The Day the Leader Was Killed

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Although I imagine that it is his policy to interfere in the private lives of the employees, I am not comfortable about it, just as I am not comfortable about the look in his eyes. I do like him, though.

  “We have, until now, found no solution to our problem.”

  “No problem without a solution,” he said with bold contempt.

  “But …” I said as one on the point of objecting.

  “Don’t keep repeating what all helpless people say,” he said, interrupting me suddenly.

  “What do you think is the solution?” I asked, much annoyed.

  “Don’t turn to others for solutions,” he said, laughing in an irritating way.

  I returned to my desk with one idea haunting me: he had deliberately tried to depict me as an utterly helpless person in Randa’s presence. I was obsessed with this idea the whole while until it was time to leave. As we returned together to Nile Street, wrapped up in our coats, I told her:

  “The man got on my nerves.”

  “Mine too,” she said, pulling up the collar of her coat securely around her lovely neck.

  “He’s revolting and thinks he’s smart.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you believe there’s a solution to our problem that hasn’t occurred to us yet?”

  She mused a little and then said:

  “I have great faith in God, yet we keep believing that everything will remain the same forever.”

  “But time is flying, Randa,” I said, perturbed.

  “Maybe, but love is constant!” she said, smiling.

  Randa Sulayman Mubarak

  I climb the stairs to the apartment while he stands in front of his flat as if to make sure that I have reached my door safely. He said good-bye with a lukewarm kiss like one worried, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Damn the boss! He irritated him for no good reason. And, all the while, he remained depressed and downcast. I can understand this well, but, then, doesn’t he trust me? There’s no room for further anxiety. The smell of mulukhiya soup is floating about in the apartment. It really whets my appetite.

  Is Father asleep on the sofa? His head is drooping slowly but surely. He smiles affectionately. You have grown weaker and frailer. Damn that rheumatism! Muhtashimi Bey, my darling one’s grandfather, is ten years older but ten times stronger. Mama’s voice announces that lunch is ready. I like mulukhiya soup. Mama, though, doesn’t think much of my appetite.

  “When one is thin, one cannot fight off diseases,” she often tells me.

  “Obesity is just as hazardous,” I answer her.

  “Stubborn … if I say aye, she says nay.”

  Mama is obese and has always been so. She prays seated on the sofa. Just because of that, I’m careful about what I eat. She thinks she is well-off just because she has an income of twenty-five pounds a month. She may have been right as far as those legendary days she tells us about go. But, nowadays, how much are her income, Papa’s pension, and my salary combined worth?!

  Papa has just inserted his dental apparatus which he uses only when he eats. He starts to eat slowly, complaining of the bitter cold. Sanaa, my sister—a divorcee who shares my room—has come to join us too. She’s taking secretarial courses in a private institute in the hope of finding a job. She doesn’t want to be a burden on anyone. After lunch, I lay on my bed and again recalled the lukewarm kiss. I don’t like this. It’s an insult or almost so. If this is repeated, I’ll tell him frankly not to kiss me unless he really feels like it and when he isn’t preoccupied with anything other than his love for me. What remains now but love? I take care of him as though I’m his mother and he’s a spoiled, rebellious child. Oh, if only he could have been an engineer! He would probably have been among the heroes of the Infitah rather than one of its victims. He’s also a victim of June 1967 and the disappearance of the vanquished hero. He’s confused and uncommitted. But for how much longer will this go on? He’s contemptuous of those who have preceded him and believes he’s better than the whole lot of them. Why? When will he start looking at himself critically and objectively?

  Maybe this is my job, my role, but then—again—I’m worried about the only thing that remains: our love. I love him and love is irrational. I want him, heart and soul. How? When? My sister Sanaa made a love match, was content with her secondary-school certificate, with being a housewife, and having a landed young gentleman for a husband. But it didn’t work out and love simply died. As usual, accusing fingers were pointed at the other party. But she’s a nervous person and erupts like a volcano for the most trivial reasons. Who can tolerate that?! It’s for this reason that I try not to fly into a temper much the same way as I’m careful about what I eat. When will that damned happiness be possible? How long can beauty hold out against the whips and lashes of time?

  No, I only know I had fallen asleep because of the dream I had. It was afternoon when I woke up. I cuddled my cat for a moment, then I performed the noon and afternoon prayers at one go. I have Mama to thank, for she has been my religious mentor. As for Papa, Mama is happy with her lot though, despite the age difference between them, and in spite of Papa’s atheism! Do you remember how you used to reproach him in the early days?

  “Papa, why don’t you fast like the rest of us?”

  “The little one is reproaching her father,” he would say as he laughed.

  “Don’t you fear God?”

  “Health, my dear. Don’t be misled by appearances.”

  “And prayers, Papa?”

  “Oh! I’ll talk to you about that when you grow older.”

  That’s not how things are at my sweetheart’s. His grandfather, father, and mother pray and fast. My father’s atheism is as obvious today as the fact that he is old and in poor health. He has never uttered a skeptical word but his behavior is proof enough. In his fits of anger, he curses religion. He may have repented and asked God’s forgiveness for my sake or for Mother’s, but it’s no more than a slogan like the rest of those hollow slogans that the authorities hurl at us. A nauseating age of slogans! Even the late hero never tired of reiterating slogans. Between the slogans and the truth is an abyss in which we have all fallen and lost ourselves. But how about my sweetheart? Religious? Nonreligious? Committed? Uncommitted? Alyaa Samih? Mahmoud al-Mahruqi? Oh! he’s my sweetheart and that’s enough. The rest is me and my luck! He’s forever in quest of something lost. Had there been a solution to our problem, he would have been able to take it easy and rest. Meanwhile, he hurls himself against rocks and clutches at thin air.

  Here we are, all together in the living room: my father with his poor health, his problems of old age, and his atheistic ways; Mama with her excessive obesity and the worries of others; Sanaa with her dissatisfaction with her lot and her painful feeling of alienation; and me and my chronic problem. On the face of it, my parents have accomplished their mission, but how ironical! Here I am, again besieged by that silent inquisition. What then after an engagement that has lasted eleven years? Is there no glimmer of hope?

  “Let her go on waiting until she’s widowed and still only engaged,” says Sanaa in her shrill voice.

  “It’s nothing to do with you,” I tell her firmly.

  “Randa, keep reminding him or else he’ll forget,” Mama says.

  “We’re living with our worries day in, day out, so there’s no point in reminding him.” And then, more sharply: “I am of age and have made my choice of my own free will, and I will not regret anything.”

  “Randa is old enough and can take care of herself,” says my father, annoyed.

  “We’ve lost so many good opportunities,” Mama says with regret.

  “I’m not a slave girl on sale at the market!” I retort in a proud tone.

  “I am your mother, and irreproachable. I got married in the old-fashioned way and have, thank God, made a good match.”

  “Look, Mama, every generation has its own style, but ours has been by far the unluckiest of them all.”

  “There was a time when people ate
dogs, donkeys, and children. Then people started eating each other!” says my father with a smile.

  “Let’s hope we’ll fare better than that age of cannibalism,” I retorted bitterly.

  “For heaven’s sake, the TV series has started,” my father cried out in an attempt to change the subject.

  The theme tune of which I am so fond wafted me out of my conflict. Thanks to its magical power, I was able to conjure up my sweetheart who seemed to drop out of the blue and seat himself beside me. I was suddenly transformed into a dreamy-eyed woman with a profound understanding of married life. I fought back a treacherous tear which was on the verge of disgracing me. Is life possible without him?

  “The heroes of TV series are really lucky! They find the solution to their problems in no time!” said Mama.

  Muhtashimi Zayed

  In my solitude, I wait. I tighten the robe around my frail body and rearrange the bonnet on my bald head. I stroke my mustache and, in my solitude, I wait. God does not ask a person more than he can give. The doorbell rings. I open the door and in walks Umm Ali in a gray coat and a white veil wrapped around her plump, tanned face.

  “How are you, sir?”

  “Fine, Umm Ali, praised be the Lord.”

  “Winter doesn’t seem to want to spare us.”

  Typical of one for whom time is money, she takes off her coat, hangs it on the hanger near the door, and marches into Fawwaz and Hanaa’s bedroom. I follow her as I have been told to do. I sit on a chair and watch her as she sweeps, dusts, cleans, polishes, and puts things in order. Energetic and light in spite of her corpulence. They’re afraid she might steal something. Unjustified suspicions, a vestige of the past. Umm Ali’s hour is worth one pound. She buzzes around from house to house like a bee. Her income exceeds our combined salaries. But I enjoy being alone with her: a weekly diversion which brings back reminiscences of a bygone dream. Being alone with her disrupts the daily routine.

  Thus, divided by the time factor, the old “I” comes face-to-face with the present “I” as they attempt—but fail—to communicate in two very different languages. Then, from its old reserves, the heart steals a fleeting heartbeat whose lifespan lasts but thirty seconds. When she bends forward to unroll the carpet, I imagine that I have gently pinched her. Just a figment of my imagination, for I am completely in control of myself, and she has no qualms whatsoever about me. In fact, she is very much like a man as far as energy, strength, and tenacity go. O God, forgive us should we forget or err.

  Enjoying the fact that I am alone with her, I ask, “How is the Master?”

  “God help him!”

  “And the children?”

  “They’ve all emigrated; only the idiot remains. What’s the latest with your landlord?” she asks with a laugh.

  “He gave up and is now keeping quiet.”

  “Who would’ve thought land would one day go mad the way human beings do!”

  “Madness is the origin of all things, Umm Ali.”

  How I love to be alone with you. God forbid! It reminds me of the days of tree-lined Khayrat Street, under the spell of liberal, imported ideas: the mischief of hooligans, and then Fikriya and Ratiba, the two nurses. Life is made up of seasons, and to each its special flavor. Bless those who have loved life for what it is: God’s world.

  “I envy you for being so fit, Muhtashimi,” Sulayman Mubarak, Randa’s father, told me one day when I was visiting him.

  “Heredity and faith, my dear Mr. Sulayman,” I retorted confidently.

  Looking in my direction, he inquired slyly:

  “Am I to understand that the likes of you believes in fairy tales?”

  “God guides whomsoever He wishes.”

  “Does that imply that, at some point in the past, you were not an atheist?”

  “Inherited faith, doubt, atheism, rationalism, skepticism, then faith!”

  “An open buffet?” he inquired ironically.

  “Rather a life that is complete.”

  I am proud of being the steadfast sort, happy with next to nothing, and a worshiper of truth. I have implored Zeinab that, when the time comes, there should be no obituary, no funeral, no funeral services, and no mourning.

  “The point is that you have grown old and death is now in sight.”

  A sterile dialogue. Say, truth has come and falsity has vanished. The false was bound to vanish. My friend is living in an empty world whilst I am living in a world peopled by loved ones. God forbid! What a visit, that visit of Umm Ali’s. What is to become of poor Elwan? Lost amid a circus of crooks.

  I talk to him about the good old days in the hope that he would eventually give up on a buffoon who used to let out ten sterile slogans every time he as much as opened his mouth.

  Umm Ali is through with her work. She washes her hands and face, puts on her gray coat, and glances at her wristwatch to calculate her due. I give her the money.

  “Keep well, sir,” she says as she leaves.

  “Good-bye, Umm Ali. Don’t forget our next appointment.”

  Back to loneliness. I walk about in the apartment now that it has become difficult for me to walk in the street. The Quran and songs. Bless you who have invented the radio and television. Okra and macaroni for lunch. God has enabled me to derive joy from the act of worship. He has also made me fond of food.

  What solitude am I talking about with the world around me packed with millions of people? I love life but will also welcome death when the time comes. So many of my ex-pupils have now become ministers! No monasticism in Islam. Life’s but a walking shadow on a summer’s day, seeking shelter under the shade of a tree for an hour or so and then is heard no more. I often tell my beloved grandson stories about the past in the hope that he will, for a moment, set aside his woes. I try to encourage him to read but he reads very little. He listens to me in amazement as one who would want to believe what he hears. Forget about Alyaa Samih and Mahmoud al-Mahruqi! Haven’t circumstances dampened your faith in your country and in democracy? And why this incomprehensible attachment to a hero long since dead and vanquished?

  “So that the world appears not empty, Grandpa.” I have drawn your attention to things of utmost beauty.

  “All I want now is an apartment and a decent dowry,” he says with a laugh.

  How can I forget the woes of the world when I think of my beloved grandson? The miracles of holy men are verily a wondrous thing!

  Elwan Fawwaz Muhtashimi

  Our times have taught me to think. They have also taught me to be contemptuous of everything and suspicious of everything. Should I happen to read about a project which buoys one’s spirits and gives one hope, then, all too soon, the truth is revealed and it turns out to be just another dirty trick. Should one let the ship sink? It’s just a Mafia which controls us, no more, no less! Where are the good old days? There were, no doubt, some good days. I, too, have known them, the days when my sisters were living in our apartment and it was full of life and warmth. And there were no heavy burdens then. We could also feel the presence of my father and mother at home.

  In those days, there was a dialogue of sorts and laughter, the excitement of studies and the illusion of heroism. We are the people. We chose you from the very heart of the people. Love was a bouquet of roses wrapped up in hope. We lost our very first leader, our very first prima donna. Another leader—one diametrically opposed—then comes along to extricate us from our defeat and, in so doing, ruins for us the joy of victory. One victory for two defeats. We chose you from the very heart of the people.

  My sweetheart pulls the hook out of the water; it is empty but the hook pierces my thumb which leaves an indelible mark, one that has remained to this very day. On the banks of the River Nile in front of our home, I told her that she was no good at fishing but that she had hooked me all the same, and I have bled. A slow and gradual change took place as friendship turned to love just like the sudden budding of the leaves on a tree at the beginning of spring, something you can only see if you look very carefully. Fe
mininity, cheeks abloom, and the embroidery on the bodice of her dress: a language in which words say one thing and imply another.

  Innocence gave way to negotiations and supplications for just a peck on the cheek or lips. The sweetest fruit on the tree: manners, brains, and beauty. It annoys me sometimes that she will appear the more rational of the two. I will never forget the look in her eyes when I confessed that I could not possibly opt for the “sciences” at school: a long dialogue which never actually materialized but one which has always remained there, lurking in some corner. Our families have both fallen in the abyss of the Infitah. What grieves me most would be to see you unable to wear the type of clothes that match your beauty. What responsibilities lie ahead!

  “Let’s amuse ourselves by counting our enemies,” I once told her at the Pyramids Resthouse.

  “The Infitah monster and those expert crooks,” she said, joining in the game.

  “Would killing a million people be 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 but 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: