The day the leader was killed

“Winter doesn’t seem to want to spare us.”

Typical of one for

whom

time is money, she takes off her coat, hangs it on the hanger near the door, and marches into Fawwaz and Hanaa’s bedroom. I follow her as I have been told to do. I sit on a chair and watch her as she

sweeps,

dusts, cleans, polishes, and puts things in order.

Energetic and light in spite of her corpulence.

They’re afraid she might steal something.

Unjustified suspicions, a vestige of the past.

Umm Ali’s hour is worth one pound. She buzzes around from house to house like a bee. Her income exceeds our combined salaries. But I enjoy being alone with her: a weekly diversion which brings back reminiscences of a bygone dream. Being alone with her disrupts the daily routine.

Thus, divided by the time factor, the old “I” comes face-to-face with the present “I” as they attempt — but fail — to communicate in two very different languages. Then, from its old reserves, the heart steals a fleeting heartbeat whose lifespan lasts but thirty seconds. When she bends forward to unroll the carpet, I imagine that I have gently pinched her.

just

a figment of my imagination, for I am completely in control of myself, and she has no qualms whatsoever about me. In fact, she is very much like a man as far as energy, strength, and tenacity go. O God, forgive us should we forget or err.

Enjoying the fact that I am alone with her, I ask, “How is the Master?”

“God help him!”

“And the children?”

“They’ve all emigrated; only the idiot remains. What’s the latest with your landlord?” she asks with a laugh.

“He gave up and is now keeping quiet.”

“Who would’ve thought land would one day go mad the way human beings do!”

“Madness is the origin of all things, Umm Au.”

How I love to be alone with you. God forbid! It reminds me of the days of tree-lined Khayrat Street, under the spell of liberal, imported ideas: the mischief of hooligans, and then Fikriya and Ratiba, the two nurses. Life is made up of

seasons,

and to each its special flavor. Bless those who have loved life for what it is: God’s world.

“I envy you for being so fit, Muhtashimi,” Sulayman Mubarak, Randa’s father, told me one day when I was visiting him.

“Heredity and faith, my dear Mr. Sulayman,” I retorted confidently.

Looking in my direction, he inquired slyly:

“Am I to understand that the likes of you believes in fairy tales?”

“God guides whomsoever He wishes.”

“Does that imply that, at some point in the past, you were not an atheist?”

“Inherited faith, doubt, atheism, rationalism, skepticism,

then

faith!”

“An open buffet?” he inquired ironically.

“Rather a life that is complete.”

I am proud of being the steadfast sort, happy with next to nothing, and a worshiper of truth. I have implored Zeinab that, when the time comes, there should he no obituary, no funeral, no funeral services, and no mourning.

“The point is that you have grown old and death is now in sight.”

A sterile dialogue.

Say, truth has come and falsity has vanished. The false was hound to vanish. My friend is living in an empty world whilst I am living in a world peopled by loved ones. God forbid! What a visit, that visit of Umm Ali’s. What is to become of poor Elwan?

Lost amid a circus of crooks.

I talk to him about the good old days in the hope that he would eventually give up on a buffoon who used to let out ten sterile slogans every time he as much as opened his mouth.

Umm Ali is through with her work. She washes her hands and face, puts on her gray coat, and glances at her wristwatch to calculate her due. I give her the money.

“Keep well, sir,” she says as she leaves.

“Good-bye, Umm Ali.

Don’t forget our next appointment.”

Back to loneliness.

I walk about in the apartment now that it has become difficult for me to walk in the street.

The Quran and songs.

Bless you who have invented the radio and television.

Okra and macaroni for lunch.

God has enabled me to derive joy from the act of worship. He has also made me fond of food.

What solitude am I talking about with the world around me packed with millions of people? I love life but will also welcome death when the time comes. So many of my ex-pupils have now become ministers! No monasticism in Islam. Life’s but a walking shadow on a summer’s day, seeking shelter under the shade of a tree for an hour or so and then is heard no more. I often tell my beloved grandson stories about the past in the hope that he will, for a moment, set aside his woes. I try to encourage him to read hut he reads very little. He listens to me in amazement as one who would want to believe what he hears. Forget about Alyaa Samih and Mahmoud al-Mahruqi! Haven’t circumstances dampened your faith in your country and in democracy? And why this incomprehensible attachment to a hero long since dead and vanquished?

“So that the world appears not empty, Grandpa.”

I have drawn your attention to things of utmost beauty.

“All I want now is an apartment and a decent dowry,” he says with a laugh.

How can I forget the woes of the world when I think of my beloved grandson? The miracles of holy men are verily a wondrous thing!

Elwan Fawwaz Muhtashimi

Our times have taught me to think. They have also taught me to be contemptuous of everything and suspicious of everything. Should I happen to read about a project which buoys one’s spirits and gives one hope, then, all too soon, the truth is revealed arid it turns out to be just another dirty trick. Should one let the ship sink? It’s just a Mafia which controls us, no more, no less! Where are the good old days? There were, no doubt, some good days. I, too, have known them, the days when my sisters were living in our apartment and it was full of life and warmth. And there were no heavy burdens then. We could also feel the presence of my father and mother at home.

In those days, there was a dialogue of sorts and laughter, the excitement of studies and the illusion of heroism. We are the people. We chose you from the very heart of the people. Love was a bouquet of roses wrapped tip in hope. We lost our very first leader, our very first prima donna. Another leader — one diametrically opposed — then comes along to extricate us from our defeat and, in so doing, ruins for us the joy of victory.

One victory for two defeats.

We chose you from the very heart of the people.

My sweetheart pulls the hook out of the water; it is empty but the hook pierces my thumb which leaves an indelible mark, one that has remained to this very day. On the banks of the River Nile in front of our home, I told her that she was no good at fishing but that she had hooked me all the same, and I have bled. A slow and gradual change took place as friendship turned to love just like the sudden budding of the leaves on a tree at the beginning of spring, something you can only see if you look very carefully. Femininity, cheeks abloom, and the embroidery on the bodice of her dress: a language in which words say one thing and imply another.

Innocence gave way to negotiations and supplications for just a peck on the cheek or lips. The sweetest fruit on the tree: manners, brains, and beauty. It annoys me sometimes that she will appear the more rational of the two. I will never forget the look in her eyes when I confessed that I could not possibly opt for the “sciences” at school: a long dialogue which never actually materialized hut one which has always remained there, lurking in some corner. Our families have both fallen in the abyss of the Infitah. What grieves me most would be to see you unable to wear the type of clothes that match your beauty. What responsibilities lie ahead!

“Let’s amuse ourselves by counting our enemies,” I once told her at the Pyramids Resthouse.

“The Infitah monster and those expert crooks,” she said, joining in the game.