exceptionally coarse fellow.'
At approximately the same time one year they had all received identical medical advice to give up alcohol,
