A deep silence prevailed. Souad, broken now, was weeping quietly. Fawzi got up. At that moment, he appeared strong and decisive, as though everything in the world depended on whatever utterance he might make. He took two steps in the direction of the door. Then he turned as though remembering something and said, “Captain Hamidu. Get your sister to calm down; she’s a bit unbalanced. The whole thing’s over and done with and she’s got what she’s owed to the last cent. We started on a friendly basis and we’ve finished on a friendly basis. If you and your sister make problems or start talking, we know how to put you in your place. This country is ours, Hamidu. We have a long reach and we have all kinds of ways of dealing with people. Choose the kind you want.”
He walked slowly and deliberately away until he exited the room, the flaps of the door slapping behind him.
As a man will flick off with his fingers a few flecks of dust that have clung to the breast of his smart suit and continue on his way as though nothing had happened, so Hagg Azzam got rid of Souad Gaber and was able to erase his affection for her. It was the memory of her delectable, hot, supple body that kept coming back to him and he made a massive and painful effort to forget her, recalling deliberately her savage, hateful face during the final scene and imagining the problems and scandals that would have plagued him if he hadn’t got rid of her. He consoled himself with the thought that his marriage to her, while providing him with wonderful times, hadn’t cost him a great deal. He also thought that his experience with her might be replicable. Beautiful poor women were in good supply and wedlock was holy, not something anyone could be reproached for.
By means of such thoughts he had tried to wipe the image of Souad from his memory, sometimes succeeding and sometimes failing, and he had thrown himself into the maelstrom of his work in order to forget. With the opening of the Tasso automobile agency due in a few days he had set up an operations room in his office with his sons Fawzi and Quadri. As though going to war, he had overseen the preparations for the huge party at the Hotel Semiramis, personally inviting all the big shots in the city. All had come—present and former ministers, high-ranking civil servants, and editors-in-chief of the main national newspapers, their friendship costing him dozens of cars that he gave away free or for a symbolic price. This was done with the agreement of the Japanese officials and sometimes at their suggestion.
The party went on to a late hour with the television broadcasting bits of it as paid advertisements and the newspapers giving it full coverage. A well-known economic columnist at al-Akhbar newspaper wrote a piece presenting the opening of the Tasso agency as a courageous, patriotic step, boldly undertaken by the authentically Egyptian businessman Hagg Azzam to break the monopoly by Western cars. The columnist urged all Egyptian businessmen to choose the same righteous, difficult path as Hagg Azzam for the sake of Egypt’s rebirth and the health of its economy. For two whole weeks the newspapers were filled with pictures of Hagg Azzam and statements by him. The picture that was published of the signing of the contract for the agency was exceptionally expressive in that it showed Hagg Azzam with his huge body, plebeian face, and darting, cunning glances and sitting next to him Mr. Yen Ki, chairman of Tasso’s board with his slight Japanese build, his straightforward look, and his serious, refined face—as though the difference between the two men epitomized the vast distance between what happens in Japan and what happens in Egypt.
From the first months the agency realized incredible sales exceeding all expectations, the profits pouring down on Hagg Azzam, who received his Lord’s grace with gratitude, paying out from them tens of thousands of pounds in charity. The Japanese side offered Azzam additional projects for service stations in Cairo and Alexandria and Hagg Azzam lived his most glorious days ever with only one thing to spoil them, something he had tried to ignore but in vain. El Fouli had hounded him for a meeting and Azzam kept putting him off till he could do so no longer. In the end, he agreed and went to meet El Fouli at the Sheraton, having prepared himself ahead of time for a difficult interview.
The hallway, dark in the middle of the day and crowded to overflowing, appeared more like the third-class car of a train to Upper Egypt than the reception area of a hospital: the women were standing, loaded with their sick children, the smell of sweat was stifling, the floor and walls were filthy, the few male nurses who were organizing entry to the examination room were abusing the women and shoving them, and there was endless fighting, screaming, and tumult. Hatim Rasheed and Abduh, along with Hidiya, arrived carrying the child, who never stopped crying. They stood for a while in the crowd and then Hatim went up to one of the nurses and asked to meet the director of the hospital. The nurse looked at him with annoyance and told him the director wasn’t there. Abduh almost got into a fight with him when the nurse told him that he had to wait his turn for the child to be seen. Hatim then went out to the nearest public telephone and called several numbers from the small notebook that he always kept in his pocket with the result that the hospital’s deputy director came out to them and received them warmly, apologizing for the absence of the director. The deputy director was a fat man with a pale complexion whose face gave an impression of good-heartedness and straightforwardness. He examined the child carefully, then said in an anxious voice, “Unfortunately, the case is advanced and critical. The boy is dehydrated and feverish.”
He wrote out some papers, which he gave to Abduh, who was a nervous wreck, smoking incessantly and railing at his wife. Then he took the child in his arms and ran with the nurse, to whom the doctor’s concern over the case had transmitted itself, and they put the child in the intensive care ward. Glucose tubes were put into his small arms, but his face was extremely pale, his eyes sunken, and his crying was getting softer. Everyone felt heavily despondent. In response to Abduh’s question, the nurse said, “The treatment will begin to show results after at least two hours. Our Lord is merciful.”
Silence reigned again and Hidiya started to cry quietly. Hatim took Abduh aside, thrust a bundle of banknotes into his pocket, and patted him on the shoulder saying, “Take these, Abduh, for the hospital charges and if you need anything, please call me. I have to go to the paper. I’ll call you to find out how you’re doing tonight.”
“I wish I’d met you a long time ago!”
“Why?”
“My life would have been completely different.”
“You’re still alive. Go ahead and change it.”
“Change what, Busayna? I’m sixty-five years old. ‘The End,’ you know.”
“Who says? You could live another twenty, thirty years. It’s God that decides how long people live.”
“That would be nice. One would really like to live another thirty years, at least.”
They laughed together, he in his husky voice, she in her repeated, melodious chirrups. They were lying naked on the bed and he was holding her in his arms enjoying the touch of her smooth, thick hair on his arm. They had freed themselves utterly from any feeling of the privacy of each other’s bodies and would spend hours completely naked. She would make him coffee and prepare his glasses of whisky and hors d’œuvres and from time to time they would sleep together. He might make love to her, but often they would just lie like that. He would turn off the light in the room and watch her face in the low, tremulous light that came from the street. At such moments she appeared unreal to him, a beautiful apparition, a night creature that with the first light of dawn would disappear as suddenly as it had come. They would talk, her voice in the darkness sounding deep, sweet, and warm. In a serious tone she said, staring at the ceiling, “When are we leaving?”
“Leaving for where?”
“You promised me we’d go somewhere together.”
Gazing at her face, he asked her, “You still hate this country?”
She nodded her head, looking at the ceiling.
“I can’t fathom your generation. In my day, love for one’s country was like a religion. Lots of young people died struggling against the British.”
“The reason the country’s gone downhill is the absence of democracy. If there were a real democratic system, Egypt would be a great power. Egypt’s curse is dictatorship and dictatorship inevitably leads to poverty, corruption, and failure in all fields.”
“That’s big talk. I dream in my own size. I want to live comfortably and have a family. A husband who loves me, children to raise, and a lovely, comfy little home instead of living on the roof. I’d like to go to a decent country, where there’s no dirt, no poverty, and no injustice. You know, the brother of one of my friends failed the general secondary exam three years in a row. Then he went off to Holland, married a Dutch woman, and settled down there. He tells us that overseas there’s no injustice and doing people out of what’s theirs, like here. There everyone gets what’s his and people respect one another. Even the sweeper in the street gets respect. That’s why I want to go abroad. I want to live there and work and become really respectable. Earn my living from my work instead of going to the storeroom with someone like Talal so that he’ll give me ten pounds. Just think—he used to give me ten pounds a time, the cost of two packs of Marlboros. I was really stupid.”
“You were in need and when you’re in need you don’t think. Busayna, I don’t want you to live in the past. Everything that happened to you is a page that’s been turned and is done with. Think of the future. We have each other now and I’ll never leave you.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Zaki went on gaily, to dispel the gloom, “A month or two from now I’ll be getting a big sum of money and I’ll take you abroad.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“Where will we go?”
“France.”
She screamed and clapped her hands like a child. Then she said, joking slyly, “But you just pull yourself together and watch out for your health so you don’t flake out on me there. That would be a real mess!”
When she laughs, the muscles of her face contract, sweat stands out on her forehead, and she looks somewhat wild and strange as though she’d been taken by surprise by happiness and decided to grab it hard so it couldn’t get away. Zaki took her in his arms and whispered, “Okay? Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
He started with her hands. He began kissing her fingers one by one, then moved to her palm and arms and full, smooth chest. When he reached her neck and raised her thick hair to take her lovely small ears in his mouth, he felt her body burn with desire beneath his.
It started with a whisper. “Whisper” is the right word—a very slight sound that came suddenly and then was cut off while Zaki was devouring Busayna’s lips in a heated kiss. Seconds passed while they embraced, and then the sound was repeated, clearly this time. The door to the room in which they were sleeping was open and it came to Zaki’s mind in a flash that someone was moving around in the reception room. He leaped up naked from the bed and Busayna let out a high-pitched scream, leaping to put her clothes on any old how over her naked body. Then followed terrifying, nightmarish scenes—tense moments that Zaki and Busayna would never forget. The light went on in the room and a uniformed police officer appeared, police goons behind him. Dawlat came forward from among them, a malign, gloating smile on her face. In a moment her voice was raised, high-pitched and hateful as death: “Scandal and shamelessness! Every day bringing a prostitute and spending the night with her. Enough filth, my good man! Shame on you!”
“Shut your mouth!”
Zaki shouted this in his first reaction. He had gotten over his astonishment and appeared extremely agitated, his whole naked body shaking and his eyes bulging with rage. Unconsciously he put out his hand to take his pants, shouting as he put them on, “What’s going on? What’s this farce? Who gave you permission to enter my office? Do you have a warrant from the prosecutor?”
Zaki shouted this in the face of the young officer, whose features from the start were hostile, and who replied in a calm, challenging tone, “Are you teaching me how to do my job? I don’t need a warrant from the prosecutor. This lady is your sister and lives with you and she presented a complaint against you for practicing indecency in her house and requested an official inspection as she’s bringing a case for sequestration against you.”
“Nonsense. This is my private office and she does not live with me here.”
“But she opened the door with her keys and let us in.”
“Even if she has a key, it’s my office, in my name.”
“Then you can prove that in the report.”
“Prove what? I’ll see you get hell! You’re going to pay the price for violating the sanctity of people’s homes.”
“The sanctity of prostitutes, if you want the truth!” cried Dawlat, her eyes staring, and she moved toward him warily.
“Shut your mouth, I tell you!”
“You shut your mouth, you dirty old man!”
“Silence, madame, if you please!” shouted the officer at Dawlat, faking anger to mask that he was on her side. Then he turned to Zaki and said, “Listen, mister. You’re an old man and there’s no need for unpleasantness.”
“What exactly do you want?”
“We’ll just make our inspection and take a couple of words from you.”
“What’s to be inspected? Tell me you’ve been put up to this. That lizard put you up to this.”
“You seem to be a rude person. Listen, because I’m telling you for the last time. Give yourself a trouble-free evening.”
“You’re threatening me. I just have to talk on the telephone and I’ll teach you your place.”
“Is that so? Okay, I apologize,” replied the officer furiously. Then he said, “Come along, momma’s boy, down to the station, you and your prostitute.”
“I warn you not to use words you’ll be held to strict account for later. And you don’t have any right to arrest us.”
“I know whether I have the right or not.”
The officer turned and said to his goons, “Bring them.” The goons had been waiting for these words like a secret code and fell on Zaki and Busayna. Zaki resisted and started uttering threats and shouting in protest, but the men grabbed him firmly, while Busayna screamed, beat her cheeks, and pleaded with them as they dragged her outside.
In the beginning Taha felt constrained, but this went away as the days passed and as he got used to the camp’s strict regime—rising at dawn, performing the prayer, reciting the Qur’an, breakfast; then three hours of nonstop, demanding exercise (physical fitness and martial arts). After this, the brothers gathered to take classes (jurisprudence, exegesis, Qur’anic sciences, hadith) given by Sheikh Bilal and other scholars. Afternoons were devoted to arms training. The brothers would board a large bus (on which was written Turah Cement Company of Egypt) and go into the heart of the mountains where they practiced shooting and making and using bombs. The camp’s rhythm was exhaustingly rapid and Taha had no time to think. Even in the hour set aside for chatting, after the evening prayer, the conversation of the brothers usually turned to discussion of religious issues, during which the legal proof for the infidel nature of the regime and the necessity of fighting and destroying it would be presented.
When the time came to sleep, the brothers separated. The married ones went to the family dwellings at the foot of the mountain, while the bachelors slept in a small building set aside for them. Only then, after the lights had been extinguished and silence reigned, would Taha lie on his bed in the dark and recall with total lucidity the events of his life, as though an amazing, illuminating energy were suddenly released from his memory, and he would see Busayna el Sayed and be overwhelmed with tenderness. Sometimes he even smiled as he remembered their good times. Then anger would sweep over him as her face contemplated him for the last time and she said contemptuously, “It’s over between us, Taha. Each of us goes his own way.” All of a sudden
memories of his detention would rain down on his head like incessant blows—the beatings and the abuse; the feeling after each occasion on which they violated him sexually that he was weak, exhausted, and broken; his breaking into tears and pleading with the soldiers to stop inserting the thick stick into his body; his soft, stammering voice when they told him to say, “I’m a woman” and then beat him again, and again asked him his name, to which he would reply, in a dead voice, “Fawziya,” causing them to laugh loudly, as though they were watching a satirical film. Taha would remember all that and lose his ability to sleep. He would stay awake, re-opening his old wounds. His face in the dark would crumple, his breath speed up. He would gasp as though running and an intense hatred would possess him which would not abate until he thought of the voices of the officers, categorizing, distinguishing, and storing them away carefully in his memory. After this a desire so burning that his body almost shuddered with the pressure would sweep over him, as he hankered for revenge and pictured himself exacting exemplary punishment from those who had tortured and violated him.
This thirst for revenge took him over and drove him on, so that he made amazing strides in the camp’s training exercises. Despite his youth he learned to beat many who had greater experience of physical combat than he, and within a few months he excelled at using regular rifles, semi-automatics, and automatics, and had learned how to make hand grenades easily and well. His rapid progress amazed all the brothers. Once, after he had completed a shooting exercise in which he had missed only one out of twenty shots, Sheikh Bilal came up to him, patted him on the shoulder, and said, his eyebrow scar twitching as usual when he was excited, “God bless you, Taha. You’ve become a crack shot.”
The Yacoubian Building Page 21