The sharp intractable idea that kept sawing at his brain was that the Wafd was dead. Abdel Nasser had failed at everything else but he’d succeeded in cutting the Egyptians off from their past, and a generation had thus grown up that didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, anything about the Wafd and its leaders. How did Mr. el-Zahhar’s children, Mustafa and Zeinab, look at him when he talked to them of Mustafa el-Nahhas? With a polite smile and an indifferent eye, and were it not for their respect for him they would openly make fun of him and his leader. It was not their fault, it was what they’d been taught in Abdel Nasser’s schools. “What’s happened to the world?” muttered Mr. el-Zahhar as he stretched his legs out and sank back into the chair, contemplating the picture of el-Nahhas on the wall. The Leader was wearing court dress and his chest was adorned with glittering stars; draped over his shoulder was the red sash of the judiciary, a silver sword dangled from his hip, and on his kindly face was a beautiful smile, full of nobility and patriotism.
Mr. el-Zahhar closed his eyes and images from the distant past welled up from within his memory. He saw himself as a student at Sa‘idiya Secondary borne on the others’ shoulders in a crowded demonstration and shouting out the slogans, the other students taking up the cry: “Long Live Egypt—Independent and Free!” The demonstration crosses University Avenue and in no time the students from the Faculty of Engineering have joined them. Enthusiasm reaches fever pitch and the slogans roar out, piercing the skies. The British try to disperse them but in vain. Then they open fire, the bullets whine, and the martyrs fall, crying aloud the name of Egypt. On the evening, he rushes to el-Nahhas’s villa in Garden City, where he sees the great men of the nation standing in the hallway and waiting. But he…he, Kamil el-Zahhar, leader of the Sa‘idiya students, who is not yet twenty years old, he is let in straight away and the Leader welcomes him and when el-Zahhar bends over to kiss his hand, el-Nahhas pulls it away with expressions of pious disavowal and says, “Zahhar, you are my son. A son of the Wafd. In you I see my own youth.”
How happy he had been that day! Where had it all gone? How strange life was! One day he said proudly to his companions at the Sa‘idiya, “I shall be prime minister of Egypt. I’m sure of it.” He almost laughed at himself in derision. And the years had quickly passed and he had retired as a Department of Social Insurance employee like thousands of ordinary people. People had forgotten him just as they had forgotten Mustafa el-Nahhas.
Mr. el-Zahhar was tired and sad. Suddenly, however, he was overcome by a sense of ease. A mysterious and comforting sensation filled him and immediately afterward a strong light dazzled him, a light that shone and burned and moved closer until he felt something like a sharp slap across his face. Mr. el-Zahhar leaped up in terror and ran and looked out of the room, but when he saw the picture on the wall, astonishment rooted him to the spot: the picture was moving. The Leader’s smile broadened, then he moved his right arm, and in a second he had descended from the picture. Himself. The Leader Mustafa el-Nahhas, in his brocaded frock coat studded with decorations and his tarboosh, standing before him and smiling. El-Zahhar started toward him, bent over his hand to kiss it, and embraced him, crying out, “Master! Where have you been?”
“I was dead, Zahhar. Then I prayed God would resurrect me and He answered my prayer.”
El-Zahhar stared at the Leader.
“I see you are astonished at my return, Zahhar. He says in His Holy Book, ‘Say, Who shall quicken the bones when they are decayed? Say, He shall quicken them who originated them the first time.’”
“The Almighty has spoken truly, Master,” muttered el-Zahhar. Then he continued in a trembling voice, “Most Lofty Excellency, save the Egypt for which you gave your life!”
The Leader shook his head and mumbled sorrowfully, “I know, Zahhar. In the Other World, I follow events day by day.”
“What is to be done, Master? How are we to extricate Egypt from its predicament?”
“The motto of the Wafd is unchanging, Zahhar. ‘Constitution and democracy.’”
“But the people have changed, O Leader of the Valley of the Nile. No one cares any more about the constitution. All people care about is filling their bellies.”
“They are not to be blamed, Zahhar. Prices are high, many are poor, and life is hard. But a better life can only come through democracy.”
“No one understands that, Master. No one remembers the Wafd and el-Nahhas any longer.”
The smile disappeared from the Leader’s face, his eyes clouded over, and he said earnestly, “Do not despair, Zahhar. Egypt will never die. It is ‘God’s Quiver on Earth.’ A new generation of youth will emerge who know the worth of the Wafd. Listen. A long and exhausting struggle lies ahead of us. Kamil, are you still true to the Covenant?”
“My life is Egypt’s and its Leader’s!” exclaimed Mr el-Zahhar, with passion.
“Excellent. Let us start right away. I shall give you one day. I want you to gather your comrades and wait for me on Monday, at eight in the morning. Peace be upon you.”
The Leader’s face started to grow dim, his regard changed and he seemed to be looking at something far away on the horizon. In a strained voice he said, as he retreated backward toward the wall, “I have to go back up. I have an appointment now in Heaven. I wish you good fortune.”
El-Zahhar rushed after him, asking urgently, “Where shall we wait for you, Master?”
“Before the House of the Nation.”*
The Leader uttered these words with difficulty, having now become fully stuck to the wall. El-Zahhar stretched out his hand to grasp hold of him but he was seized by a sudden violent dizziness and when he came to, the picture of Mustafa el-Nahhas had returned to its original state.
Muhammad Bey Bassiouni’s morning routine never varied. He would wake up, bathe, and change out of his pajamas. Then he would take a stroll in his robe de chambre in the garden of the villa in el-Maadi. Borai would have brought the newspapers and he would sit and read them in the garden, using his magnifying glass, while he sipped his cup of warm milk. Over the last few years, Bassiouni Bey had been subjected to numerous health crises and these had had their impact on his powers of concentration. It followed that that morning, when confronted with the sight of Kamil el-Zahhar standing in front of him, he was briefly confused. Then he welcomed him and no sooner had Mr. el-Zahhar sat down than he began telling him that the Leader, Mustafa el-Nahhas, had visited him the night before, at which point Bassiouni looked hard at him from behind his glasses and said to him, “Who did you say visited you yesterday, Kamil Bey?”
“El-Nahhas Pasha. He came out of the picture in the sitting room,” responded el-Zahhar.
“Ah!” muttered Bassiouni Bey, who then continued to listen to el-Zahhar with a polite smile and no interest. El-Zahhar immediately fixed his eyes on him reproachfully, saying, “Don’t you believe me, Bassiouni Bey?”
“Please, Kamil Bey. Of course I believe you,” Bassiouni replied politely, the smile never leaving his lips.
The old man doesn’t believe me, and is making fun of me, thought el-Zahhar, furious as he emerged from the door of the villa, and when he had seated himself in the taxi, he said, “I am not mad. I have never in my life been saner than I am today. Mustafa el-Nahhas touched my hand and spoke to me. That is a certain truth, and tomorrow el-Nahhas Pasha will come back to me. I will take him with me everywhere. We will go together to the press, to the Lower House, and we will request a meeting with the President of the Republic himself. We—the Leader and I—will be headlines in Tuesday’s newspapers and then we shall see what Muhammad Bassiouni says.”
The taxi stopped in front of the house of Sheikh Ali Sahhab on Murad Street just as Sheikh Ali completed the midmorning prayer, and the sheikh sat down, passing his prayer beads through his fingers, and welcomed his friend Kamil el-Zahhar. The latter wasted no time in recounting to him what had happened, in detail. Silence reigned for a moment, and then Sheikh Ali rumbled in his deep voice, “A strange story indeed!”
At which el-Zahhar cried out, “Listen, Sheikh Ali! If you don’t believe me, tell me and I’ll go.”
Sheikh Ali answered, soothingly, “Of course I believe you, Kamil. We’ve known each other all our lives. And spirits do exist: They will question thee concerning the Spirit. Say, ‘The Spirit is of the bidding of my Lord’ (the Almighty has spoken truly). Only…are you sure it was el-Nahhas Pasha?”
El-Zahhar jumped up, for emphasis, and said, “I saw el-Nahhas Pasha as clearly as I see you now, and he spoke to me. Listen. Tomorrow I’m going to meet His Excellency the Pasha. Will you come with me or not?”
Deep thought appeared on the sheikh’s face, and after a second he stood up, took el-Zahhar’s hand to shake it, and said, “I’ll come with you.”
Could Mr. el-Zahhar sleep that night? He lay next to his wife, Dawlat, in the dark and started smoking and thinking about the coming day. Of course, it would be a surprise for everyone, but what after? He would organize with the Leader vast campaigns. They would tour the whole of Egypt. Every Egyptian must see the Leader and hear him, in the cities, in the hamlets, and in the Bedouin encampments. And at the first elections the Wafd would sweep the field, as usual, and Mustafa el-Nahhas would form a Wafdist cabinet, in which el-Zahhar would be a minister. He would choose either the Treasury or the Economy. That was his field. Foreign Affairs was sensitive and dangerous and the Interior was not his type of thing at all. Dawlat woke up, turned on the light, and looked at him anxiously.
“Why aren’t you asleep, Kamil?”
“It’s nothing.”
If the partner of his life only knew what tomorrow held! My darling Dawlat, in less than a year you will be the minister’s wife. Didn’t you put up with Kamil el-Zahhar the insurance department employee for a quarter of a century without grumbling or complaining? Pluck then, my high-born rose, the fruits of your long and patient wait! You will make the pilgrimage to God’s Holy House as you have always wanted, and then it’ll be summers in Europe for you, me, and my dear Mustafa and Zeinab. El-Zahhar drew close to his wife, planted a kiss on her brow, and whispered tenderly, “Goodnight” and pretended to sleep. At precisely seven o’clock the next morning, he leaped out of bed and a quarter of an hour later was running down the empty street making for the House of the Nation. He had to arrive before the Leader. He might wait for the Leader, but certainly not the other way round!
The House of the Nation was closed and on the door there was a brass plate announcing “House of the Nation Museum. Open 10–3 except Fridays.”
The building was old and covered with thick layers of dust, the garden neglected and bleak. El-Zahhar felt sad and determined privately that the first task of the new cabinet would be to restore the House of the Nation. It was now a quarter to eight. Sheikh Ali Sahhab had arrived a minute ago, shaken el-Zahhar’s hand, and stood next to him on the sidewalk. Then a black Cadillac appeared gliding along at the end of the street. It drew closer until it stopped in front of the two friends and Muhammad Bey Bassiouni got out. When el-Zahhar rushed over to him, Bassiouni shook his hand and got the first word in by saying excitedly, “El-Nahhas will come, Kamil. El-Nahhas never breaks an appointment.”
It was exactly eight o’clock. The street was crowded with cars and pedestrians, on the sidewalk opposite people had gathered around a stall selling bean sandwiches, everywhere troops of employees from the nearby ministry buildings were running to get to work on time, and in front of the House of the Nation the three—Mr. Kamil el-Zahhar, Sheikh Ali Sahhab, and Muhammad Bey Bassiouni—continued to stand, gazing eagerly toward the end of the street where, in a few moments, the August Leader, His Most Lofty Excellency Mustafa el-Nahhas Pasha would arrive.
A Look into Nagi’s Face
MY SCHOOL. The old building with its windows, rounded balconies, and huge pillars appears in the early morning mist like an abandoned castle. The wooden gate opens slowly to reveal the spacious courtyard with its huge bare trees whose dry yellow leaves are spread over the ground and we crush them underfoot as we play in the playground so that they make a soft crackling sound and break into little pieces. We are sitting in the classroom in our blue smocks, sewn with the venerable school’s motto, listening to the Frère, our teacher. I remember his aged face and bald patch, his glasses, blue eyes, dull-colored military boots and billowing white robe. On his chest was the imposing image of a cross and in his hand his cane. Ah, that long thin cane, painful as a razorblade, quick as a bullet.
The Frère roams among us, reading from the book, his voice monotonous, endlessly repeating itself. The air in the classroom is still, impending sleepiness teases me, and through the window next to me I look out onto the cars, the passersby, and Uncle Kamil, who sells doum fruit. I entertain myself by watching the street until I am brought to my senses by the sting of the cane on my back and the Frère’s voice breaking in on my thoughts. “Continue reading!”
I die. I stare trembling at the book but the small lines run into one another in front of my eyes.
“Put your hand out!”
The Frère is in front of me brandishing his cane in the air. There is no way out. I extend my hand and he grips it and brings the cane down on it. I scream and cry and beg him to forgive me, but he strikes and strikes and then lets me fall back onto my seat. I look tearfully at the boys around me. I call on them to be my witnesses, but they pretend to be reading and following the lesson; they ignore me, and, if I were to appeal to them now, they would answer as one, feigning innocence, “What happened to you? We didn’t see anything and we don’t know anything.” In fact, after this incident, as soon as the Frère asks a question, they leap up from their seats and thrust their hands into the air, as though, through their eagerness to answer, they are annihilating any connection to me; as though they are saying to the Frère, “He’s the one who disobeyed you. We, however, are your ever faithful students.”
My hand hurt and I was crying loudly but the Frère paid no attention. He resumed reading as though nothing had happened, except that maybe his thin lips mumbled a little, as if saying, threateningly, “Observe! This is the reward of him who disobeys.” And who would dare? We have submitted to you, O Teacher, and obeyed your orders and become—under the influence of time and obedience—parts of you, like your finger: you crook us and bend us and do with us as you will. Sometimes the Frère is happy, and he smiles and jokingly calls us by the names of various animals. Immediately, we catch the signal, bursting into raucous laughter and shouting at the tops of our voices and stamping our feet, and then it’s as though we are letting out all at one go everything we have long hidden beneath the surface of our polite, still faces. Things come to an end just as they began, with a gesture or a light cough from the Frère, or a look that takes us unawares and stops us in our tracks. Then we shrink; there’s not a voice or a breath to be heard as we know well that the slightest suggestion of indiscipline now means certain perdition, the very thought of which terrifies us as much as any mythical monster of the dark.
Then Nagi came. That morning he stood at the door to the classroom, regarding us with his startled, honey-colored eyes. He dazzled us, he was so beautiful. His face was white and pale, his chestnut hair smooth and flowing, his smock neat and well ironed, his leather bag—unlike our bulging versions—high-quality and gleaming, without patch or sign of wear. Even his sandwiches were delicate and white, like him—slices of snow-white, foreign-style bread, spread with butter, which he carried in a smart transparent bag like the halvah that we ate on our birthdays. The Frère said, “This is your new classmate, Nagi.” Then he looked around searching for a place for him, and the place next to mine was vacant, and I wished…. Is it enough for us to wish hard for something to come true? The Frère was pointing to where I was sitting and Nagi was approaching me, whispering a greeting, and sitting down, and I could smell the faint aroma that emanated from his clothes. I would spend the rest of that day examining him and sniffing him until the bell rang and we could talk. He told me that his
mother was French and his father Egyptian and I told him about myself. I waited with him at the door to the school until his luxurious car arrived, the driver descending and picking up his bag, and I asked him urgently as I shook his hand, “Are we friends, Nagi?” and he nodded and got in. At home in the kitchen, I tugged at my mother’s dress so hard that the hot food almost spilled all over her. I wanted her to listen while I told her about Nagi. From then on I controlled myself and would imitate his face, drawing in my features in front of the mirror in the hope of seeing the two dimples that appeared on Nagi’s when he smiled.
In no time, Nagi settled into his place at the pinnacle of the class. He was the most beautiful one among us and the cleverest. A flash from his eyes meant an hour of explanation by the Frère, and we would follow along with the two of them, panting and struggling to keep up, and in the end we would stare at the blackboard and nod our heads as though we understood. Even our French accents seemed heavy beside Nagi’s fluent, refined speech, his French being like the Frère’s, or perhaps better. Then we discovered, little by little, that Nagi wasn’t afraid like us. His face didn’t blanch, his voice didn’t shake, and his eyes didn’t seek refuge in the ceiling or the floor. He would stand in front of the Frère, pull himself up to his full height, and speak to him with a clarity and confidence that increased each time; and each time we expected the accident to happen, as though Nagi were a speeding car rushing headlong toward the top of a mountain behind which lay a sheer cliff. We would shut our eyes and wait for the sound of the terrible crash, but it didn’t happen. On the contrary, the Frère humored Nagi and was patient with him, and we were delighted. We never asked ourselves, “Why does the Frère prefer Nagi to us?”
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