consulate, an old black American named Jack Mahoney, was not allowed to enter because he had forgotten his special pass. For a whole half hour the officers turned a deaf ear to his pleas to prove his identity despite his colleagues vouching for him. In the end he had to go back home — quite a distance away — to collect his pass.
Egyptian security men were profoundly aware of the serious and lofty nature of their task: ensuring the personal safety of the revered president. They loved him with all their hearts and pronounced his name reverently and prayerfully. Had it not been for their closeness to him, they wouldn’t have enjoyed their cushy lives and tremendous influence on all departments of the state. They were so linked to him that what happened to him determined their future. If something bad, God forbid, were to happen to him, if he were assassinated like his predecessor, they’d be lost. They’d be pensioned off or cashiered. They might be put on trial and sent to jail if power passed on to the president’s enemies, who were quite numerous. All these apprehensions would prick them like needles if they felt any relaxation or boredom, so they would immediately regain their enthusiasm. Absolute loyalty to the president was embodied in the person of General Mahmud al-Manawi, commander of the Republican Guard, who had spent a whole quarter century close to him and which made him one of the few who enjoyed the president’s full trust. It also made him entitled to be on the receiving end of the president’s sometimes obscene jokes. Sometimes when the president was in a good mood, he would pat the general’s protruding paunch and say in a loud, laughing voice, “Stop eating, Manawi boy! You look like Apis, the bull!”
Or he would shout derisively, “It seems you’ve given up on the plow, Manawi boy!” (In a reference to dwindling sexual prowess with age.)
When that happened, General Manawi would blush at the great honor he received. Many would envy him that humor, because it was a mark of trust and love from the president. He would bow and mumble in a prayerful voice, “At your service, sir. May God give you long life for the sake of Egypt, sir.”
While security procedures were in full swing, a few hundred Egyptians led by Nagi Abd al-Samad and Karam Doss together with John Graham gathered in front of the consulate in the green space close to the lake. The appearance of Graham in the middle of the group, with his natural charisma, being an old American who came to fight for the rights of Egyptians, galvanized the demonstrators, who kept shouting slogans and waving signs in English and Arabic: free the detainees, stop the torture, stop persecuting the copts, down with the tyrant, and democracy for egyptians.
Demonstrations against the president during his visits in the West were familiar to the Republican Guard officers. This time, however, they noticed that there were large numbers of demonstrators and that they were making a lot of noise. That caused General Manawi some concern, so he went to the head of the American security detail and asked him for permission to disperse the demonstration. The latter told him, “American law prohibits dispersing them.”
General Manawi smiled and said, “We can do it without taking the least responsibility. Some of my men in civilian clothes will slip among the demonstrators and discipline them. It would all appear to the media like an ordinary brawl.”
The American officer threw him a disapproving glance and a dismissive smile, then signaled his refusal with his hand and moved away. General Manawi was very angry at the arrogant American officer’s behavior but of course wouldn’t cause any problems with him. He had learned from experience that nothing worried the president more than having a problem with any American, no matter how lowly his position. There was a saying that he often repeated: “A ruler who challenges the American administration is like a fool who puts his head in a lion’s mouth.”
The story of the president’s information secretary, Dr. Na’il al-Tukhi, was still fresh in people’s minds. He had had a quarrel with an employee of the American embassy about the right of way on one of the streets in Maadi. This was an ordinary quarrel that took place dozens of times every day in Cairo, but it had developed into name- calling in English, which so enraged Dr. al-Tukhi that he pushed the other man in the chest. The American employee had complained to the American ambassador, who had called the president’s office to report the incident. The following day the American embassy received an official reply to the effect that the president was very disturbed by what happened, and that he had ordered an immediate investigation. He then decided to terminate the employment of his information secretary as punishment for his irresponsible action.
The demonstrators grew more enthusiastic and in Arabic and English shouted in unison in a thunderous voice, “Down with the president.” General Manawi kept observing them in exasperation from the other side of the wide street then ordered an officer in civilian clothes to film them with a video camera bearing the logo of a fictitious television news service, intending to send the footage to State Security to identify and pursue them.
The crescendo of the shouts coincided with the impending arrival of the president. Soon the procession appeared in the distance, approaching gradually until it came fully into view: the president’s huge bulletproof black Mercedes guarded by two armored cars to the front and rear. General Manawi let loose a shout that wailed like a cheerless warning siren. “Aaaatention!” All the officers tensed up and took up their positions, brandishing their weapons in every direction to guard against any eventuality. The procession slowed down then stopped in front of the entrance, and instantly, the bodyguards jumped and formed a full circle several meters in diameter around the car, observing the road from all directions without appearing in the photographs. They were huge men with shaved heads and tiny earpieces, pointing their guns at an enemy whose appearance was anticipated at any moment. The chief of protocol rushed toward the presidential car, bent toward it, and opened the door. Soon thereafter the president appeared slowly and haughtily, as if he were a crowned king, his face displaying that famous cheerless smile that, a quarter century earlier, he had deemed photogenic and so never changed it. He was wearing a very elegant light gray suit, a blue-and-white-striped necktie, and shiny Italian shoes with an eye-catching golden buckle on the side. Anyone seeing the president face-to-face, however, despite the awe surrounding him, would inevitably feel that his presence was somehow contrived. His hair, dyed jet-black, was rumored to be (in whole or in part) one of the best hairpieces available in the world. His complexion was exhausted by all the scraping, sanding, and daily ointments he used to give it a youthful appearance. His face was covered with layers of fine makeup so he would appear younger in photographs. That glasslike, cold, detached, and distant presence, devoid of any traces of dust or sweat, as if it were sterile, left in those who saw the president an uncomfortable, raw feeling like that experienced by viewing babies immediately after their birth, featureless lumps of flesh still displaying the stickiness of the womb.
The president, slowed down by his seventy-five years, had a diminished level of concentration and was noticing things around him a little late. So he looked at the other side of the road and waved to the demonstrators, and when their shouts grew louder he realized what was going on and turned toward the consulate’s entrance. He swaggered along and reached for his jacket buttons, feeling them. (This gesture has stayed with him since he replaced his military uniform with civilian clothes and discovered that his buttons came undone without his being aware of them.)
The president began to shake hands with those receiving him in a predetermined order: the Egyptian ambassador to the United States, Egypt’s consul in Chicago, Safwat Shakir, whose face looked calm because everything was going according to plan, and then members of the embassy staff according to seniority. At the end of the line Ahmad Danana looked as though he was attending a fancy dress party. He was wearing a blue Christian Dior suit that he had bought especially for the occasion and which cost him (together with the shirt, the socks, and necktie) fifteen hundred dollars that he paid for gladly with his credit card, keeping the receipts as usual, hoping that he could return them afterward and get his money back (as he had done with his wedding suit). He realized that meeting the president might change his life. He had heard of many prominent personages in the state whose careers were made under similar circumstances. They met the president, he liked them, and their faces made an impression on his magnanimous memory, and so he gave them important posts at the earliest change in cabinets. It would indeed be a turning point in which the smallest details acquired maximum importance: a missing button or one that was loose, or a crooked necktie or shoes that were dusty or not sufficiently shiny — any insignificant detail might give the president a bad impression and negatively affect Danana’s future. Another reason he took such care of his appearance was his attempt to prove to himself that he had completely recovered from what his wife Marwa had done. When he got up last Tuesday, he couldn’t find her. He went through the apartment in a daze, still sleepy, until he finally noticed a piece of paper on the refrigerator door in the kitchen, written hastily in large, uneven letters: “I left for Egypt. My father will contact you for divorce proceedings.”
Danana exerted a great effort to absorb the shock. He said to himself that he had never been happy with her. He could, undoubtedly, find dozens of women better than she. Yes, he would divorce her as she requested, but she
