A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore

by Mohamed Mansi Qandil

  Things quickly got out of hand. The newspapers broadcast the incident each from its own perspective. The French papers offered up peaceable French tourists whose only fault was to have asked for their money back, whereupon they were set upon by a wicked gang of Bedouins led by a conniving Englishman; the English papers, meanwhile, attempted to defend me, but their account of the events was vague. Mine was one voice against fifteen French voices, and the peasants had no voice at all. I wrote dozens of reports and procès-verbaux and went to a number of precincts for questioning, and each time everyone’s questions were settled, but the situation remained tense, until Lord Cromer himself summoned me to his office.

  I did not like to go and see this man. I felt that he treated me as if I were an Englishman fashioned from different clay. He sat there with his grimly set features, his expression haughty as he faced me. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed an immense file with my name on it, stuffed with papers and newspaper clippings. He looked weary and impatient. He listened to my brief report of the incident without interrupting or questioning me.

  At last he spoke. “You will go to Monsieur de la Pollinaire,” he said, “the French consul general, and apologize to him for what has happened.”

  “What is the sense of that?” I cried, stunned.

  Abruptly, out of patience, he replied, “It is the only way to close such a sticky case. We don’t want any more tension between ourselves and the French. Go and apologize, and let that be the end of it.”

  I inclined my head and withdrew. I had no intention of apologizing—this was the final humiliation for me: I was not about to abase myself before a bunch of drunken louts, no matter who they were, high-status employees or not. It was no concern of mine if one of them was the director of the gas company and another was the sister of the French consul and still another the comptroller for the Bureau of Finance. I was convinced I had done the right thing: I had defended myself and my men.

  I told no one of my intention, but everyone knew it when, as the days passed, I did not go to meet the consul. A great many people sent me letters entreating me to apologize, to relinquish my pride and thus avert a crisis. The news had reached Paris—the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was putting pressure on the consul, the consul was leaning on Lord Cromer, and he was leaning on me. But I was fed up, sick of it all. I had had enough of disappointments, and I had no wish to surrender what was left of my dignity.

  “And so,” said Aisha, “you didn’t apologize—is that right?” They were sitting on the edge of a wooden bench in the middle of a garden in Ismaïliyya Square. The vendors offering lupine-seed snacks and roasted corn had begun lighting torches; the area between the square and the bank of the Nile had filled entirely with splashes of light.

  “In spite of all the pressure everyone was putting on me,” he said, “I found that I couldn’t . . . nor did I want to apologize. Lord Cromer wouldn’t forgive me for that. He ordered my transfer to Tanta, far from everything I knew and cherished. The nature of the excavations I worked on changed—now it was all digging in silt, not the dry desert sand. And I uncovered nothing but the remains of animals, rather than of kings. I was all but suffocating, I felt like death every day. Lord Cromer had put my back to the wall, leaving me no alternative, as far as I could see, but to tender my resignation.”

  Silence fell between them. The street vendors still circled them in vain. Aisha felt how lost he was, and how lost she herself was as well: the two of them with no longer a piece of solid ground to stand upon. “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll wander about, and look and search—perhaps there will be another opportunity. I don’t want to return in defeat to my country in the north. I still have a dream . . .”

  “What dream is that?”

  “I’ll find someone to help me discover Akhenaten’s tomb. He is the greatest king of ancient times. Like me, he refused to allow others to determine his fate. He refused to submit to the gods that decreed the fate of humankind. He chose one lucid god: the light. He sought to find his own lost soul just as each of us must do.”

  Aisha was returning home alone by night, heading toward the high commissioner’s palace, while he set off in another direction. They didn’t know whether or not they would ever meet again, but she was thinking about him, and about that strange king of whom he had told her. The guards set about questioning her before allowing her to enter, but her mind was on other things—she was thinking that she was much in need of someone who could guide her and tell her what to do. She was in need of someone like Akhenaten.

  6Sayyida Zaynab

  THE DRIVER PULLED UP THE REINS. The horse stopped and whinnied softly. Aisha was jostled inside the carriage. She clutched her bag so as not to drop it—it contained all she had in the world: a few gold sovereigns she had snatched from the high commissioner’s palace. In her other hand she held a copy of the newspaper al-Liwa. Pointing out the building, the driver said, “This is the place, miss.”

  She hesitated before stepping down. She felt she had not yet sufficiently collected her wits, and she didn’t know how she was to conduct herself. She found herself in front of a black sign which, in gleaming white script, bore the words al-Liwa Publishing. The driver grumbled at the delay; it seemed she had no choice but to disembark and approach the entrance. She mounted the worn steps, which led only to a single door. She didn’t need to obtain permission to enter, for the door was open. She went in and found herself in a vast room full of men in European dress, all intent upon their work behind small desks stacked with papers. In the corner stood a little machine making a ceaseless racket. High up on the wall was a great sign reading, “He who lives for himself alone did not deserve to be born.” She read it aloud in an undertone, not noticing that everyone had stopped working and sat staring at her. Clearly it was the first time a woman had ventured into this place. One of the effendis approached her.

  “May I help you?” he asked. “Have you a complaint?”

  She was wearing an abaya, which covered her body, and she wore a small hat, but she had not put on a veil. Her face was showing, brown, delicate-featured, alluring. She hesitated a moment, then burst out with, “I want to speak to the Pasha.”

  He looked at her, smiling, not put off by her boldness.

  “We have only one Pasha,” he told her, “namely, the Leader, Mustafa Kamil, who isn’t here at the moment. In any case, you’d need an appointment to see him.”

  Flustered, Aisha cast about helplessly. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then the man took pity on her and spoke again. “The director of the paper, Abdel Rahman Effendi al-Rafiy, is here,” he said. “You can meet with him.”

  She followed him to a narrow corridor and from there to a dimly lit interior office, from which emanated an odor of rancid ink. He gestured toward a man who could scarcely be seen behind the papers that covered his desk. But as soon as he shifted position his round face appeared, and Aisha knew him at once: he was the journalist who had spoken with her at Lord Cromer’s house. He stared back at her, trying to remember her.

  “Why, it’s you!” he said. “Didn’t we meet at that alarming house, with that overbearing, arrogant man?”

  She nodded her head, smiling—she liked the way he revealed his surprise, and his apt description of Lord Cromer. The other man sensed that he was no longer needed; he gave a nod, and left. Al-Rafiy gestured to her to sit in one of the chairs. She pushed aside the papers lying on it and sat down with difficulty. He stood in front of her.

  “Did Lord Cromer send you to spy on us?” he asked.

  She laughed merrily. “He sent me,” she said, “to spy on the Pasha himself. Would it be possible for me to meet with him?”

  “We prefer to call him ‘the Leader,’ he said. “Meeting him is no problem, but he’s a difficult man. I can easily give you all the information you want . . . what exactly do you want?”

  “I want to work here with all of you,” she replied gravely. “I’m fluent
in English and I know French as well. And . . .”

  His expression was one of astonishment. “What do you mean by ‘work with’ us?” he said.

  “I’ve left Lord Cromer’s house,” she said, “and I won’t go back to work there. Have you got a job for me?”

  He didn’t answer her. He left her there, hurrying from the room. Everyone saw him go into the Leader’s office, seize a big black telephone, turn the crank rapidly, and tap the instrument repeatedly. He asked to be connected right away to the number he requested. Aisha had no idea what was happening, or what had made him so uneasy when just a moment ago he had been so jocular.

  He came back out of breath, and spoke hurriedly. “The Leader will be here shortly,” he said. “You must wait for him—we’ll give you some tea and water . . . something to eat as well, if you like.”

  This sudden solicitude surprised her. Al-Rafiy made a show of appearing busy at his work, and the other men kept getting up from their desks, pretending to move papers about, all the while throwing quizzical glances her way. She took nothing but a glass of water.

  The Leader was there in about half an hour. He was a man of short stature, and young despite his frail appearance. Supporting himself on a cane, he was dressed in a thick coat and a tarbush was jammed upon his head in such a way that only a bit of his face could be seen. When al-Rafiy brought Aisha to him, she found him standing in the middle of the room, leaning upon his cane. He raised his head and studied her. Aisha was startled by the brightness of his eyes, which blazed in spite of his pallor, as if he had channeled all the life-force from his body and poured it into his eyes. He took in the brownness of her complexion, her attenuated peasant stature. A slight smile appeared upon his face.

  “You’re young,” he said, “to work in a place like this. Can you tell me about Lord Cromer—what he’s up to in his house, what he thinks of us as Egyptians?”

  She didn’t know what he meant. “Sir,” she said, “please forgive me. I came to look for work, not to talk about Lord Cromer!”

  The Leader seemed ill at ease, and al-Rafiy intervened.

  “The matter of a job is already settled—in fact, you’re to be appointed translator for al-Liwa. What the Pasha means is . . .”

  The Leader held up his hand, silencing him, and bent his piercing gaze upon Aisha once more. “I don’t wish to know anything about Cromer’s personal life,” he said. “That doesn’t concern me. But he is an enemy of our nationalist movement, the man standing in the way of Egypt’s independence. I want to know what he thinks of us, the Egyptians—does it occur to him that we deserve our freedom?”

  She didn’t know what to say. She was too embarrassed to speak to him of the contempt Lord Cromer and his wife harbored toward Egyptians, Cromer’s perception of them as an anonymous, undifferentiated mob of rabble-rousers. She tried to remember something specific. “He read al-Liwa every day,” she said. “I myself translated some of the articles for him, especially after what happened at Dinshaway.”

  The Leader’s face brightened, and al-Rafiy rubbed his hands together delightedly, the two of them feeling that they had not been working in vain, and that their heated arguments and protests had reached their greatest enemy. “And what,” said the Leader, “did he do then?”

  Aisha thought for a moment. Then she said, “He saw ghosts.”

  “What?!”

  “He saw the ghosts of the farmers from Dinshaway and imagined that they’d been able to steal into his garden, that they’d come to settle accounts with him.”

  A strange thing happened then. The Pasha suddenly cast aside his cane and stood up straight, as if all at once his health had been restored to him. He began to caper about with joy, and al-Rafiy did likewise. They became two overgrown children, raising their voices and shouting. The men in the big room got up from their desks and flocked to the office door.

  “Listen to this, all of you!” cried the Leader. “Lord Cromer has started seeing ghosts! He’s begun to take leave of his senses!”

  A jubilant atmosphere took over, everyone feeling that some sort of victory, however small, had been achieved. Laughing, the Pasha turned to Aisha. Taking note of her dark complexion and her pharaonic appearance, he asked her, “What sort of wage has al-Rafiy set for your employment?”

  “He didn’t mention wages,” she replied.

  “You are hired,” said the Leader, “at a rate of five pounds flat.”

  This time it was Aisha’s turn to exult—she had not supposed that her good luck could extend so far. But now, from the back of the crowd of men, one surprised voice arose. “What exactly is going on?” it demanded. “Is this a demonstration?”

  Everyone turned toward the entrance, where a rather tall young man was standing. He was brown skinned, and broad shouldered despite his slight frame. In his hand he held a bundle of folded papers. He stared in wonder, taking in the festive mood, so alien to the air of seriousness that prevailed in the house of al-Liwa. He came forward and extended his hand, with its long fingers, toward the Leader.

  “Greetings, Pasha,” he said.

  No one noticed that the Leader’s euphoria had diminished slightly. He shook the young man’s hand, trying to smile at him. “Greetings, artist—you’ve come at the right moment. We are celebrating the arrival in our midst of the youngest and first female editor at al-Liwa. With her commences the Egyptian woman’s awakening and entry into the field of journalism. Is this not a moment worthy of your brush?”

  The youth turned to her and bent his clear-eyed gaze upon her. He had a long, narrow face and a comically small beard. He ducked his head shyly and looked away. The rest all began to go back to their tasks, and Aisha, not knowing what else to do, drew back until she was against the wall. Al-Rafiy, meanwhile, observed the exchange in silence.

  The Leader, reaching for the young man’s bundle of papers, said, “This, Aisha, is Mahmoud Mukhtar, one of Egypt’s talented young artists. What have you brought us today, Mukhtar?”

  The other sighed with fatigue—clearly he’d had no sleep. “What have I brought you, Pasha?” he said. “Drawings and more drawings.”

  He spread the papers on the desk. The Leader stood back to look at them. The artist’s strokes were brutal, thick and black, as if they had been etched into the paper: pharaonic forms well-known to Aisha. She had seen their like when she went about with Sister Margaret, but here they were different, as if they had taken on a new quality—cruel in some way. For some moments the Leader was absorbed in contemplation of them, and the youth seized the opportunity to turn to Aisha, his expression warm, as if he knew her from somewhere. A smile was all she could manage. It was pleasant to look upon his features.

  The Leader spoke. “Splendid, Mukhtar,” he said. “We’ll publish these drawings on the front page. It is important to remind the people that they have an ancient civilization—this will bolster their self-respect and their desire for freedom.”

  “Thank you, Pasha,” said Mukhtar, smiling. “I wanted to draw something that would help us endure the present.”

  The Pasha once more studied the drawings. Then he fixed his gaze upon Mukhtar. “But,” he said meaningfully, “where is Islam, Mukhtar? The civilization to which we are all connected? Have you forgotten that we are affiliated with the Ottoman state, be it ever so hateful to the English?”

  Mukhtar looked at him in surprise. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, “but the civilization of the Pharaohs is the thing that always distinguishes us—that is what makes Egypt unique and unparalleled. Islamic civilization, on the other hand, is something we share with many others.”

  “And who ever said that we wished to stand alone? Why should Egypt face by herself the British Empire in all its might?”

  “I am not a leader or a hero, Pasha. I merely depict what I feel . . .”

  Mukhtar got to his feet as if about to take his leave, but the Pasha gestured for him to wait. He was breathing hard, like one readying himself for an even more difficult confrontation.
“And is it,” he said, “this obscure feeling of ‘Egyptian-ness’ that sent you to that other newspaper—al-Siyaasa—and made you contribute a drawing to their pages? Don’t you know that they are partisans of the English?”

  Mukhtar’s face colored. He stepped forward and began gathering up his papers. “What I know,” he said, “is that they are a liberal political party, and that Lutfi el-Sayed is a nationalist, seeking freedom just like the rest of us.”

  “What freedom? The freedom belonging to vassals of the English?”

  The tension had escalated suddenly. Al-Rafiy, who had remained silent all the while, now stepped in. “I think,” he said, “that the two of you need to sit down and come to an understanding. Let’s go, Aisha—let me show you around this place where you’ll be working.”

  He took her by the arm and left the room. They passed through another corridor. Her heart quailed as the voices rose in the exchange still taking place inside the office. But now al-Rafiy was pointing out to her a small desk jammed into a corner. He tried to smile. “We need someone who can translate the Leader’s speeches and letters into English. We had another translator who sat here, but he left us and went over to al-Siyaasa.”

  Nodding her head toward the other room, Aisha said, “The paper that the Leader is arguing with him about?”

  “Just so,” said al-Rafiy. “I’m not angry with that paper the way the Pasha is . . . Lutfi Pasha is a great man. His only fault is that he doesn’t hate the English enough.”

  He laughed easily, picked up a sheaf of newspapers from the corner, and set them before her. Dust particles floated up from them, and Aisha began to cough. Al-Rafiy laughed again and said, “See how everything that comes from the English stirs up trouble?”

  Thus began her first day at work: far from the house of Lord Cromer, facing life’s wide-open prospects. She couldn’t believe she’d got a job so easily; she had chosen the right place. She resolved to finish all her tasks today, so as to prove to them how capable she was. She heard the Leader’s voice as he left, the others calling out their good-byes. Then the voices began gradually to fade, while she pursued her work, absorbed. But when she looked up after some time had passed, she discovered that she was almost entirely alone. The effendis’ desks had been vacated, but the machine in the corner of the hall never stopped humming. There was no one but a single cleaner, who stood leaning against the door, patiently waiting for her to finish. She would have to gather up her things and go—but where? She had abandoned the only place that had sheltered her in this city, with no other alternative to fall back on. She sat frozen in place, while the cleaner stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then he withdrew, leaving her sitting there in the room, overwhelmed by her fear and loneliness.