The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  As though trying to conciliate him, Ikram said, “It’s not my fault, Ashraf Bey.”

  He took another deep drag and said, “I swear I don’t know. I can’t believe that he just turned up by coincidence.”

  Silence reigned. Then Ikram took a step back and said, “You think I set this up with Mansour, sir?”

  “Take it any way you like,” he said, turning his face away. She looked at him for a moment, said, “Thank you, Ashraf Bey,” and went out, closing the door quietly behind her.

  11

  Dear Asmaa,

  I hope you’re well. It’s 9 p.m. and I’ve been at the factory since morning. The workers have a general problem and I’m here to show solidarity with them. I’ll tell you what happened later. Here’s my short answer to your question: accept the interrogator’s offer and write the undertaking. It’s just a formality. Our battle isn’t with the headmaster, it’s with the corrupt system that produced him. That’s my opinion and you’re free, of course, to act as you think best. I’m going back to the workers now so we can decide what action to take with management. Thank you for your smile.

  Bye, beautiful.

  Mazen

  12

  Madany, the driver, was asleep in the car when he became aware of Eng. Essam’s voice saying, as he opened the door and threw himself onto the back seat, “Take me back to the factory, Madany!”

  It took Madany a few moments to grasp what was happening, then he turned on the engine and the car set off. Essam took some gum from his pocket and began chewing it to get rid of the smell of the alcohol. He also put a few drops of Prisoline in his eyes to get rid of the redness. Then he started making telephone calls, to keep abreast of the situation. The traffic was light, so they reached the factory quickly. No sooner had Essam passed through the gates than he beheld a sight never seen before: the workers had turned on all the factory’s spotlights and gathered in the brilliant illumination in front of the management building wearing their old, tattered, khaki-coloured work outfits. They were talking to one another excitedly but, as soon as Essam’s car appeared, the angry cries grew louder, then quickly resolved themselves into a single cry: “We want our rights! We want our rights!”

  Eng. Essam ignored them and went upstairs to his office. A few minutes later, he emerged onto the balcony with a megaphone, through which he shouted, “Everyone, choose someone to speak in your name so I can come to an understanding with you.”

  A wave of commotion ran through the workers that went on for a few minutes. Then they chose Hagg Shirbini, the oldest of the workers, along with Mazen Saqqa, a member of the union committee. The men went up to Essam’s office, where he invited them to sit, then lit a cigarette and asked in a calm voice, “What happened?”

  Mazen said excitedly, “Management has taken away the workers’ rights and they have decided to strike.”

  “Uncle” Shirbini pressed Mazen’s leg with his hand to make him calm down. Then he smiled and said in a friendly tone of voice, “Essam Bey, we are confident that you will treat us fairly. When the Italian company bought the factory, it undertook to pay out a twenty-five-month workers’ dividend annually. We went to get it and were taken aback to find that the dividend was only five months. We’re all struggling to feed children. We have responsibilities and families, and every year we wait for these dividends. You could say our lives depend on them.”

  Eng. Essam took a drag on his cigarette and said, “You know, Shirbini, there’s nobody who loves the workers or looks out for their interests more than me.”

  Mazen made no comment but Shirbini exclaimed fervently, “God preserve you, Essam Bey, so that you can go on helping us!”

  Essam took a sip from his coffee cup and said, “I’m well aware of your circumstances, but we have to be rational. The company gives you a twenty-five-month dividend when it’s making a profit but when it’s making a loss it can’t do so.”

  Shirbini said, “The company committed itself to giving the workers a twenty-five-month dividend no matter what the situation, and whether the factory was making a profit or a loss. It’s an article in the contract of sale for the factory, and the Italians agreed to it.”

  Essam smiled and said, “Logic is more important than any contract. Logic says that a loss-making company can’t pay out dividends to its workers. Do you know how much the factory loses in a year?”

  “The workers aren’t responsible for the company’s losses,” Mazen said.

  “So who is responsible, my dear engineer?” Essam asked mockingly, to which Mazen responded, “You want me to tell you something you’re already very well aware of, my dear sir?”

  “Speak respectfully!” Essam yelled.

  Speaking calmly, Mazen answered, “I am speaking respectfully. The Italian company has three factories that it owns outright. Our factory is owned thirty-five per cent by the Egyptian government. It follows that it’s in the interest of the Italian company to lose money on our factory and make money on the factories it owns, so that it doesn’t have to share its profits with the government.”

  “So you’re a conspiracy theorist!” Essam said sarcastically.

  “You know it’s the truth,” Mazen responded.

  There was silence for a moment. Then Uncle Shirbini said, “Essam Bey, the furnaces need maintenance, but the company left them till they stopped working. When the company took over the factory, seven were working. Now we have only two. Is that the workers’ fault? The company moves the new spare parts to its own factories and gets us old, non-functioning spare parts. Is that the workers’ fault? If the company wants to make the factory unprofitable so that it doesn’t have to share its profits with the government, that’s its business, but it has to give the workers their dividends.”

  Mazen said, “The company is obliged to implement the contract as signed.”

  Essam looked at them both for a moment, then smiled and said, “Very well. I promise you I will convey your demands to management.”

  “God bless you, Essam Bey!” said Shirbini. Mazen, however, remained silent.

  “All I ask is that the workers return to work,” Essam continued in a friendly voice.

  “The workers will never halt the strike before the dividends are paid,” Mazen responded.

  “Bringing the factory to a halt like this is unacceptable.”

  “It’s not in my hands or Uncle Shirbini’s. The workers have decided to continue the strike till the dividends are paid in full.”

  Essam suddenly rose, gestured to them to follow him, and went out onto the balcony, where he took hold of the megaphone and shouted, “Everyone! I have understood your demands and will convey them to the owners’ representative, Mr. Fabio.”

  Confusion reigned in the ranks of the workers, and there was a babble of voices. Then the cry returned: “We want our rights! We want our rights!”

  Essam shouted in a louder voice, “Now that your message has been delivered, I think you can halt the strike and go back to work.”

  The workers’ voices rose in a babble, then resolved themselves into a single cry. “Strike! Strike!”

  Essam smiled and shouted, “If you insist on striking, that’s your right. Please take care of the factory because it’s yours. I’ve given instructions to the kitchen to prepare a hot meal for you.”

  Cheers and shouts arose, then the cry came back, stronger, “We want our rights!”

  Essam turned to Uncle Shirbini and said, kindly, “Thank you, Shirbini. Goodnight. Will you be spending the night at the factory?”

  Shirbini responded straight away, “I can’t leave the workers.”

  Essam nodded understandingly, then turned to Mazen and said, “Mazen, I need you with me for a vital mission. Uncle Madany, my driver, will return you to the factory at one o’clock.”

  Essam didn’t wait for a reply but grabbed Mazen’s arm and walked with him to
the car. As soon as Mazen was seated next to him, Essam smiled and said affectionately, “I’m certain you haven’t had dinner. You have to eat. The Struggle needs nourishment.”

  They went to the Four Seasons hotel in Garden City, where Mazen noted that Eng. Essam was known to the staff. They entered the lift and Essam asked, “You like Italian food?” but before Mazen could reply, Essam had pressed the button for the second floor. He was always like that. He’d ask you a question, then not listen to the answer and do what he wanted. Essam ordered food, a glass of whisky, and a bottle of beer for Mazen, who tried to object, but Essam said, jokingly, “Shut up, boy! You have to drink, that’s an order. I used to drink so often with your father, God rest his soul.”

  Essam took a large sip of the whisky and appeared refreshed. He said to Mazen, “As you know, your father was my best friend. Forget that I’m the manager of the factory. You’re like a son to me.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We don’t need to say thank you to each other. I want to have a couple of words with you. Will you listen to me?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Listen, Mazen. I make a large salary and I live my life without problems. The struggle between the workers and the company doesn’t concern me in the least. The only thing I’m interested in is your welfare. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Everything you’re doing with the workers is, sadly, pointless.”

  “I’m doing my duty.”

  “Your duty is to work as an engineer.”

  “The workers elected me to the union committee to defend their rights.”

  “I see. You’re at the slogan stage.”

  Mazen responded angrily, “Are you mocking me?”

  Essam said, seriously, “I could never mock you, Mazen. I respect your enthusiasm and your defence of the workers. It’s a noble state of mind in which your father and I lived for many long years, but in the end I discovered that it was a delusion.”

  Mazen began to object, but Essam said, “We agreed you’d hear me out.”

  Mazen fell silent and Essam continued, “Do you really believe that if the workers strike, they’ll get anything? Do you really believe that the Italian company works on its own? The company has backing from some of the highest officials in the state. In Egypt, what the state wants goes, and no one can stand up to it. My advice to you is to drop this whole headache and start thinking about your future.”

  “Thank you for the advice, but I can’t take it.”

  “My dear boy, try to understand! The workers whom you defend will sell you down the river at any moment in return for a raise or incentives. Thousands of communists were imprisoned and tortured for the sake of workers’ rights. And what did the workers do to help them? Nothing! They don’t even remember who they were.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m amazed to hear such words from you, sir.”

  Essam smiled bitterly and said, “On the contrary, I have to say these things because I don’t want you to repeat our mistakes. Your father and I wasted our lives for delusions. I was one of the top students at the Faculty of Engineering. I could have concentrated on my work, made millions, raised a family, and lived a happy life. Your dear departed father was a genius at law. He could have become the most important lawyer in Egypt if it weren’t for the politics that made him a homeless wanderer, sent him to prison, had him tortured, and saw him die young from the illnesses he contracted in detention. The one thing that’s certain is that nothing in Egypt will ever change. Save yourself and look to your future before it’s too late.”

  Mazen continued to keep his gaze on Essam, who went on: “Once, I was a romantic, like you. My understanding of reality was superficial and naive. You want to know the truth? Egyptians don’t revolt, or if they do, their revolution is bound to fail because they’re cowardly and submissive by nature. We’re the only people in history who thought their kings were gods and worshipped them. Egyptian culture, which we inherited from the pharaohs, is the culture of obedience to the pharaohs. Until the nineteenth century, the Egyptian peasant was proud of his ability to endure a flogging so that he wouldn’t have to pay taxes. Furthermore, Islamic culture makes one accepting of tyranny. Islam demands of you that you obey the Muslim ruler even if he whips your back and steals your money. The Egyptians love a dictatorial hero and feel safe when they submit to despotism. In Egypt, the only thing your struggle can lead to is your own destruction.”

  Mazen interrupted him angrily: “With all due respect, what you’re saying isn’t true. Islam was at base a revolution against injustice. Then it was transformed into an institution with interests tied to the ruling system. Dictatorships have arisen in Spain, Germany, Italy, Portugal, and Argentina, and none of those countries are Islamic or pharaonic. We can’t judge the Egyptian people by its behaviour five thousand years ago. Your view is unjust.”

  Essam laughed and said, “I can almost see your late father in front of me. He used to regard the People as a holy entity and wouldn’t hear a word against it. Fine, Mazen. Memorise these questions and get me the answers from the history books. Here goes: the Wafd was the party of the majority and it could have millions of Egyptians mobilised in the streets in a few hours. Why did the Wafd accept the formation of the 1923 Constitutional Committee by appointment and not by election? Why didn’t it stand up to King Fuad when he was a tyrant? Why did Saad Zaghloul submit his resignation from the premiership when he was the leader of the nation, and why didn’t he mobilise the Egyptians to confront the king and the British, and why did the Wafd allow Nasser to abolish democracy in 1954, when the Wafd at the time could have mobilised the people and forced the army back to its barracks? Why did the Egyptians tolerate the imprisonment of their beloved leader Muhammad Naguib, and why did they cling on to Nasser in 1967 after he’d brought about devastating defeat and the occupation of the country? After the slaying of Sadat, Hosni Mubarak freed the political prisoners, among them most of Egypt’s intellectuals. Why did they make do with thanking Mubarak and not demand democratic reform? I could ask you lots more questions, and the answers would all lead to the same conclusion: our people never ever revolt, and if they do, they quickly abandon the revolution. Our people aren’t ready to pay the price of freedom.” Essam drank off the rest of his glass at one go, then gestured to the waiter for another.

  Mazen said, “For every example you mention of the passivity of the Egyptians I could present more confirming the courage of the Egyptians.”

  Essam made a gesture with his hand. “Enough. You’re stubborn and pig-headed. Do what you like.”

  There was silence between them, then Essam took a sip from his glass and said, “I have one question, just so my conscience is clear.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If I got you a contract in the Gulf at a high salary, would you accept?”

  “I could never leave Egypt.”

  “It’s your choice, but I want you to know that I’ve only with difficulty been able to prevent your detention.”

  “My detention?”

  “Naturally. Do you imagine National Security is ignorant of your activities? You’re a member of the Enough! movement and you’re inciting the workers to strike. It would be very easy for them to make up a case against you and put you in prison for at least ten years.”

  “On what charge?”

  “That question is meaningless in Egypt. Your father and I spent many years in prison. What was the charge against us? The Egyptian state imprisons you first, then begins looking for a charge.”

  Mazen rose suddenly and said, “I’m going back to the factory.”

  Essam caught hold of his arm and said, “Sit down. You have to taste the desserts they do here, they’re really delicious.”

  Mazen looked at his watch and said, “Thank you, but I have to get back to the factory.”

  “
Stay for half an hour, my boy.”

  “I can’t.”

  Essam pursed his lips and an expression of disappointment appeared on his face. “Very well,” he said. “On your way. Goodbye.”

  “Could Uncle Madany take me?” Mazen asked.

  “No, he couldn’t.”

  Mazen looked at Essam with annoyance. “You told me, sir, that Uncle Madany would take me back to the factory.”

  Essam bent his head and looked into the bottom of his glass, which he was rolling between his hands. Then he leant back against the chair and said, “I’ve changed my mind. If you want to go to the factory, you can make your own way there.”

  13

  Ikram didn’t get angry or pick a quarrel with Ashraf, but she began treating him in a formal manner. She controlled her smile, her tone of voice, and even her walk when she was in his sight, as though she was just a maid doing her job, no more, no less. She continued to take care of him as before but without enthusiasm, and simply as the performance of a duty, as though she’d taken a decision to cross out their relationship and behave as though it had never happened. Two days after this change, she went into the study (which had but recently witnessed so much happiness) and asked him in an unsmiling tone of voice, “Would you like me to make you coffee, sir?”

  He looked at her in silence but she ignored his gaze and repeated the question. He nodded affirmatively. He was sitting at his desk trying, fruitlessly, to write. His thoughts were scattered and a sense of gloom weighed on his chest. She returned with the coffee tray, placed it on the desk, and asked him, “Do you want anything else, sir?”

  He didn’t reply, so she left quietly. He lit a joint and sat staring at the blue swirls of smoke as they ascended. He reflected that everything that Ikram was doing was just play-acting to cover up her despicable act. She was blackmailing him emotionally. She was pretending to be angry so that he’d take pity on her and forget that she’d plotted against him with her husband Mansour. Suddenly, he felt impotent and grief-stricken. He felt sorry for himself: was he turning, at the end of his days, into a miserable old man subject to the blackmail of his maid and her husband? His imagination took the bit in its teeth and his anxiety grew. What if Ikram had put a hidden camera somewhere in the study, as happens in films, and filmed him while having sex with her and given her husband the video? If that were the case, Mansour would go on blackmailing him for the rest of his life. He’d either have to pay whatever was demanded of him or face a horrible scandal. If that happened, he’d have only one solution: he’d have to run away immediately and abandon the whole kit and caboodle. He’d hide where no one could find him, not Mansour, not Ikram, not even Magda. He’d disappear into a little pension in Alexandria. He began going over in his mind the names of the pensions that he knew and comparing them. These uneasy thoughts continued to plague him for the rest of the day and in the evening he tried to distract himself by reading, without success. He felt tired and soon fell into a deep slumber. In the morning, he woke, had breakfast and, with the first cup of coffee and the first joint of the day, found himself in a new state of mind. His anger evaporated and his thoughts turned in another direction. Might he not have been unjust to Ikram? She’d never before been materialistic or greedy. She’d refused to accept his gifts of money even when he’d insisted. She’d always said, “I don’t want money. What matters is being with you.”