The day the leader was killed

“I have come to hate myself,” he then said angrily.

“This may be the sign of a new birth,” I said jokingly.

“Or a new death,” he replied sarcastically.

“Let our conversation center on life not death!” I cried.

“Death is also life!” he retorted sharply.

And I could hear the echoing of the glorious Sura:

Whosoever is guided is guided only to

his own

gain, and whosoever goes astray, it is only to his own loss.

Elwan Fawwaz Muhtashimi

My pride wounded and my heart broken, I wander aimlessly about like a stray dog. The heat does away with the pleasures of walking. Café Riche is a refuge from the pain of loneliness. I sit and order a cup of coffee, and prick up my ears. This is a temple where offerings are made to the late hero, who has become a symbol of lost hope, hope for the poor and the alienated. Here, too, torrents of indignation are poured upon the hero of victory and peace, victory that has turned out to be but a dirty game, and peace, surrender.

All this within earshot of Israeli tourists.

I find solace in just sitting there listening.

If this kind of talk disturbs you, then just take a look at the street. Watch the passersby closely: ceaseless, uninterrupted, brisk motion. Sullen faces. What do they conceal? Men, women, children, and even pregnant women no longer stay at home: the tragic or the comic sums them all up. Furniture stores and boutiques are all crammed with goods. How many nations live side by side in this one nation? The lights in the square are bright and nerve- wracking, and equally exasperating are the bottles of mineral water on the tables of tourists.

And what about us.

What do we drink? And then the weirdest songs blast out from crazy radio stations in taxicabs. Only the trees and buildings remain the same. Some speech on the radio is being broadcast from some place. Lies fill the air and mingle with the dust. Fatigue, fatigue… Let’s return to the gossip: a tiny place falling in ruins selling for a hundred thousand pounds, academic crimes in university circles. How many millionaires are there?

Relatives and parasites, smugglers and pimps.

Shiites and Sunnis.

Stories far better than the A Thousand and One Nights.

The waiter has a story and so does the shoe-shine boy. When will the famine begin? Open bribes at top voice.

The confiscation of lands.

And who will cause sectarian rifts to flare up again? The People’s Assembly was a place for dancing; it has now become a place for singing.

Imports with no transfer of funds.

Different kinds of cheese.

New banks.

What do eggs cost today?

The showering of banknotes on singers and dancers in nightclubs on the Pyramid Road simply as a token of appreciation.

And the breaking up of the engagement! What did the Imam of the mosque say within earshot of the soldiers of the Central Security Forces? No public lavatory in the entire district. Why don’t we rent it furnished? He’s nothing but a failed actor.

My friend Begin; my friend Kissinger.

The uniform is Hitler’s; the act, Charlie Chaplin’s. Total silence as a woman coming up the street proceeds toward a brothel behind the café. A parallel is drawn between the swelling of her buttocks and public inflation in general. An optimist insists that she works in order to amass the necessary funds for her doctoral dissertation and that her heart is as good as gold. A homosexual proposes homosexuality as a means of solving the crisis of love among the classes with a fixed income and also as a means of achieving the objectives of family planning.

A return to the Arabs and war, an everlasting war, and woe unto the agents of normalization.

Enough, enough! There’s little time for dallying. Trying to escape from you is futile, Randa. Love sickness is cured only slowly and I’m afraid that it might be one of those chronic illnesses. The only consolation in my having harmed her is that I have been twice as hard on myself.

Looking at my parents at dinnertime, I quite envied them. Work has relieved them of many worries: work has consumed them. That’s a good thing. Not as I had imagined.

“Spare us this talk of yourself and the country! You would imagine we were toiling away just for your sake. Solve your own problems by yourself and let God handle those of the country,” they told me quite firmly.

I can still recall my father’s enthusiasm. He hailed the Revolution, mourned its defeat, and was quite ruined by the Infitah.

“The days go by and I find time neither for a haircut nor for paring my fingernails,” I have heard him say. “I shove myself into the bus and draw Hanaa close to me to shield her from the eyes of the hungry. On Friday — our day off — obligations pile up: one must find time for a bath, for condolences, for apologies, and then there’s just one hour left for relaxation, during which I’m swamped by your worries and those of the country.”

In my state of confusion, I run into my professor at the Graduates’ Club. Professor Alyaa, I have broken off my engagement. She thinks it is wrong, and asks me to arrange for a meeting between her and the two of us. Farewell, Professor! Gone are the days of idle talk. I promise you I shall be a staunch enemy of words for the rest of my life. It seems to me that al-Mahruqi has solved his problems by simply defecting. He believes he has had the upper hand, manipulating the times to serve his own ends. What has he done with himself? He has learned the skills of plumbing and has thrown his certificate in the nearest dustbin. I asked him: How about the store?

“I walk about carrying a bag of tools and cry out:

Plumber! Plumber! On the spot, I’m showered with requests for repairs. I shall soon be richer than Sayyidna Zubayr,” he said, not smiling, for rarely does he smile.

“I invite you to join a new religion called Islam, that is, ‘surrender.”

When I found myself alone in the company of Anwar Allarn, he said:

“I’m sorry but I think you did the right thing. Now the world will be a happier place for you.”

A few weeks later, he asked me to stop over at his Dokki flat for some urgent work. When the job was done, he invited me to dinner. I had been expecting that from the very start. Nor was I surprised when Gulstan joined us. She intimated in passing that she was sorry about the engagement. Then the conversation centered on modern singing. Anwar Allam made us listen to a variety of tapes.

“You seem to like it, sir.”

“To say the least, I don’t dislike it,” he remarked casually.

Gulstan and I exchanged fleeting glances which revealed unconcealed sympathy: warm, deep, and furtive. She makes no attempt to hide her charm or poise, as though she were telling me: I’m a virtuous woman but I cannot help exuding charm. How about this for feminine wiles besetting young men? As far as I’m concerned, it’s first and foremost a matter of hunger. She may consider me a lamb, but I myself eye her more like a wolf. What a relief if she would only consent to become my mistress!

But how, when, and where?

“In a month’s time, at the very most, Gulstan’s new villa will be ready and she’ll move in, leaving me here all alone,” said Anwar Allam.

To keep the conversation going, I asked:

“Why don’t you move in with her, sir?”

“I’m thinking of getting my flat ready for settling down. It’s about time I got married!” he replied.

Randa Sulayman Mubarak

Time begets hope: it too brings about both death and life. Some day the microbe will be killed and recovery will be in sight. God will not forsake a true believer. Now we actually talk to each other and collaborate as would two colleagues working in the same office, like colleagues, indeed, but also like strangers who have never tasted the sweetness of a kiss. And sometimes, like me, he invites pity. I no longer condemn him but neither do I respect him. I am now involved in a new experience:

Anwar Allam. He is unusually friendly, addressing me in a flirtatious fashion that spells out admiration and sympathy. I have expectations. I sit and brood. My pride will not give in to defeat. Mother now considers the truce to be over and thinks that it is time she spoke up.

“I heard that Ibrahim Bey is ready to propose again,” she said one day as we were sitting together in the living room. He’s an elderly man, the owner of a mining factory, who had proposed two years ago and was turned down. She seems to have noticed that I was annoyed.