The day the leader was killed

Randa Sulayman Mubarak

I climb the stairs to the apartment while he stands in front of his flat as if to make sure that I have reached my door safely. He said good-bye with a lukewarm kiss like one worried, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Damn the boss! He irritated him for no good reason. And, all the while, he remained depressed and downcast. I can understand this well, but, then, doesn’t he trust me? There’s no room for further anxiety. The smell of mulukhiya soup is floating about in the apartment. It really whets my appetite.

Is Father asleep on the sofa? His head is drooping slowly but surely. He smiles affectionately. You have grown weaker and frailer. Damn that rheumatism! Muhtashimi Bey, my darling one’s grandfather, is ten years older but ten times stronger. Mama’s voice announces that lunch is ready. I like mulukhiya soup. Mama, though, doesn’t think much of my appetite.

“When one is thin, one cannot fight off diseases,” she often tells me.

“Obesity is just as hazardous,” I answer her.

“

Stubborn…

if I say aye, she says nay.”

Mama is obese and has always been so. She prays seated on the sofa.

just

because of that, I’m careful about what I eat. She thinks she is well-off just because she has an income of twenty- five pounds a month. She may have been right as far as those legendary days she tells us about

go

. But, nowadays, how much are her income, Papa’s pension, and my salary combined worth?!

Papa has just inserted his dental apparatus which he uses only when he eats. He starts to eat slowly, complaining of the bitter cold. Sanaa, my sister — a divorcee who shares my room — has come to join us too. She’s taking secretarial courses in a private institute in the hope of finding a job. She doesn’t want to be a burden on anyone. After lunch, I lay on my bed and again recalled the lukewarm kiss. I don’t like this. It’s an insult or almost so. If this is repeated, I’ll tell him frankly not to kiss me unless he really feels like it and when he isn’t preoccupied with anything other than his love for me. What remains now but love? I take care of him as though I’m his mother and he’s a spoiled, rebellious child. Oh, if only he could have been an engineer! He would probably have been among the heroes of the Infitah rather than one of its victims. He’s also a victim of June 1967 and the disappearance of the vanquished hero. He’s confused and uncommitted. But for how much longer will this go on? He’s contemptuous of those who have preceded him and believes he’s better than the whole lot of them. Why? When will he start looking at himself critically and objectively?

Maybe this is my job, my role, but then — again — I’m worried about the only thing that remains: our love. I love him and love is irrational. I want him, heart and soul. How? When? My sister Sanaa made a love

match,

was content with her secondary-school certificate, with being a housewife, and having a landed young gentleman for a husband. But it didn’t work out and love simply died. As usual, accusing fingers were pointed at the other party. But she’s a nervous person and erupts like a volcano for the most trivial reasons. Who can tolerate that?! It’s for this reason that I try not to fly into a temper much the same way as I’m careful about what I eat. When will that damned happiness be possible? How long can beauty hold out against the whips and lashes of time?

No, I only know I had fallen asleep because of the dream I had. It was afternoon when I woke up. I cuddled my cat for a moment, then I performed the noon and afternoon prayers at one go. I have Mama to thank, for she has been my religious mentor. As for Papa, Mama is happy with her lot though, despite the age difference between them, and in spite of Papa’s atheism! Do you remember how you used to reproach him in the early days?

“Papa, why don’t you fast like the rest of us?”

“The little one is reproaching her father,” he would say as he laughed.

“Don’t you fear God?”

“Health, my dear.

Don’t be misled by appearances.”

“And prayers, Papa?”

“Oh! I’ll talk to you about that when you grow older.”

That’s not how things are at my sweetheart’s. His grandfather, father, and mother pray and fast. My father’s atheism is as obvious today as the fact that he is old and in poor health. He has never uttered a skeptical word but his behavior is proof enough. In his fits of anger, he curses religion. He may have repented and asked God’s forgiveness for my sake or for Mother’s, but it’s no more than a slogan like the rest of those hollow slogans that the authorities hurl at us. A nauseating age of slogans! Even the late hero never tired of reiterating slogans. Between the slogans and the truth is an abyss in which we have all fallen and lost ourselves.

But how about my sweetheart?

Religious?

Nonreligious?

Committed?

Uncommitted?

Alyaa Samih?

Mahmoud al-Mahruqi?

Oh!

he’s

my sweetheart and that’s enough. The rest is me and my luck! He’s forever in quest of something lost. Had there been a solution to our problem, he would have been able to take it easy and rest. Meanwhile, he hurls himself against rocks and clutches at thin air.

Here we are, all together in the living room: my father with his poor health, his problems of old age, and his atheistic ways; Mama with her excessive obesity and the worries of others; Sanaa with her dissatisfaction with her lot and her painful feeling of alienation; and me and my chronic problem. On the face of it, my parents have accomplished their mission, hut how ironical! Here I am, again besieged by that silent inquisition. What then after an engagement that has lasted eleven years? Is there no glimmer of hope?

“Let her go on waiting until she’s widowed and still only engaged,” says Sanaa in her shrill voice.

“It’s nothing to do with you,” I tell her firmly.

“Randa, keep reminding him or else he’ll forget,” Mama says.

“We’re living with our worries day in, day out, so there’s no point in reminding him.” And then, more sharply: “I am of age and have made my choice of my own free will, and I will not regret anything.”

“Randa is old enough and can take care of herself,” says my father, annoyed.

“We’ve lost so many good opportunities,” Mama says with regret.

“I’m not a slave girl on sale at the market!” I retort in a proud tone.

“I am your mother, and irreproachable. I got married in the old-fashioned way and have, thank God, made a good match.”

“Look, Mama, every generation has its own style, but ours has been by far the unluckiest of them all.”

“There was a time when people ate dogs, donkeys, and children. Then people started eating each other!” says my father with a smile.

“Let’s hope we’ll fare better than that age of cannibalism,” I retorted bitterly.

“For heaven’s sake, the TV series has started,” my father cried out in an attempt to change the subject.

The theme tune of which I am so fond wafted me out of my conflict. Thanks to its magical power, I was able to conjure up my sweetheart who seemed to drop out of the blue and seat himself beside me. I was suddenly transformed into a dreamy-eyed woman with a profound understanding of married life. I fought back a treacherous tear which was on the verge of disgracing me. Is life possible without him?

“The heroes of TT series are really lucky! They find the solution to their problems in no time!” said Mama.

Muhtashimi Zayed

In my solitude, I wait. I tighten the robe around my frail body and rearrange the bonnet on my bald head. I stroke my mustache and, in my solitude, I wait. God does not ask a person more than he can give. The doorbell rings. I open the door and in walks Umm Ali in a gray coat and a white veil wrapped around her plump, tanned face.

“How are you, sir?”

“Fine, Umm Ali, praised he the Lord.”