The day the leader was killed

“Would killing a million people

he

good enough?”

“Killing just one person would be good enough!” she said, laughing.

“Today you’re Randa al-Mahruqi,” I said, laughing too.

My boss, Anwar Allam, summons me to his room and asks me to visit him at home at five o’clock in the afternoon so as to undertake a comprehensive revision before drawing up the end-of-year accounts. I told Randa about it. She made no comments.

His flat is in a fairly new building in Dokki facing one of the entrances to the October 6th Bridge. He greeted me cheerfully, clad in suit and all.

“Don’t be taken aback by the grandeur of the flat. You see, my sister lives with me and she’s a rich widow,” he said, as though he were trying to dispel any potential suspicions.

Everyone today is suspect. We worked assiduously until eight o’clock. Meanwhile, the widow walked in to serve tea. He introduced us, presenting her as “my sister Gulstan.” From the very first glance, I felt I was in the presence of a woman who was forty to fifty years old, not bad looking, a little on the plump side hut pleasantly so, and quite attractive in spite — or rather because — of her poise and sense of decorum. She did not sit down but just said, as she was getting ready to leave:

“Ask your guest to stay for dinner with us.”

“That’s an order!” said Anwar Allam.

Dinner consisted of grilled meat, diverse salads, cheese, and olives, followed by custard pudding and apples. As we were having dinner, I could hear Anwar Allam saying:

“I handle her affairs, for she has inherited from her husband two buildings and investment certificates.”

I was struck by the fact that he wanted to let me know what she actually owned. I imagined more than one reason for his doing so. Then — on a compassionate note — he went on to tell her all about the problems involved in my engagement.

“This is how it is for an entire generation.”

“What makes matters worse is that Elwan is a man of principles!” said the man.

'It’s wonderful to hear that. To have principles is the most important thing in the world,” she said with admiration.

Her tone is indubitably sincere. I find her most attractive. I turn into gunpowder when I’m excited. I really do have problems this way.

“My sister is perfect from all points of view except for one thing on which we disagree, and that is, her turning down more than one good offer of marriage,” said Anwar.

“I’m not to be bought and sold. Besides, those are not men,” she said calmly.

“A woman’s fortune is a legitimate asset, and this shouldn’t he taken against the man as long as he gives her her due, and then there are all the other advantages,” remarked Anwar Allam.

“No man is to be trusted nowadays,” said Madame Gulstan.

“Excuse me, sir, but why are you still not married?” I asked my boss in an attempt to change the subject.

“For many reasons,” he answered somewhat vaguely.

“He’s wrong, for he could easily get married,” added Gulstan, noticing that he hadn’t mentioned a single reason.

He then went on to ask me about my family and Randa’s. My answers were frank but curt.

“Randa is a wonderful girl but time is getting the better of her,” he said.

A stab, and what a stab! Was it deliberate or accidental? Anyway, it ruined the evening for me. Neither did things get any better when Gulstan said:

“One’s real age is measured in terms of love.”

I left the house, furious at the man and roused by his sister.

Randa Sulayman Mubarak

Anwar Allam signed the letters I had translated and I was on the point of leaving when he leaned back on his swivel chair and said:

“Miss Randa, I have a story that will interest you.”

I wonder what it

is?

“She was a young doctor engaged for many years to a colleague of hers, also a doctor. They despaired of ever getting married and broke off their engagement. She then married a rich merchant from Wikalat al-Balah and consented to stay at home as a simple housewife,” he said.

“Why do you think this story would interest me?” I asked him calmly, although I was both astounded and indignant.

“What do you think of this woman doctor?” he asked me, ignoring my question.

“I can’t judge someone about whose circumstances I know nothing,” I answered somewhat dryly.

“I consider her smart: better a housewife than a doctor who’s a spinster!”

I took leave of him with a look of utter indignation. He eyed me covetously in a way that simply cannot be ignored. In fact, he’s a burden on us both — Elwan and me.

On Friday morning, we went to the Pyramids Resthouse. That was after his visit to Anwar Allam. It’s truly cold but the sun is out, and here we are looking from up above onto the city, which looks great, calm, and vast, as though free from worries and dirt.

“How was your visit to the Right Honorable Director?” I asked as we were having our tea.

He told me all about it in some detail and succeeded in ruining that lovely morning for me.

“It doesn’t seem to have been much of a business call,” I said.

“But we did work for three consecutive hours.”

“You know what I mean,” I said defiantly.

“He’s a nerve-wracking person,” he said angrily.

“And his sister?”

“Poised and reasonable.

I respect her as one would one’s own mother.”

“And did she treat you as a son?” I asked, laughing coldly.

“Randa, am I being accused and tried?” he inquired on a note of protest.

“God forbid!” I retorted quickly.

I then told him what had gone on between us in his office. He frowned and cried out, “I shall ask him not to interfere in what doesn’t concern him.”

“It would be wiser to simply ignore him so that the relationship between you both does not deteriorate,” I pleaded.

“The problem is that my position vis-à-vis you

is

weak, and I don’t know how to defend it,” he said resentfully.

“You’re not being accused and I’m not asking you to put up a defense,” I said gently.

“I’m responsible for this and I feel unhappy.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“But he’s a miserable wretch, and is dearly up to something.”

“Disregard him and his cheap, vile ways.” We grew silent for a while, seeking refuge in nature until I could hear his plaintive voice saying:

“It’s as though we’ve forgotten all about love.”

“We don’t need more of it,” I said, concealing my own unhappiness.

“I love you,” he said, casting a look of desire in my direction.

“I love you,” I said, touched to the core.

“I wonder what grand adventure is in store for us now that we’re in need of money?” he remarked, perplexed.

“Maybe you’ll discover you have the talent of a young premier on the screen?” I said, smiling.

“How about you?

Have you tested your voice, even if only under the shower?” We laughed in spite of our worries.

“The problem isn’t just one of salary; it’s a problem of both key money and furniture,” he said.

“Al-Mahruqi simply got married, but he’s living in a camp with his sect,” he continued after a period of