Friendly Fire

by Alaa Al Aswany

  What can I say, my dear Makarim? I swear to God that Batta and I are thinking seriously about coming back to Egypt once and for all. Ten years away from home and every penny we make we spend as soon as it comes to us—in other words we’re “as poor as the day you made us, O Lord!” praise be to God. And what makes us really angry is that people in Egypt think we’re living in the lap of luxury and laying aside a fortune.

  To end with, my dear sister, I want you to put our minds at rest with all the latest news concerning our dear mother the moment it happens, and to tell her, my dear Makarim, that if it weren’t for our present very difficult circumstances, I would have given up everything and come with Batta and the children to stay by her side, for all our bounties and blessings are from her. I would also like you, my dear sister, to read over her the Prayer of the Distressed, in emulation of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him (please try to make a ritual ablution first). The Prayer goes, “O God, I beg of Your mercy that You leave me not to the devices of my own soul, even for the blinking of an eye, but ameliorate my state in all things, for there is no god but You.”

  If you say this often enough, my dear Makarim, you will discover great bounty, God willing. Concerning the amount you requested to move my mother to a private hospital, were I to spend all the money in the world and sell the clothes from off my back for the sake of my mother, I could not repay that wonderful woman the half of what she has done for us. Most unfortunately, however, my financial circumstances are extremely difficult and do not permit me to comply—so much so that I have had to borrow money from one of my good friends here to get through the month.

  Anyway, I consulted Dr. Husni Abid about private hospitals and he said that the treatment in the government hospitals is just the same that they give in the private hospitals and the only difference is that the private hospitals demand extortionate fees, medicine in Egypt having become an entirely commercial affair, God forbid. This is the opinion of Dr. Husni, who is a well-known doctor here and a good man who fears the Lord (over Whom we give precedence to none), and all thanks to you, my beloved sister.

  My dear Makarim, please—with this, you’ll find another small envelope addressed to the real estate broker Hagg Gharib. Go find him at the Amana Café and give it to him immediately and tell him to contact me by telephone urgently. If he can’t get hold of me, he should call Sheikh Fahd al-Rubay‘i, telephone no. (06) 582–1465. The matter is most important and urgent, my dear Makarim. May God reward you well, my beloved sister.

  Peace be upon you, and the mercy of God and His blessings.

  Your brother,

  Hasan Muhammad Nagati

  Al-Qasim, Muharram 5, 1413

  [True copy]

  The Sorrows of Hagg Ahmad

  HAGG AHMAD RETURNED HOME after praying the extra Ramadan prayers in the mosque and sat and watched television until his wife, Hagga Dawlat, called him to have his predawn meal. Hagg Ahmad got up slowly, sat down at the table, rolled up the sleeves of his gallabiya, pronounced the formula “In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,” and started. First of all he drank a glass of warm lime juice, designed to act both as a disinfectant for the digestive system and as wake-up call for the stomach so that the food did not catch it offguard. At the same moment, the Filipina maid was going down the corridor carrying a tray of food to the room of Hagg Azzam, Hagg Ahmad’s aged father, who had been living with them for two years.

  Hagg Ahmad stretched out his hand and tore off a large mouthful of the hot, mud-oven-baked, flaky pastry swimming in butter and dipped it into the dish of beans that sat right next to it on the table. The beans had passed through many stages of preparation, including being slowly stewed, then released from their skins, then mashed and mixed with slices of tomato, and, finally, being garnished with just the right amount of corn oil, lime, pepper, and cumin, turning them into a thing of delight for those who ate them and a fortification for them against the long day’s fasting ahead. Hagg Ahmad half closed his eyes in relish and started chewing slowly, like a virtuoso warming up his instrument with a few simple melodies before launching it into the world of the symphony.

  “God bless you, Hagga,” murmured Hagg Ahmed warmly, masticating.

  “And good health to you, Hagg,” replied his wife in a gratified tone.

  After the beans, Hagg Ahmed had made up his mind to move on to the parsley omelet situated to his right, to be followed by a glass of chilled hibiscus from Aswan, after which there might still be room for a few boiled eggs, which Hagg Ahmad would eat as is, without bread, lest he satisfy his appetite completely and thus be denied the sweet, which he had it on good authority tonight would be dishes of rice pudding on whose firm, milky, surface gratings of delicious coconut had been sprinkled.

  However, no sooner had Hagg Ahmad stretched out his hand for a little more of the flaky pastry than an agonized high-pitched cry resounded, cleaving the calm of the night, and pandemonium broke out. Hagga Dawlat leaped up in terror, her chair falling over backward with a loud clatter, and Hagg Ahmad hurried after her as fast as his obesity and rheumatism would allow. The Filipina maid was standing at the door to Hagg Azzam’s room, her Asiatic face clothed in an awful fear, and the room was filled with a heavy silence. To Hagg Ahmad, as he entered, it seemed that a foul, earthy smell filled his nose and he saw his father stretched out on the bed, his toothless mouth open and his eyes staring into emptiness, while on his aged face a fixed expression had taken hold, as though he had been taken mightily by surprise, once and for eternity.

  Hagg Azzam was dead, and Dawlat let out a long wail to announce the painful news, while Hagg Ahmad threw his heavy body onto his father’s corpse and buried his face in his bosom, bursting into tears like a lost child. He was totally absorbed, and when a few moments later he returned to his senses the room was empty, so he stood, wiped away his tears with his sleeve and recited the opening chapter of the Qur’an. Then he closed his father’s eyelids and mouth, covered his head with the sheet, and inserted his hand gently under the pillow, where he took hold of the keys, which he placed in his pocket. Next he went out to the telephone, to announce the news of the passing of the dear departed to his relatives and acquaintances.

  An hour later, Hagg Ahmad, having donned his navy blue safari suit, was seated in the midst of the mourners in the drawing room as the Filipina circulated among those present with a tray of coffee and cold water. The neighbors came first, then Mr. Sa‘id Azzam (the deceased’s middle son and an undersecretary at the Ministry of Irrigation) his face pale and eyes bemused at the sudden shock. When Adil (the youngest son, who worked for American Express) arrived, he screamed and insisted on seeing his father and when they pulled the sheet back for him, he fell rigid to the floor, so they carried him into the parlor and rubbed his face with cologne. Mrs. Amna (the deceased’s only daughter) flung herself into the apartment and the moment Hagga Dawlat caught sight of her, she screamed in a choking voice fit to break your heart, “Come and see, Amna! Our father’s dead, Amna!” to which Amna responded by slapping herself violently on the cheeks, during which operation she collapsed onto the floor of the corridor, and Hagg Ahmad left the mourners and hurried over to the two grief-stricken women to calm them down. Then he took his brother Adil, who had become somewhat quieter, to one side and gave him a bundle containing one thousand pounds and agreed with him on the arrangements for the next day—the undertaker, the tent, the death announcement, and the rest.

  Hagg Ahmad was accustomed to dealing with calamities. He was the eldest of his brothers and his work as a construction contractor had gained him common sense and sound nerves, which were further strengthened by his deep faith and knowledge of matters of religion. See him now, sitting among the mourners, silent and, head bowed, his face showing how both sad he is and also how he clings to the patience in adversity that befits the true believer. Unlike the others, Hagg Ahmad neither cries nor goes into convulsions, but his sorrows weigh upon his heart like a mountain, his looks are downcas
t and broken-hearted, and his lips mutter verses from the Book in the hope of alleviating the pain. It would be fitting tonight were Hagg Ahmad to keep thoughts of his father ever in the forefront of his mind, remembering how his father had looked after him and his younger brothers, sacrificing for them his comfort and his money, and how, having acquitted this sacred task in full, he was now about to go to his Lord. “O soul at peace, return thou unto thy Lord, well-pleased, well-pleasing! Verily, God has spoken truly!” murmured Hagg Ahmad as he sat amid the mourners in the drawing room lost in thought and prayer for his departed father. Then, at a certain moment, he raised his head to crack and stretch his neck (a meaningless, normal action, just like someone playing with the strap of his watch or twisting his mustache between two fingers while talking). However that may be, Hagg Ahmad’s eyes, when he raised his head, fell on the clock on the wall. The large golden hands pointed to half past three in the morning, and when Hagg Ahmad once more bowed his head, something in his chest had changed, something ignoble had started to prick him like a small, bothersome needle. Hagg Ahmad tried to resume his meditations on the departed but it was no use. The pricks merged and coalesced and an unworthy thought started to pursue him and weigh upon his mind: he hadn’t yet had his predawn meal. The calamity had struck before he’d had time to eat more than a single mouthful, there was only a quarter of an hour left to go before the dawn prayer, and his hollow stomach was nipping at him. He was hungry and wanted to eat and that was all there was to it.

  When things came to this pass, Hagg Ahmad felt embarrassed, even ashamed. He despised himself. “You want,” he thought to himself, “to eat, fill your belly, and belch, with your father only an hour dead? Can’t you put up with being hungry for one day, out of respect for the one who raised you and made you a man of means? The souls of the dead see and hear, and your father’s soul may this very minute be smiling sadly and despising your ingratitude. So soon does your mind turn aside from this calamity in favor of an omelet, and beans with tomatoes?” Hagg Ahmad uttered the words “I seek refuge with God” in an audible voice and twisted his head sharply to the right, as though to expel the evil thought, but Satan—God curse him—is a clever foe. See how he whispers to him, in calm, convincing tones, “Why all the fuss? Has the predawn meal suddenly become something reprehensible, or forbidden in religion?” He knew himself too well to think that he could tolerate the day’s fast without a meal before dawn. If he didn’t eat now, he would break his fast tomorrow, and what ignominy that would bring down on him! So he should eat, because tomorrow was going to be a hard day. He had to attend to the washing, shrouding, and burial of the corpse plus the funeral and a million other headaches. How could he get through it all on an empty stomach? And then there were all these people seated around him in mourning only a few minutes before the canon was due to sound to mark the start of the feast. How was he to know they hadn’t eaten at home? If they were as hungry as he was, they wouldn’t look so peaceful! Of course they’d all eaten well at home before coming to weep their bitter tears over the dear departed. He himself, if his father had died somewhere other than in his own home, would have eaten and drunk before going to pay his respects. It was perfectly natural, and there was nothing reprehensible or forbidden about it.

  Thus did Hagg Ahmad’s resistance erode, until, at forty minutes past three, it was gone altogether. There were five minutes left and Hagg Ahmad jumped up like someone who’s just remembered something important and trotted out of the drawing room muttering words of apology. He hastened his pace as he crossed the small corridor that led to the kitchen and there he found his wife, Hagga Dawlat, standing in silence and doing nothing, as though she was waiting for him, as though the long years of cohabitation had made her expect his appearance in the kitchen at that very moment. Dawlat gave him a look of understanding. Her eyes were swollen from crying and she had slapped herself so hard there were dark marks on her cheeks. In a voice whose sorrow and tremulousness she worked hard to maintain, she said, “Shall I get you a pot of yogurt, Hagg?”

  Despite all her precautions, her voice and posture, and the way the dim light emanated from the kitchen, gave Hagg Ahmad the feeling that they were somehow conspirators and he shouted in her face, “Yogurt? What damn yogurt? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Dawlat bowed her head as though shamed and quietly withdrew across the corridor. When she had disappeared completely, Hagg Ahmad stepped inside the kitchen and closed the door gently but firmly behind him. And there, on the marble counter next to the sink, Hagg Ahmad saw the dish of beans with tomatoes of which he’d been able to eat only one mouthful.

  Waiting for the Leader

  “MY BROTHERS, the twenty-third of August will remain forever engraved on our hearts in letters of light. Twenty-five years ago to this day, el-Nahhas Pasha, leader of the Wafd and of the nation, departed from us, his pure spirit calling down curses on the oppressors as it ascended.* That day, my brothers, the tyrant Abdel Nasser refused to let us accompany our leader to his place of rest and yet we went out onto the streets. We went out onto the streets and Egypt, to her last man and woman, went out with us to bid farewell to her devoted son, after which Abdel Nasser’s prisons received us and we entered them content, reconciled to our fate, for we—sons of the Mighty Wafd—will remain faithful to the Covenant so long as there is breath in our bodies.”

  Kamil el-Zahhar was standing on the dais and now that his passion was ignited his voice reverberated around the hall and he started punching the air with his fist. Behind him, a life-size portrait in oils of the Leader, Mustafa el-Nahhas, could be seen on the wall and next to him sat those two pillars of the Wafd, Muhammad Bey Bassiouni (may God prolong his life), former director of Mustafa el-Nahhas’s office (a venerable seventy-five years old, sick of body and weak of sight, yet with a heart still overflowing with love for the Wafd and its leader) and, on his left, with his countryman’s cloak and towering figure, Sheikh Ali Sahhab, the well-known Wafdist member of parliament and fellow townsman of el-Nahhas Pasha, from Samannud, in the province of el-Gharbiya. The celebration in memory of el-Nahhas was taking place in the living room of the home of Kamil el-Zahhar in el-Mounira and the room was crowded to capacity, some of those in attendance even having to follow events from outside. They were a mixture of neighbors, a few passersby who had come up out of curiosity, and, and these were the majority, the poor of the area—men and women dragging children along with them, their clothes shabby and dirty, the penetrating smell of their sweat combining with the exhaled breath of the audience and the cigarette smoke so that the air in the room was now oppressively offensive and stifling. El-Zahhar brought his speech to a close and sat down, pouring with sweat, to thunderous applause, and it was the turn of Muhammad Bey Bassiouni (God grant him health and strength). Rising from his seat with the assistance of Bora‘i, his private driver, he advanced slowly to the microphone, swept the audience with his eyes for a moment, and said, “I want to ask you, brothers, why we have come here tonight. Have we come seeking wealth or positions? Certainly not! We have gathered here for him, for Mustafa el-Nahhas. We have come to reawaken his sainted memory. Mustafa el-Nahhas, you live on! You will remain in Egypt’s heart so long as the Nile runs and the pyramids stand. Mustafa el-Nahhas…” Here, Bassiouni Bey suddenly stopped and bent his head in silence. A fugitive tear escaped from behind his thick glasses and all of a sudden his aged body shook and he burst into violent weeping. An embarrassed silence reigned in the room, but Sheikh Ali Sahhab’s excitement took fire and he leaped to his feet and shouted three times, in his deep voice, “No leader after el-Nahhas!”

  The people repeated the call behind him but Kamil seemed to sense that the listeners had tired of the heat, the crush, and the constant clapping and cheering and he went to the microphone and thanked them, and read the opening chapter of the Qur’an with them for the repose of the leader’s soul. Then the two pillars of the Wafd departed along with some of the rest. The majority, however, stayed in the room; the
y had attended el-Zahhar’s celebrations before and knew the routine. They crowded, therefore, in front of the dais next to a small, closed side door. A moment later, this opened, and an aged maid dressed in black appeared carrying a large tray of sandwiches—heaps of pita bread loaves sliced in half and stuffed with boiled meat. As soon as the front of the tray appeared through the opening of the door, the throng set upon these voraciously, causing the maid to thrust the whole thing at them, at which a fierce battle immediately broke out, the hands snatching at the meat sandwiches and the shouts swelling and quickly turning into screams and horrible insults. Kamil el-Zahhar stood on the dais watching the battling throng. He remained calm, not intervening with a single word, and eventually the battle came to an end and the throng dispersed—each with his booty—and little by little the room emptied completely. Then he stood up, closed the door, and sat down on the nearest chair.

  What had upset Mr. el-Zahhar? The celebration had been wonderful and his speech on Mustafa el-Nahhas extremely well received. He had been able to refute all the scurrilous lies Abdel Nasser had put into people’s heads. He had told them how el-Nahhas Pasha had stood like a lion against the British and the high-handed king and demonstrated with cogent arguments that the February 4 Incident ought to be held to Mustafa el-Nahhas’s credit and not against him.* His eloquence had convinced everyone present and their hands and throats had burned from all the clapping and shouting. Everything was as it should be, so what was it that was upsetting him? The truth is that Kamil el-Zahhar was one of those excessively sensitive people whom the merest word can gladden or wound to the utmost degree, and this evening the sight of the public fighting over the meat had shocked him. He was well aware that they were poor and he knew the faces of many of them but that the struggle over the food should have reached such an appalling level! And who were the people involved? The very ones who had applauded and sometimes cheered for the Wafd and its leader! This thought gave Mr. el-Zahhar pause when he considered their devotion to the principles of the Wafd, and here his wife Dawlat’s words as she handed him the five hundred pounds that he was to spend on the celebration returned to bother him. She had told him, with an affectionate smile, “Take this, Kamil, and may the Lord support you in your good works. Even if those people do just come to eat at our expense, it’s the intention that God rewards.”