The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  Only then does the husband realise the enormity of the deception: he has spent everything he possesses dreaming of the pearl only to discover that the oyster is empty! But before he can escape, his wife will have borne a child. Egyptian women have children faster than any others on the face of the earth. They use their children as effective weapons to retain their husbands and make them subservient to their will. This is a fact known to every Egyptian husband (even if he denies it). The second fact is that the femininity of the Egyptian woman varies in reverse proportion to her social status. Women of the upper class are (for the most part) nothing but sterile, counterfeit dummies, pseudo-females, sugar dolls with neither desire nor soul.

  Only the woman of the popular classes is a natural, complete female, one who doesn’t ruin her spontaneity with artifice, knows nothing of the lies and games of the grandes dames, or of the hypocrisy that these imbibe with their mothers’ milk. Observe the paintings of Mahmoud Said. This great artist was raised in the mansion of his father, prime minister of Egypt, studied in France, and worked as a judge until he was fifty, after which he dedicated his life to art. Despite all which, when he painted, the sole example of femininity he found before him was the Egyptian woman of the popular classes. The explosive energy that looks down at us from the painting “Girls of Bahari” is something the young women of the upper classes will never know. In brief, the woman of the popular classes is a woman, and every other woman is fake and artificial, the difference being precisely that between a natural and a plastic rose.

  The third fact is that the charm of the woman of the popular classes manifests itself most clearly when that woman is a domestic. When this is the case, she adds to her fresh, overflowing femininity a delicious stamp of submissiveness that puts fire into her allure.

  Kindly answer the following question frankly. What would happen if you were to invite your aristocratic fiancée to lunch at an elegant, high-class restaurant and then suddenly say to her, “Your body is extremely arousing, my darling. Your well-rounded backside has two halves that quiver in a marvellous way and your full chest makes me imagine myself sucking on your nipples, causing my member to go extremely hard and making me want to have conjugal intercourse with you this very minute.”

  What would your fiancée do?

  She’d be furious, no doubt about it. She’d revile you. She’d hurry home to cast herself weeping into the arms of her mother and curse the luck that threw her into the clutches of a man so vile and depraved. And she’d probably break off the engagement. Her anger at your open declaration of your sexual fantasies would be quite sincere. It would never occur to your fiancée that when she chose her form-fitting dress her goal was precisely to draw your attention to the curve of her backside and the swelling of her breasts. The rules of the charade require that your fiancée arouse your lust seemingly without meaning to, while at the same time you hide your arousal and talk of other things. The real reason for your fiancée’s fury would be that you have spoiled the charade with your frankness. But the very same sexual flirtatiousness that angered your fiancée, if directed at your maid, would probably be considered by her a charming compliment. She’d coo and laugh, with lovable obscenity and playful gratitude. Truly, maids are indispensable mistresses for anyone who knows how to quaff from their sweet, natural springs!

  * * *

  —

  Assembled gentlemen,

  He who has never loved the maid has never loved at all!

  I, like so many husbands in Egypt, have been the victim of a deception. When I practise sex with my wife, I feel as though I’m eating a sandwich filled with soap powder: no matter how hungry I may be, my gorge must inevitably rise at the first bite. When I reached fifty, I gave up having sex with my wife almost completely. I think she was relieved, because she had never liked sex and only practised it within the narrowest of parameters and after every possible excuse had been exhausted. In this book, I shall present my experience with maids, in hope that this may be of some assistance to the millions of husbands who suffer in silence, having been deceived with the same cruelty and in the same despicable way.

  Despairing, amorous husband, The Maid Is the Solution!

  What more does a man need than a desirable female residing with him under the same roof with whom he can take his pleasure whenever he wants? Whom he can have sex with straightaway, without any shilly-shallying or wasting time on phone calls and clandestine romantic meetings? A real woman, who knows the value of sex and enjoys it and looks forward to it? Did not our grandfathers, up to the nineteenth century, buy concubines for sexual gratification? Might not a lawfully wedded wife, back then, present her husband with a beautiful concubine, for which gift the husband would thank her and then have sex with the concubine, with the result that he would calm down and his worries would go away? If we could rid ourselves of middle-class complexes, the husband’s relationship with the maid would persuade him to bear with equanimity the tensions in his relationship with his wife and lead, as a consequence, to greater familial stability. Naturally, a maid can sometimes present problems, but these are all solvable. There is, for example, that roughness of hand and foot that plagues the maid because of her work. This can be overcome by giving her a monthly sum with which to buy creams guaranteed to smooth the extremities (due care being taken to avoid excessive smoothness, so as not to arouse the wife’s suspicions).

  Another common problem: your maid-mistress may be afflicted with a case of jealousy that will drive her to provoke your wife and disobey her instructions. On such occasions, you must warn her of the consequences of challenging your wife since, if she decides to throw her out, you will be unable to protect her. There is also the problem of the greedy, gold-digging maid—but in truth, how paltry the sums! What you spend on your maid-mistress in an entire year you may spend on your wife in one night, if you invite her and her family to dinner in a posh restaurant, or you buy her a necklace or a ring for her birthday. In this way, you can enjoy, for peanuts, a superb mistress who will make you forget your despair over your lady wife and her empty oyster.

  Beware, though, and beware again! Maid-love is not to be undertaken impromptu, or blindly. It is both an art and a science that call for study and carefully considered steps, which may be summarised as follows:

  1. Exploration

  It is possible to discover the maid’s character from day one. If you feel she is trying to attract your attention; if she keeps passing in front of you for no good reason; if she starts with surprise on finding you at the door to the kitchen and tugs on her headscarf and catches her breath in affected fear; if she bends over in front of you to wipe the floor with the floor cloth and then retreats, proudly showing off her backside; if she leans out of the window opposite you to hang out the wash, then puts the clothes pegs in her mouth and bends over so that her large breasts appear, resting on the windowsill—all of these things are signs that your maid is ready for love. Proceed to Step Two.

  2. First Manoeuvre

  As soon as you find yourself alone with the maid and well away from your wife, smile and ask her how she is, then give her a lustful look. Look her body over slowly and lewdly. This is a decisive moment, a definitive test. The unresponsive maid will ignore your look entirely, or talk to you about something serious, or call out to your wife to ask her any old thing. The responsive maid, on the other hand, will smile and talk to you coquettishly and may even grant you a generous gift, such as giving you a glimpse of a delightful shake of the breasts, or by passing in front of you while moving her backside like some fascinating pendulum (left, right, and back again). In this case, you are on the right track. Advance!

  3. Creating a Secret

  At the first opportunity when no one can see you, take out a hundred pounds, thrust them into the maid’s hand, and whisper in her ear, “Don’t tell the madam I gave you anything!”

  She will nod her head and thank you warmly. This step has
two objectives: the first is to let the maid know that her love will not go unrewarded, the second to create a common secret in preparation for your relationship, which has in fact now begun, all that remains being the final step.

  4. Attack

  Take care before attacking. The maid may be matching you step for step and then, as soon as you touch her, erupt and threaten you with a scandal, or lecture you on morality. A maid of this sort will have a chip on her shoulder and a villainous temperament. She will have an inferiority complex that she wants to compensate for by catching you red-handed in an act of harassment. She seeks to satisfy her vanity as a woman while at the same time enjoying, as a maid, the exercise of moral superiority over her employer. This vicious species of maid is, fortunately, very rare, and can be exposed using a simple test. When zero hour arrives, have her make the first move. Call her over and invite her to sit down next to you, or pretend that your back hurts and ask her to give you a massage. The villainous maid will refuse, but the open-minded maid will come to you. At this point, hug her hard and kiss her and squeeze her breasts with your hands. She may make feeble protestations or pretend to try to wriggle out of your grasp while clinging to you. Pay no attention to this insincere, fragile denial, it’s just for the record. Intensify the attack. Pounce on her. Ravish her. And welcome to the Happiness Club!

  * * *

  —

  Ashraf Wissa stopped writing and lit a joint, holding the smoke in to increase the effect of the hashish. The book’s subject was now clear in his mind. The first chapter would bear the title “Getting Laid by the Maid: A Guide to the Pleasures of,” the second “Diaries of a Delighted Donkey.” The third would be called “How to Become a Successful Pimp in Five Steps.” He’d also have a whole chapter describing the farcical scenes that took place in the cinema world. He’d tell everything in this book. He’d print one thousand copies at his own expense and distribute them secretly. No one would ever know he was the author. The original would be written on the computer, not in his own hand, and he’d have it printed at the press belonging to Ahmad Ma’moun, lifelong friend and repository of his secrets from the day they were students together at the Lycée Français.

  Unfortunately, though, Ashraf Wissa had discovered that writing was a lot harder than acting. After months of work, the book was still in its early stages and it had taken him a lot of effort to arrive at the right biting, sarcastic tone. He wasn’t trying to persuade his readers of anything. He just wanted to show them how many are the lies that we live. It would make him happy to see the effect of the book on all those artificial, arrogant women, devoid of femininity, and all those finicky, fastidious men, oozing triviality and stupidity.

  “Yes indeed! Read my book, you frauds, and learn the truth about yourselves! I am Ashraf Nagib Ramzi Wissa, failed bit player and hash fiend, whom you despise and make fun of, or are even so gracious as to pity. My book will deliver a resounding slap on your faces for every pain and frustration you have caused me and for every lie and mean-spirited act.

  “I shall leave a copy of the book at the office of Lamei, that pimp of a casting agent who has for so long humiliated me and extorted money from me so that I can get fatuous parts lasting only a few minutes. I shall leave copies on the sets, so that famous actors may read them and realise that I know exactly how they reached stardom. I shall send a copy of the book to all of my ‘successful’ relatives, so that they know that success in the corrupt society in which we live doesn’t merit such self-satisfaction. I shall leave a copy of the book on the dressing table in the bedroom so that my wife Magda can read it. It will give me the greatest of pleasure to shock her out of her pathetic ideas regarding the holiness of the ‘facts of life.’ My wife Magda is the executioner who has taken on the task of torturing me for a quarter of a century. If I were a Muslim, I would have divorced her a few months after getting married, but we Copts are allowed divorce only in case of adultery. Magda was the least suitable woman in the world for me. I saw her some miserable day at a church party and fell into the trap. My late mother warned me against the marriage so often, but I was a dumb, randy male and sent myself off to my doom. Dear Lord Jesus, glorified be your name, it’s as though Magda Adly Barsoum had been created for a single purpose—to make my life miserable, no more, no less.”

  Feeling suddenly anxious, Ashraf lit another joint, inhaled deeply, and resumed his memories of life with Magda. How many problems she’d caused! When she had children, she wanted to call the boy Patrick and the girl Kristina, to facilitate their assimilation into Western society when they grew up and emigrated. Ashraf had rejected her suggestions vehemently, because his grandfather Ramzi Basha Wissa had been a comrade of the nationalist leader Saad Zaghloul during the revolution of 1919, selling many parcels of land and spending vast sums of money in support of the nationalist cause. It was inconceivable that the descendants of that great Egyptian should bear foreign names! After violent arguments, Ashraf had been able to impose two Egyptian names on his wife—Sarah and Butrus.

  Life with Magda was nothing but a series of arguments and quarrels, interrupted by long periods of hostile silence, poisonous comments, and haughty refusals to acknowledge the other’s presence. She went on at him to sell his grandfather’s block of flats on Talaat Harb Street where they lived and buy a villa in “October” or “the Settlement” because Downtown had turned, in her opinion, into a plebeian neighbourhood that was beneath their station. What a stupid idea! Yet another upsetting battle to fight! Why should he throw away the income from the building off which, along with additional income from his inheritance, he lived? Where would he find another flat like the one they were in now? Seven spacious rooms with high ceilings after the old fashion, with two bathrooms and two kitchens plus a large balcony that sat ten people easily, not to mention three small balconies attached to the bedrooms. He’d be insane to leave a flat like that! On top of which, he couldn’t imagine himself living anywhere else. He had been born here and spent his childhood and youth here, and every corner of the flat had witnessed some part of his life. He couldn’t get any of these delicate human feelings through to Magda. She understood nothing about life that couldn’t be converted into figures.

  At the start of their marriage, she used to go on at him to emigrate to Canada, like so many of their relatives. She’d quarrel with him and shout, “Give me one reason for us to go on staying in this country!” and he’d always reply with the same words: “I’d be like a fish out of water. If I leave Egypt, I’ll die.”

  He had managed, with much effort, to dissuade her from the idea of emigrating, but she had, unfortunately, convinced her son and daughter, and they’d emigrated to Canada as soon as they graduated. That was something for which he would never forgive her. How he needed Butrus and Sarah with him now! He was getting on in years and was entirely alone. Magda would leave in the morning and not get back from work before 7 p.m., leaving all the household chores to the maid. Even when she was home, she avoided talking to him unless she had to. Magda had never loved him and had dealt with him on the basis that he was “the best option going for marriage and children.”

  He didn’t mind because he too had never loved her. What truly made him sad was that she didn’t respect him. She considered him a failure. She alluded frequently to the fact that she had worked hard and become a chartered accountant with a well-known and successful practice, while he was unemployed, despite all his money, and sat at home for weeks, and sometimes months, before the order to film reached him, when he would spend days in demeaning, exhausting work just to appear in one or two scenes as an extra in a film or a serial. A few days ago, he’d screamed at her that he missed Sarah and Butrus and she’d answered, in a tone laden with significance, turning her face away from him, “No doubt they’re working hard to make successes of their lives,” as though what she really meant was, “Let them get on with it, so they don’t turn out like you!”

  How t
he words had hurt him! Magda considered him spoiled and a failure but that was so far from the truth. Certainly, he lived off the income from his properties, but he wasn’t lazy or without ambition. He was an actor who loved his art, and the leading critics and directors had borne witness to his talent. Unfortunately, though, the opportunities had never come his way, because the acting field in Egypt, like everything else in that country, was like a filth-covered swamp swarming with insects and worms. If he’d been a flirtatious actress who gave her body to the director, he would have achieved stardom long ago, and if he’d been a pimp who brought the directors women, they would have given him leading roles. He was, quite simply, however, and like so many other Egyptians, paying an exorbitant price for his talent and self-respect.

  Feeling tired, Ashraf turned out the lights in his study and walked down the long corridor to his bedroom, where he stretched out in the darkness next to Magda and soon fell asleep. In the morning, he was awakened by the usual everyday noise and listened, eyes still shut, to his wife as she came out of the bathroom, put on her clothes, did her make-up, and moved about quickly in all directions before checking, one last time, the work-related papers she was carrying in her bag. He pretended he was asleep. He didn’t want to talk to her. Now she was turning off the light, closing the door of the room, and leaving. Ashraf went back to sleep and when he woke it was past ten. He went into the pantry next to the bedroom and made himself a large honey and clotted cream sandwich, which he ate with relish, then prepared himself a cup of sugarless coffee which he sipped while smoking his “good morning”—that first joint whose effect was always so wonderful. His mind cleared completely and he became filled with an amazing serenity. He shaved carefully, then surrendered to the hot water pouring from the showerhead, and, having finished in the bathroom, put a cashmere dressing gown over his naked body, squirted himself with a few puffs of his favourite perfume, Pino Silvestre, and made his way to the kitchen, where his other, glorious, life would begin.