Friendly Fire

by Alaa Al Aswany

  My fury reached its peak and I was silent for a moment. Then I suddenly found myself taking hold of her and pulling her along with me while she shouted, “Isam! Wait, please! I’m serious.”

  I paid no attention to her yelling and pulled her along until I’d got her into a taxi that was waiting in front of the hotel. Then I sat down beside her and whispered imperiously in her ear, “Tell the driver your address.”

  She looked at me hesitantly, then said to the driver in broken Arabic, “Madinet Nasr, Abbas el-Aqqad Street.”

  On the way to her house we talked, but a slight anxiety made the conversation a little tense, so it came to a stop. I was not afraid. I could feel a sweeping, driving strength flowing through my limbs. No doubt it was the alcohol, but I had grasped that I was living the most important moments of my life and that I had to take them in my hands or they would be lost for ever. I was ready to confront Shaaban. If he objected to my going upstairs with Jutta, I would hit him. I would take anything heavy from his shop and hit him hard on the head. It didn’t matter to me whether I killed him; I would not let Jutta slip away from me and I would never allow anyone to keep me away from her. Who was this Shaaban? A grocer with religion! Someone who would cheat and swindle his customers and pray each prayer on the dot. Base, stupid, parasitical, and spiteful, like any Egyptian. I would address him in the language he understood—Buy not the slave without his stick, as al-Mutanabbi said. Jutta decided to have the taxi stop some way before her house and after we got out and the taxi had left, she whispered anxiously, casting a look toward the house, “Shaaban’s shop is open. There’s going to be trouble.”

  I pulled her by the hand and as we went toward the house I said confidently, “When we get to the entrance of the building, you go on ahead and leave me to deal with him.”

  The shop was small and bore the name Faith Grocery. A fat bearded man wearing a white gallabiya was picking things up and dragging cans and barrels inside. Shaaban was getting ready to close. From his appearance as I approached with Jutta, it seemed to me that he was fierce and that the battle would not be easy. We reached the entrance and Jutta went inside quickly while I slowed down in front of the shop. I stopped and turned to Shaaban, who left the cans and came up to me, looking at me warily. I stared at him in fury, and then shouted in a loud voice, “As-Salamu alaykum!”*

  He didn’t reply, but kept looking at me in silence, combing his beard with his fingers and weighing up the situation before intervening. His eyes were narrow and treacherous and his brow was broad, with a dark round prayer spot splattered on it. Was this the face of a Believer? How pleased with himself he looked! No doubt he was confident he had won his Lord’s favor in full. I hate animals like that. Ignorant and base and arrogant. I approached until I was standing right in front of him. The small distance that lay between us brought his face within striking distance. I fixed my eyes on his and yelled in the voice of someone who wants to start a quarrel, “I said, As-Salamu alaykum!”

  For a moment he didn’t seem to understand. Perhaps it was the suddenness of my appearance or he could smell the smell of alcohol on my breath, but suddenly he lowered his gaze and muttered as he turned around and went back to his original position, “Wa-alaykum as-salam wa rahmat Allah. Welcome.”

  Shaaban was broken and went back to his cans but I watched him closely for a moment until I was sure he had resumed his work as though nothing had happened. Then I walked away from him slowly so he wouldn’t think I was weak and return to the fray. Each step that brought me closer to the entrance to the building was like treading on his stupid huge head. Jutta was waiting in the entrance. She looked happy and asked me gaily as we mounted the stairs to her apartment, “What did you do to him? Didn’t he try to stop you?”

  Proudly I answered, as though what had happened was a trivial matter, “I treated him the way an Egyptian ought to be treated.”

  The door opened and the apartment received us with a smell of damp. Jutta put out her hand and turned on the light. There was a large reception room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and an inner room separated from the reception room by a long corridor. The furniture—as is usually the case with furnished apartments—looked old, used, and noticeably pieced together, as though it were a mediocre set for some play. I sat on a long red couch with a table in front of me on which I saw scattered papers, banknotes, coins, and a German magazine, which was open. Jutta smiled and said in a voice that showed that from now on she would be feeling like a hostess, “I don’t have anything to drink except two bottles of red wine. What do you say?”

  “Great.”

  She went into the kitchen, then returned after a few minutes with a tray on which were a bottle of wine and two glasses. As she poured me a glass, she said, “Red wine is supposed to be drunk warm but I prefer it cold. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “It’s fine,” I said as I sipped from my glass and watched her. As she poured the wine, her long blonde hair falling in front of her eyes so that she had to raise it with the side of her wonderful, delicate hand, she looked as though she were part of a rosy dream too beautiful for anyone to believe. The wine had a delicious bite to it. Jutta asked me, her face serious again, “Do you expect Shaaban will call the police?”

  “What?”

  She burst out laughing, then smiled apologetically and said, “Don’t think I’m weak. I’m not a coward, but I don’t like problems and I know what fanatics are like. They’re all the same. We have fanatics like Shaaban in Germany too.”

  “Do you mind if we forget about Shaaban completely?”

  I asked her with a smile and she answered with a nod and then immediately said gaily, “You know, Isam, our meeting tonight is one of the strangest things that’s happened to me in my life.”

  She laughed and I said nothing, so she went on, resting her back against the chair, “I’m not ‘a good girl’ in the normal sense of the words. I often get involved in relationships just because I’m feeling bored or because some man attracts me in some particular situation. These are what we call one-night stands. All the same, this is the first time I’ve jumped into bed with a man so fast. Just think, a few hours ago we didn’t know one another and now here you are spending the night in my apartment, and I feel as if I’ve known you for ages.”

  The wine had expelled any remaining fear and I got up, went over to her, took her hand, kissed it, and leaned my face against hers. She, however, drew away, laughing, and said, “No. Not that fast. It would be too comic if we went through the door of the apartment straight into the bedroom.”

  I sat down, poured myself another glass, and thought that what was happening was so beautiful that I wanted to stretch it out so as to savor every detail. I always rush to the climax, and when I reach it, it burns brightly and then is extinguished and all that’s left is a distant warm memory. Then I am overcome with melancholy and I blame myself for making so much haste to get through the pleasure, when I could have nurtured it at length in my hands.

  “Are you aware that your appearance is deceiving?” she said.

  “In what way?”

  “At first I thought you were shy and had no daring, but then I discovered you were the opposite.”

  “Your first impression was correct. My behavior tonight amazes me. In fact, I’m a weak person and usually incapable of confrontation.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “At least, that’s the person I was a few hours ago.”

  Smiling and drawing close to me with a flushed face, she said, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I behaved bravely tonight because I was with you.”

  She came closer and whispered, “I love your words.”

  I kissed her and then she drew her head back and said, “I’m feeling lazy. Will you get up and fetch the other bottle of wine?”

  I kissed her as I rose. I felt the texture of her cheek as it gave under my lip and I covered her with kisses as she submitted to my embrace. Then she smiled, stretched out her arms, and
said, “See what you’ve done to me?”

  The skin of her arms was all goose bumps.

  I said, “What does that mean?” and she laughed and said, “It means something extremely important.”

  I kissed her again, no longer capable of making out what my eyes were seeing. I buried my nose in her hair, everything dissolving into a magical beauty, and she whispered to me, laughing, “What do you say we make an agreement? You fetch the bottle from the kitchen and I’ll go ahead of you to the bedroom.”

  The light of three candles flickered in the darkness of the room. The dark and the light mixed with the taste of the wine, the heat, and a calm, good smell that emanated from her body, and I gathered her to me, my feelings expanding, their roots digging in as I returned to a real moment that I had known once, long ago, then lost, and to which I had now returned. I wished I could whisper to her what I was experiencing, that I could contain her with my feelings as I contained her with my body. A magical dream extricated me from the familiar ugly reality that was forever crushing me in its unforgiving grip.

  She told me, “I’m feeling sleepy.”

  Then she moved close and whispered, “I’d like you to hold me in your arms until morning.”

  I watched the stillness of sleep flow little by little into her tranquil face.

  I had been certain that you would arise like the sun and had waited for you. I had told them about you and no one had believed me, but I had suffered and never lost hope. I believed in you. I believed that some time you would suddenly appear in all your glory, come to cure me with your hands of the wounds of cruelty and to melt the darkness with your smile. When that happened, all that would remain of the loneliness, impotence, and pain would be the terrible rending memories. I would gather you to me and empty these into your breast until I was calm, and then sleep.

  In the darkness my face contracted. A shudder ran through me and I surrendered myself to weeping. My tears wet her face and she awoke, stretched out her hand, lit a lamp over the bed, gazed into my face, and asked me with concern, “Are you crying?”

  I didn’t answer and she said nothing for a moment, as though she understood. Then she looked at the clock and said, “Six! I have to get up now! I’m supposed to be in my office in an hour.”

  She got up naked and went to the window and opened it, and the room was bathed in daylight, a cool breeze stealing in. She glanced at her face in the mirror and asked me as she left the room, “Tea or coffee with breakfast?”

  As I was sipping my coffee, I asked her, “Shall I see you tonight?”

  “If you really want to.”

  I smiled and made no comment.

  “You can pick me up at the office after work. I leave at three.”

  When we left the house, Shaaban’s shop was closed and the road was completely empty. She said to me, “Won’t you come with me to see where I work? It’s close by, at the end of the street.”

  I walked next to her for some minutes until she stopped in front of a small two-story house. On the balcony of the first floor I saw a large sign that said “Mustafa Yusri. Import-Export.” Jutta pointed to the sign and said, “This is where I work. It’s the first floor, apartment 3.”

  She looked around, bent quickly over my face, kissed me, and whispered, “I’ll see you at three.”

  Then she went into the building.

  I walked alone until I reached the main street, where I stopped a taxi. The traces of sleep were still on the driver’s face. I looked out of the window. Life was stirring in the street. People were gathering as they do every morning at the bus stops, starting a new day with faces still exhausted from the one before. It seemed strange to me that nothing was different that morning. I’d expected that everything I saw would appear to me in a new, wonderful shape, but everything was just as it had been and it was as if I’d never met Jutta or lived with her the most beautiful moments of my life, as if a new man had not been born within me.

  The moment I opened the door of the house, my mother met me with cries and tears, “My heart and the Lord will be angry with you until the Day of Resurrection.”

  I ignored her and turned my steps in silence toward my room but she caught up with me in the corridor, grabbed me by the hand, and said, “Is this any way to treat me, Isam? Shouldn’t you be ashamed of yourself? You don’t mind leaving me worrying about you the whole night? Don’t you know I’m sick and my health can’t take any anxiety?”

  All she cared about was the effect of the anxiety on her health. I looked at her. I stared into her eyes until the details vanished and my vision clouded over. This went on for a few moments. When I came to myself, I made my way with exhausted steps to my room while my mother continued to bewail her bad luck in a tearful voice. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep so I didn’t try for long. I opened the window and the sun’s rays spread through the room. Huda brought me the newspapers and coffee. My eyes scanned the headlines and I threw them aside. My powers of concentration were destroyed. I would wait until three and that was all I was capable of thinking about. At three I would meet her. I would kiss her and hold her and she would sleep in my arms as she had done yesterday. The time passed like an eon and when it was almost two o’clock I got up, washed, and put on my clothes. My mother caught sight of me and rushed after me fearfully, asking, “Are you going out?”

  I muttered yes without turning so she grabbed my arm and said, “Don’t, Isam, I beg you. You haven’t slept and your nerves are tired.”

  I released my arm from her grip by force and left, the door slamming behind me.

  It was hot and the sweat was pouring off my forehead. As I waited for the streetcar in the middle of the crowd, I was thinking that I’d be saving the cost of a taxi. There was still an hour to go and I would undoubtedly need money that night. After half an hour the streetcar came and it was crowded. I pushed my way so far in among the other passengers that their bodies hid me from the light and darkness reigned about me. I reached Madinet Nasr station and pulled out of my pocket the piece of paper on which I’d written down Jutta’s address in case I forgot. I walked for ten minutes to get to the office.

  It got so hot that I removed my jacket and undid the buttons of my shirt. The house looked as it had that morning, with the same sign saying “Yusri Mustafa. Import-Export.” This time I hoped that the doorkeeper would stop me as I crossed the entrance to the building. As of yesterday, I had become a strong master. I would repel him confidently and powerfully. No one tried to stop me and when I entered the office my heart was beating hard. I would see Jutta now. Should I rush up to her, embrace her, and cover her face with kisses in front of her colleagues? I put off thinking about that. The office opposite the door was empty. A pack of cigarettes and an open newspaper indicated that the employee who sat there had left on some errand and would be coming back. In the corner of the room was a young girl with her hair covered; she was typing. I stood for a minute in front of the empty desk, then turned toward where the girl was sitting. She stopped typing and raised her face to me. She was beautiful but the way she looked at me was empty of any expression, as though she did not know me and did not welcome me but, at the same time, my presence neither surprised nor bothered her. If she hadn’t returned my greeting with a slight nod of the head, I would have thought that she hadn’t seen me.

  “May I see Miss Jutta, please?”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Jutta, the German lady.”

  The girl smiled. Later, when I thought over that smile, I understood everything.

  “There’s nobody by that name working here.”

  “No. She does work here, I’m certain. I have an appointment with her. Please be so kind as to tell her that Isam is waiting for her.”

  This time she didn’t turn toward me. She went on striking the keys with her hands. Her indifference to my presence annoyed me so I went up to her and shouted, “You, Miss! Can’t you hear? I’m telling you to inform Jutta that I’m here.”

  She raised her head and
looked at me in silence. Then she resumed her typing. I lost all control of my nerves. I started shouting and was soon insulting her and then I shoved her on the shoulder. I felt the solidity of her shoulder bone against my hand. With the noise, a few employees emerged and a thin, bald man of about forty wearing a smart gray suit and with wide, powerful eyes came toward me. He took hold of my arm and asked me roughly what I wanted. I answered him that I wanted to see Jutta, and when he replied as had the girl with the covered hair, I exploded in his face. All he did was to tighten his grip on my wrist until it hurt so much I was completely paralyzed. I started shouting and cursing them all and in my ears cries of ‘crazy’ and ‘police’ mixed with one another and I found myself being dragged by the man in the gray suit toward the door. Then he gave me a powerful push on my back with his hands that expelled me from the apartment.

  I staggered and almost fell on the stairs and he quickly and violently closed the door to the office.

  I rushed down the stairs and into the street as fast as I could. I didn’t feel anger or surprise. I was like someone who wants at the last moment to prevent a certain disaster. I started running down the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the passersby stopping and staring in amazement. After a few minutes, I reached Jutta’s house. I stopped for a moment in front of it. I was panting and copious sweat was flowing over my face and neck. I started to cross the entrance when a deep voice took me by surprise.

  “Where do you think you’re going, buddy?”

  His tone was impertinent and it occurred to me as I turned to face him that it must be Shaaban, Shaaban with his beard and the dark spot on his forehead and his baseness, Shaaban whose coarse skin oozed grease and malevolence. I rushed toward him and fell on him with a blow to the face that connected perfectly, making his huge body stagger. Before he could stand straight, I got in another quick blow and kicked him hard in the belly, then pushed him so that he fell to the ground. I threw myself upon him and proceeded to beat him on the head until I felt the stickiness of blood on my fingers.