Although there was an unmistakable look of belief and dismay in his eyes, the father rejected the news, shouting, “Fahmy?”
“He fell a martyr in the demonstration today.”
The boy on his right said, “A noble patriot and sterling martyr was conveyed to a world of pious souls.”
Their words fell on ears deafened by misery. His lips were sealed and his (ryes gazed blankly and vacantly. They were all silent for a time. Even Jamil al-Hamzawi was frozen to the spot where he stood beneath the shelves, looking dazed and staring at his employer with sorrowful eyes. Finally the young man murmured, “His loss has deeply saddened us, but we have no choice but to submit to God's decree with the patient endurance of Believers, of whom you, sir, are one.”
“They are offering you their condolences,” al-Sayyid Ahmad realized. “Doesn't this young man know that I excel in offering condolences in circumstances like these? What meaning do they have for an afflicted heart? None! How could words put out the fire? Not so fast…. Didn't your heart feel something was dreadfully wrong even before he spoke? Yes… the specter of death appeared before my eyes. Now that death is a reality, as you hear, you refuse to believe it. How can I believe that Fahmy is really dead? How can you believe that Fahmy, who requested your approval just hours ago, when you were short with him Fahmy, who was full of health, good spirits, hope, and happiness when we left home this morning - is dead? Dead! I'll never see him again at home or anywhere else on the face of the earth? How can I have a home without him? How can I be a father if he's gone? What has become of all the hopes attached to him? The only hope left is patience…. Patience? Oh…. Do you feel the searing pain? This really is pain. You were mistaken previously when you occasionally claimed to be in pain. No, before today you've never known pain. This is pain….”
“Sir, be strong and turn your concerns over to God.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad looked up at the young man. Then in a sick voice he said, “I thought the time for killing had passed.”
The youth answered angrily, “The demonstration today was peaceful. The authorities had given permission for it. Top men from all walks of life participated in it. At first it proceeded safely, until the middle section reached Ezbekiya Garden. Before we knew what was happening, bullets fell upon us from behind the wall, for no reason at all. No one had confronted the soldiers in any manner. We had even forbidden any chants in English to avoid provoking them. The soldiers were suddenly stricken by an insane impulse to kill. They got their rifles and opened fire. Everyone has agreed to send a strong protest to the British Residency. It's even been said that Allenby will announce his regrets for what the soldiers did.”
In the same sick tone, the proprietor complained, “But he will not bring the dead back to life.”
“Alas, no.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad, racked by distress, said, “He's never participated in any of the violent demonstrations. This was the first demonstration he took part in.”
The young men looked knowingly at each other but did not utter a word. Al-Sayyid Ahmad seemed to be growing impatient with the way they were separating him from Fahmy and the rest of the world. He moaned and said, “The matter's in God's hands. Where can I find him now?”
The young man answered, “In the Qasr al-Ayni Hospital”. When he saw that the proprietor was in a hurry to leave, he gestured for him to wait. “There will be a funeral procession for him and thirteen of his fellow martyrs at exactly three o'clock tomorrow afternoon.”
The father cried out in distress, “Won't you allow me to begin his funeral procession at his home?”
The young man said forcefully, “No, his funeral will be with his brothers in a public ceremony”. Then he entreated the man, “Qasr al-Ayni js cordoned off by the police. It would be better to wait. We intetid to allow the families of the martyrs to pay their last respects to them in private before the funeral procession. It would not be right for Fahmy to have an ordinary funeral like a person who dies at home”. In parting he held his hand out to the bereaved father and said, “Endure patiently. Endurance is from God.”
The others shook hands with al-Sayyid Ahmad, repeating their condolences. Then they all departed. He leaned hishead on his hand and closed his eyes. He heard the voice of Jamil al-Hamzawi offering his condolences in a sobbing voice, but he seemed distressed by kind words. He could not bear to stay there. He left his seat and moved slowly out of the store, walking with heavy steps. He had to get over his bewilderment. He did not even know how to feel sad. He wanted to be all alone, but where? The house would turn into an inferno in a minute or two. His friends would rally round him, leaving him no opportunity to think. When would be ponder the losshe had undergone? When would he have a chance to get away from everyone? That seemed a long way off, but it would no doubt come. It was the most consolation he could hope for at present. Yes, a time would come when he would be all alone and could devote himself to his sorrow with all his soul. Then he would scrutinize Fahmy's life in light of the past, present, and future, all the stages from childhood to the prime of his youth, the hopeshe had aroused and the memorieshe had left behind, giving free rein to tears so he could totally exhaust them. Truly he had before him ample time that no one would begrudge him. There was no reason to be concerned about that. Consider the memory of the quarrel they had had after the Friday prayer at al-Husayn or that of their conversation that morning, when Fahmy had appealed for his affection and he had reprimanded him how much of his time would they require as he reflected, remembered, and grieved? How much of hisheart would they consume? How many tears would they stir up? How could he be distressed when the future held such consolations for him? He raised hishead, which was clouded by thought, and saw the blurred outline of the latticed balconies of his home. He remembered Amina for the first time and his feet almost failed him. What could he say to her? How would she take the news? She was weak and delicate. She wept at the death of a sparrow. “Do you recall how her tears flowed when the son of al-Fuli, the milkman, was killed? What will she do now that Fahmy's been killed…. Fahmy killed? Is this really the end of your son? O dear, unhappy son!… Amina… our son was killed. Fahmy was killed…. What? … Will you forbid them to wail just as you previously forbade them to trill with joy? Will you wail yourself or hire professional mourners? She's probably now at the coffee hour with Yasin and Kamal, wondering what has kept Fahmy. How cruel! I'll see him at Qasr al-Ayni Hospital, but she won't. I won't allow it. Out of cruelty or compassion? What's the use, anyway?”
He found himself in front of the door and stretched his hand toward the knocker. Then he remembered the key in his pocket. He took it out and opened the door. When he entered, he heard Kamal's voice singing melodiously:
Visit me once each year, For it's wrong to abandon people forever.
PALACE OF DESIRE
72
AL-SAYYID AHMAD ABD AL-JAWAD closed the door behind him and crossed the courtyard of his house by the pale light of the stars. His step was lethargic, and his walking stick sank into the dusty earth whenever he leaned on it wearily. He felt on fire and craved cold water so he could wash his face, head, and neck and escape, if only briefly, from the July heat and from the inferno in his belly and head. Cheered by the thought of cool water, he smiled. When he entered the door leading to the stairway, he could see a faint light coming from above. It flowed along the wall, revealing the motion of the hand that held the lamp. He climbed the steps with one hand on the railing and the other on his stick. Its successive taps had long ago acquired a special rhythm, which identified him as easily as his features. Amina was visible at the head of the stairs with the lamp in her hand. On reaching her, he stopped to regain his breath, for his chest washeaving. Then he greeted her in his customary way: “Good evening.”
Preceding him with the lamp, Amina murmured, “Good evening, sir.”
Once inside his room he rushed to the sofa and collapsed. Letting go of his stick and taking off his fez, he threw hishead back and stretched out his
legs. The sides of his cloak fell open, and the caftan underneath rode up to reveal the legs of his long underwear tucked into his socks. He shut his eyes and wiped his forehead, cheeks, and neck with a handkerchief.
After placing the lamp on a table, Amina waited for him to rise so she could help remove his clothes. She looked at him with anxious concern. She wished she had the courage to ask him not to stay out so late now that hishealth could no longer shrug off excesses but she did not know how to express her sad thoughts.
A few minutes passed before he opened his eyes. Then he extracted the gold watch from his caftan and took off his diamond ring to place them both in his fez. When he stood up to remove his cloak and caftan with Amina's assistance, his body seemed as tall, broad, and full as ever, although the hair at his temples had been assailed by gray. When he was putting hishead in the neck of his white house shirt, a smile suddenly got the better of him. He remembered how Mr. Ali Abd al-Rahim had vomited at their party thc.t evening and had apologized for his weakness, attributing it to an upset stomach. They had all singled out their friend, upbraiding him and asserting that he could no longer tolerate alcohol, for only a special kind of man could keep on drinking to the end of his life, and so forth. He remembered the anger and vehemence of Mr. Ali in defending himself against this suspicion. How amazing that some people lent importance to such trivial matters. … But if it were not important, then why had he himself boasted in the merry hubbub that he could drink a whole tavern of wine without ill effects?
He sat down again and lifted his feet so that his wife could take off his shoes and socks. Then she disappeared briefly, returning with a basin and a pitcher. She poured the water for him while he washed iis face and neck and rinsed out his mouth. Afterwardshe sat with his legs folded beneath him, enjoying the gentle breeze ilowing between the latticed balcony and the window overlooking the courtyard.
“What an atrocious summer we're having this year!”
Pullirg the pallet out from under the bed and sitting cross-legged on it at his feet, Amina replied, “May our Lord be gracious to us”. She sighed and continued: “The whole world's a blazing pyre, especially the oven room. The roof terrace is the only place you can breathe in summer - once the sun has set.”
She sat there as usual, but time had changed her. She had grown thin, and her face seemed longer, if only because her cheeks were hollow. The locks of hair that escaped from her scarf were turning gray and made her seem older than she was. The beauty spot on her chee k had grown slightly larger. In addition to their customary]ook of submission, her eyes now revealed a mournful absent-mindedness. Her anguish over the changes that had befallen her was considerable, although at first she had welcomed them as an expression of her grief. Then she had begun to wonder anxiously if she might not need her health to get through the remainder of her life. Yes… and the others needed her to be healthy too, but how could everything be put back the way it was before? And she was older, if not old enough to warrant such a transformation. Still, her age had to make a difference.
Night after night she had stood on the balcony observing the street through the wooden grille. What she could see of the street had not altered, but change had crept through her.
The voice of the waiter at the coffeehouse echoed through their silent room. She smiled and stole a glance at al-Sayyid Ahmad.
She dearly loved this street, which stayed awake all night keeping her heart company. It was a friend but ignorant of the heart that loved it through the shutters of the enclosed balcony. Its features filled her mind, and its evening inhabitants were live voices inhabiting her ears like this waiter who never stopped talking, the person with the hoarse voice who commented on the events of the day without getting tired or annoyed, the man with the nervous voice trying his luck at cards with the seven of diamonds and the jack, and the father of Haniya - the little girl with whooping cough - who night after night would reply when asked about her, “Our Lord will be able to cure her”. Oh … the balcony seemed to be her special corner of the coffeehouse. Memories of the street paraded before her imagination while her eyes remained fixed on the man'shead, which was leaning against the back of the sofa. When the flow of remembered images stopped, she concentrated her attention on her husband. She noticed that the sides of his face were bright red, the way she had grown accustomed to seeing them of late when he returned home. She was uncomfortable about it and asked him apprehensively, “Sir, are you well?”
He held hishead up and muttered, “Well, praise God”. Then he added, “But the weather's atrocious.”
Clear raisin liqueur was the best drink in summer. That was what they had repeatedly told him, but he could not stand it. For him it was whiskey or nothing. Thus every day he had to put up with summer hangovers, and it was a ferocious summer. He had really laughed hard that evening. He had laughed until the veins of his neck were sore. But what had all the laughter been about? He could hardly remember. There seemed to be nothing to relate or repeat. Yet the atmosphere of their party had been charged with such a sympathetic electricity that a touch had sufficed to set off a flash. The moment Mr. Ibrahim al-Far had said, “Alexandria set sail from Sa'd Zaghlul Pasha today heading for Paris,” reversing his words, they had all burst out laughing, since they considered the remark an exquisite example of a slip of the tongue caused by intoxication.
They had been quick to add, “He will continue negotiating until he regains hishealth, when he will set sail for the invitation in response to the London he received from” or “He will receive Ramsay MacDonald from the independence of the agreement” and “He will return with Egypt for independence”. They had begun to discuss the anticipated negotiations, larding their comments with whatever jests they saw fit.
Vast as his world of friends was, it really boiled down to three: Muhammad Iffat, Ali Abd al-Rahim, and Ibrahim al-Far. Could he imagine the world's existence without them? The way their faces lit up with genuine joy when they saw him made him happier than anything else could. His dreamy eyes met Amina's inquisitive ones. As though to remind her of something extremely important, he said, “Tomorrow.”
With a beaming face she replied, “How could I forget?”
He did not attempt to conceal his pride when he commented, “It's said that the baccalaureate results were awful this year.”
She smiled once more to share in his pride and said, “May our Lord make his efforts successful and let us live long enough to see him obtain his degree.”
“Did you go to Sugar Street today?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, “and I invited everyone. They'll all come except the old lady, who excused herself because she's so tired. Her two sons will congratulate Kamal on her behalf.”
Gesturing toward his cloak with his chin, al-Sayyid Ahmad said, “Today Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad brought me amulets for the children of Khadija and Aisha. His wish for me was: 'God willing, ['11 make you amulets for your grandchildren's children.'”
Shaking hishead, he smiled and continued, “Nothing's impossible for God. Shaykh Mutawalli himself is like iron even though he's in his eighties.”
“May our Lord grant you health and strength.”
He reflected for a time while he counted on his fingers. Then he observed, “If my father had lived, may God be compassionate to him, he would not have been much older than the shaykh.”
“May God have mercy on all those who have departed this life.”
Silence reigned until the impact of the reference to the dead had dissipated. As though remembering something important, the man said, “Zaynab's gotten engaged!”
Amina's eyes grew wide. She raised her head and asked, “Really?”
“Yes, Muhammad Iffat told me tonight.”
“Who is it?”
“A civil servant named Muhammad Hasan, who ishead of the records office in the Ministry of Education.”
She commented despondently, “It sounds as though he's advanced in years.”
“Not at all,” he objec
ted. “He's in his thirties, thirty-five, thirty-six, forty at the most”. He continued sarcastically, “She tried her luck with young men and failed. I mean young men with no backbone. Let her try her luck with mature men.”
Amina said sorrowfully, “Yasin would have been better for her, if only because of their son.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad shared her opinion, which he had defended for a long time with Muhammad Iffat. In order to conceal his failure, he did not mention that he agreed and said with annoyance, “Her father no longer trusts Yasin, and in truth he's not trustworthy. That's why I didn't insist on it. I was unwilling to exploit our friendship and make her father accept something that would end badly.”
Amina mumbled sympathetically, “A youthful mistake can be forgiven.”
Her husband felt he could acknowledge some portion of his unsuccessful effort and remarked, “I didn't neglect Yasin's rights but met with no encouragement. Muhammad Iffat told me, ‘My first reason for refusing is my concern that our friendship might be exposed to discord.’ He also said, would not be able to refuse a request from you, but our friendship is dearer to me than your request.' So I stopped talking about it.”
Muhammad Iffat had actually said that, but only to fend off al-Sayyid Ahmad's insistent urging. Because of his friend's high standing with him and in society, al-Sayyid Ahmad had been very keen to restore his bond with Muhammad Iffat, which was severed when their children were divorced. Although he could not hope to find a better wife for Yasin than Zaynab, he was forced to accept the calamity of divorce and remarriage, especially after his frien«i had told him bluntly at least part of what he knew of Yasin's private life. Muhammad Iffat had even remarked, “Don't tell me we're the same as Yasin. We differ in several respects, and the fact is that I have higher standards for my daughter Zaynab's husband than for her mother's.”
Arnim inquired, “Does Yasin know what's happened?”
The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street Page 62