The day the leader was killed

“We’ve agreed that as long as you have no one in mind, the matter should be settled rationally,” she said.

“But he’s a widower and a father!” I said, objecting.

“He’s also rich, and is ready to accept you just as you are,” she pleaded.

“It’s not just a matter of buying and selling.”

“But we won’t find the likes of him easily.”

“I’m in no hurry,” I retorted sharply.

“Time is running

out…

“ she said in a compassionate tone.

“I won’t be the first spinster in history,” I said defiantly.

My father had kept quiet the whole time. I hadn’t been absolutely honest in expressing how I actually felt. The fact is I want to assert myself but not at the expense of my dignity. There should be both money and respectability. Anwar Allam has both. Had he been a dubious person, it would have probably been known already. At least, he’s acceptable and not physically repulsive. The age difference between us is not unreasonable. As for love, it would be foolish to think about it right now.

I did not have to wait long, for, one morning, after he had ratified the report I held in my hand, he said:

“I would now like to have your opinion.”

“What about, sir?”

I asked, my heart pounding in anticipation.

“I’m asking your hand in marriage.

How about that?”

I was speechless, like one struck totally dumb.

“I may not know how to talk about love, but it is there. I may not he faultless hut, I daresay, as far as you’re concerned you more than meet all my requirements,” he said.

“It comes as a surprise to me,” I whispered.

“Of course, you’ll need some time to think about it. Fair enough! But allow me to give myself proper credit, for people like me do not embark on marriage unless they are perfectly sure that they are able to shoulder the responsibility.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

I discussed the matter with my parents that evening. “That’s just fine,” said my mother without any hesitation.

“We’ll go along with whatever you say,” said my father.

When I was alone with my mother, I asked her what she thought we could afford to contribute on our side.

“Nothing on your father’s side.

As for me, I still have some jewelry which I can sell to get your trousseau ready. The man had better know everything though,” she said bitterly.

The bitterness of the experience I had undergone had just about destroyed the hollow masques of diffidence. I had matured in the process far more than I had ever imagined. I insisted on revealing the whole truth, although I had not needed to, for he was already aware of my problem.

“I shall handle the furnishing of the flat and all that,” he said quite bluntly.

Naturally I consented.

“We ought to know that the time factor is important and that everything ought therefore to be settled as soon as possible,” he said.

The engagement took place in our flat. The party was restricted to my parents and sisters and, on his side, Gulstan and an elderly brother of his. None of our lifelong friends and neighbors attended. Gulstan offered me a gold necklace encrusted with an expensive diamond.

Deep down, I was tense and nervous, but I did my utmost to control my feelings. I acted my part amazingly well. But when I was alone with Sanaa in our room, I could no longer keep up the show and burst

Out

crying.

“Let this be your last farewell to the sterile past,” she said, gazing at me somberly.

“I lost the most precious thing in my life,” I groaned in great distress.

“I don’t agree with you, but let time take care of everything,” she said in an unusual gesture of sympathy.

Muhiashimi Zayed

Above us, just a few steps away, they are throwing an engagement party for Randa. Elwan has just finished getting dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and gray trousers. His forearms are sturdy and the open neckline of his shirt reveals some pitch-black fuzz. His face is sorrow-stricken — youth, beauty,

grief

. What is brewing deep down within him at this accursed hour? Bitterness, the like of which I have experienced only in poetry. Is there anything I can tell him? I could only conjure up a look and a smile. He greeted me with a wave of his hand.

“Keep well, Grandpa,” he said in his usual fashion as he was getting ready to go out.

I suddenly became ill-disposed, like one who has just gulped down a kilo of red and black pepper. I cast aside all thoughts of worship. A mad, miserable world! Dear ones lying underground.

So many of you down there.

For no apparent reason, memories of you crowd my mind. You have been preceded by hundreds of prophets and saints. The dust is blessed with the best that life has to offer. Why am I being flooded by the past cascading upon me like a waterfall fueled by the power of an active volcano? The cheering of the Revolution echoes anew; total independence or violent death; the people above the King: the fire ablaze in Cairo; the greatness and defeat of him who has passed away; the greatness and setback of his successor. Madness is rampant, breaking its way amid the rocks, bringing in its wake famine and debts. Dear ones who have passed away, so many of you gone. You had not given death a thought. Neither had you reckoned with sickness. And there were those of you who would mix brandy with ginger and chase women on festive occasions. There were others who would tear themselves away from the gambling tables to perform the dawn prayers at the appointed hour. There was even one who threw himself into the waters of the Nile, intoxicated by the light of the moon as the sailboat carrying the big hunks of hashish addicts reeled around him. There were also young men armed with faith and stones who thronged around the policemen and the army challenging them on the anniversary of the annulment of the Constitution. I can still see the battle raging and hear the sound of the bullets and the thumping of heavy, persecuting footsteps. There are so many of you dear ones who have passed away, so many graves oblivious of your fate.

There are also memories of my Azharite grandfather, a teacher of grammar, who used to address my illiterate grandmother in classical Arabic. He begot a progeny of sane and insane offspring who, to this day, perpetrate reason and madness. You scum of the earth, why my grandson? You have bequeathed your children money and security, and the rest of us ruin, poverty, and debts. It is as though the Revolution had taken place only to bring you joy and

us

sorrow. O God, when wilt Thou give me the courage to spurn the world and what is in it? For how long will I go on yearning for inaccessible miracles? When will I be able to point to the oppressor and slap him down, relieving the world of his evil ways? In fact, the experience has proved to be a failure. We were unable to deal with it for what it actually is: a great blessing. Rather, we soiled it through treachery, egoism, and betrayal.

Here I am walking about in the flat venting my anger, scrutinizing the pieces of worn-out furniture as though I were taking leave of them. At the very center of the headrest of the sofa, I can make out a saying etched out in black Persian script amid a crescent of mother-of-pearl: “Patience is a virtue.” O God! What patience are we talking about? We have been waiting for thousands of years until patience has turned to vice and hope to infirmity. I drink a glass of anis and return to my place. A smile suddenly alights on my face.

A smile?!

Where on earth has it come from? This smile — lost amid great grief — intimates that it has come from far away, from the days when a happy-go-lucky madness broke the barriers of piety. A smile moist with the breath of wine and the sweat of beautiful girls in forbidden spots, from the threshold of my companions of youth, of recklessness and struggle whose peals of laughter blown far away into space have not yet landed on earth. Zumurruda dancing away, almost naked, singing, “I’m knee-high in water.” And evenings spent clowning and merrymaking among those outcast for no good reason, evenings where pearls of wisdom would be uttered by