Mr. Zanaty was good-hearted and religious, but he wasn’t either an easy character or a weak one. On the contrary, he had sharp fangs, which he bared and applied ferociously when circumstances required. At the same time, earth and sky might be turned upside down but he wouldn’t spend money for any but the most pressing of reasons. His sacred motto of “My children first” drove him to scrutinise and examine in detail every transaction and even to carry out serious investigations before parting with a single pound or riyal. When he first began working in Saudi Arabia, he lived with two Egyptian colleagues, under an agreement whereby each bought his own tea, sugar, and coffee and used them exclusively for himself. In addition, they divided the rent and the electricity and water bills. They lived in peace and harmony until Zanaty discovered by accident that one of his colleagues was filching his own special spiced coffee mixture and drinking coffee at Zanaty’s expense. Zanaty proceeded to mount war without quarter on the thief, quoting Koranic verses and prophetic traditions to confirm that betrayal of trust was one of the major sins and then threatening to expose the traitor to his Saudi sponsor, at which the former collapsed, apologised profusely, and agreed to buy coffee for Zanaty for six whole months as a sort of penance for his terrible deed. Another battle that Zanaty waged was against the Owners’ Union of the block of flats in which he lived on Feisal Street. He refused absolutely to contribute towards the maintenance costs of the lift, and when the Owners’ Union went and made a padlock for the lift and gave keys only to residents who had paid maintenance costs, Mr. Zanaty, unobserved, went and broke a small key inside the padlock on the lift, putting it out of commission. Furious, the officials of the Owners’ Union carried out an investigation into the incident but failed to uncover the culprit and were obliged to provide a new lock, inside which Zanaty naturally broke another key. When the officials put on the third padlock, they increased surveillance of the lift, using the doorkeeper and some volunteer residents (the ones who had paid maintenance), but Mr. Zanaty, who had now gained considerable experience, was able to outwit them and break another key in the lock as he was on his way down to pray the dawn prayer in the mosque. At this, the Owners’ Union surrendered, cancelled the padlock idea, and opened the lift once more to all the residents. Nor was this his only battle with the Owners’ Union, because he also refused to pay the water costs allocated to each flat, his argument in the matter being powerful and compelling and repeated by Zanaty calmly and with a smile to every resident he ran into: “It’s a matter of principle. Our Lord does not accept injustice. The water consumption of the ordinary resident does not exceed three litres a day. There are ten clinics belonging to doctors of various specialisations in the building. Each clinic is visited daily by between twenty and thirty patients. The dentist’s clinic alone consumes four or five litres of water for every patient. It follows that the ordinary resident and the doctor cannot possibly pay the same.”
Zanaty succeeded in rallying public opinion to his side. Many of the residents refused to pay and he suffered punitive action by the Owners’ Union, which submitted a police complaint against him. He was summoned to the police station, but by virtue of his polite manner and modest smile, Zanaty was able to win the sympathy of the interrogating officer, who shook him by the hand as he bade him farewell and said in a friendly tone, “By the way, from the legal point of view, the Owners’ Union can’t do a thing. In other words, pay or don’t pay, it’s up to you.”
Zanaty shook the officer’s hand warmly and called down blessings on his head with an eloquent expression that he had heard at the mosque: “I pray God reward you with good and bring blessings to you, and upon you, and upon those around you!”
In the end, the Owners’ Union decided to write off what Mr. Zanaty owed and stopped asking him for it. Zanaty was careful (following his victory) to wipe out any ill feelings that might have built up in people’s hearts and would greet his neighbours courteously when he saw them in the mosque, asking after their health and praying for their well-being, so as to leave them with a pleasant impression. God, may He be praised, had bestowed on him money and offspring, and Zanaty had been able, through His bounty, to raise, educate, marry, and find work for them in Saudi Arabia on lucrative contracts. Despite which God, Mighty and Sublime, often afflicts humankind with disasters to test their faith, and his daughter Asmaa was, without doubt, one of those afflictions. He could not comprehend how the beautiful, shy little girl had turned into the stubborn, quarrelsome young woman who brought him only problems and heartache. The root cause of the disaster was Karem, Asmaa’s maternal grandfather, who had been a communist and a drinker of alcohol and who had poisoned her mind to the point of corrupting her. Asmaa had refused more than once to marry, had refused to cover her hair despite his pressuring her—sometimes by trying to convince her, other times by trying to scare her—and she had refused to work in Saudi Arabia. He no longer expected her to do anything but make his life miserable. He prayed she would find guidance, and his faith in the generosity of Our Lord—who has only to say of a thing, “Let it be!” and it is—never wavered, but he could no longer stand the vexation she caused him. He was approaching sixty, suffered from high blood pressure and diabetes, and tension was dangerous to his health, as the doctor in Jeddah had told him. He’d left the problem of dealing with Asmaa to her mother, with whom she lived and who felt a degree of guilt because her father, Karem, God have mercy on his soul, was the reason for Asmaa’s perverse ideas. Now, when Zanaty called (using the El Ghamidi company phone) to check on his wife, he no longer asked about Asmaa, and the mother waged her battles with her daughter on her own. The day before, Asmaa had phoned her mother and informed her that she’d be spending the night at her friend Zeinab’s to help her little sister with her English. Her mother hadn’t felt comfortable with the story, but quietly brought the call to a close. At seven in the morning, Asmaa returned to the house and, on opening the door, found her mother waiting for her on the couch in the living room. She’d donned a green velvet dressing gown over a white flannel nightdress and put violet knitted bootees on her feet in hopes of getting warm. Asmaa was exhausted. In a low voice, she said, “Good morning.” Her mother looked at her attentively, then yelled, as though embarking on the first movement of a raucous symphony that she would play to the end, “Welcome home, Madame Asmaa! So how’s Zeinab doing?”
27
“If a worker wants to demonstrate in Tahrir Square, I don’t give a damn. But if a worker wants to demonstrate in the factory, I will have no mercy on him.” Essam Shaalan seemed in an excitable mood. He spoke vehemently, lighting one cigarette after another and sipping from two successive cups of unsweetened coffee.
The factory’s managers and department heads sat facing him. One said, “We can’t allow any worker to stir up chaos,” another, “Anyone who doesn’t care about the bread on his table deserves what he gets.”
Essam ignored the comments and looked at them with a severe expression. Then he resumed, in his booming voice, saying “Each of you has two pieces of paper in front of him. The first is a statement of support for and allegiance to President Hosni Mubarak, the second is an undertaking to report anyone who incites unrest at the factory. You must sign both papers. Any objections?”
They took refuge in silence. Essam went on, “Each of you will write his name, position, and national ID number. The statement of support will be broadcast on the television and published in the newspapers. The security undertaking I shall submit to National Security.”
They busied themselves signing, then stood up, one after another, and handed him their papers. At the end, he said, in a threatening tone, as he arranged the papers in front of him, “You have now become responsible for any incitement to unrest at the factory. Any slackness on your part will cost you dear. You may go.”
The first day passed without problems. On the second, it was reported to him that a worker named Shawqi in the furnaces division was calling on his colleagues to strik
e in solidarity with the demonstrators in Tahrir Square. He was arrested and a little later a procession consisting of Shawqi, his boss, who had reported him, and three factory security men arrived at Essam’s office. The young man was dark-complexioned and thin and seemed steady and ready to take on any provocation. The security men pushed him into the middle of the room, continuing to hold him by the arms, but Essam yelled at them, “Let go of him!”
Then he got up, approached the young man, and said in a commanding voice, “What’s your name, boy?” (Later, Essam would recall, in astonishment, that he’d used the same tone of voice with the worker that the officers had used on him when he was the one being interrogated in prison.)
“Shawqi Ahmad Abd El Barr.”
“Do you want to get yourself into deep trouble, Shawqi?”
Boldly, the young man responded, “We want to fix this country.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“All the millions of Egyptians.”
“My dear boy, take it from me,” Essam said, his tone now that of a kindly father, “nothing you’re doing will make any difference. You’re getting yourself into trouble for nothing. National Security is at the factory gates. If they get hold of you, you’ll be finished. Do you have children?”
The young man nodded, and Essam smiled and continued, “What are their names?”
“Aya and Nasser,” the young man answered, in a low voice.
Essam put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and said, “Fine. Be sensible, Shawqi, for Aya and Nasser’s sake.”
The young man looked at him in silence, and his boss yelled at him with a vehemence designed to curry Essam’s favour, “Engineer Essam is like your father and he wants what’s best for you!”
The young man said, “Engineer Essam wants what’s best for him, not me.”
“And what’s best for me?” Essam asked him, struggling to contain himself.
“You’re worried about the millions you earn.”
Essam slapped him on the face, and the young man leapt at him, but the security men rained blows on him and dragged him outside, Essam’s words ringing through the place: “All I need is for some kid like you to try and go one better than Essam Shaalan. I was in prison before you were born, you little prick!”
They’d managed to get control of the young man by the time they got to the door but kept up their violent beating. “Hand him over to National Security!” Essam said, gasping with anger. “They can teach him some manners.”
The young man was taken away in the police van before the eyes of his colleagues. He was bleeding from his nose, his face was covered in bruises and scratches, and he wore a look of astonishment, as though he still couldn’t believe what was happening. This was the factory’s only example of unrest and it had been contained, but it had a bad effect on Essam. The youth’s impertinence wasn’t what disturbed him most. The very idea of a revolution happening was demolishing his theory about the submissiveness of Egyptians and their capacity to coexist with tyranny. He’d built his outlook on life on this theory, would defend it fiercely, and couldn’t tolerate its being cast into doubt. His arrogant, coarse way with the managers, his slapping of the worker, his indiscriminate threats: all these were defence mechanisms that hid his panic at the idea that he might be wrong. He was like a fanatic facing someone trying to cast doubt on his religion. In the evening, he went home. He took a hot shower and put on his track suit, then drank three glasses of whisky one after the other. He felt the effect of the alcohol quickly and strongly and, all of a sudden, was seized by a desire to see Nourhan, whom he hadn’t seen since the demonstrations began. He’d phoned her once, but she excused herself brusquely. She was living through a state of emergency at the TV station and behaving as though she were at war. The first day of the revolution, a colonel from State Security had come to the station, taken an office for himself in the security department, and met with the hosts and staff. He’d informed them that, from now on, and in view of the delicate conditions in which the country was embroiled, he’d be giving them daily instructions, the execution of which he would monitor personally. Everyone at the meeting enthusiastically agreed. Nourhan, for her part, waited until her colleagues had left and then asked the officer, in a low voice, if he would issue an order allowing her maid, Awatif, to enter the television building. When he asked her why, she replied with a warmth that was, despite her best efforts, mixed with a certain seductiveness, “Sir, my religion doesn’t permit me to sleep at home while my country burns. The maid will bring me my things from the house. I shall reside at the station until this affliction has departed the country.”
The officer wrote out the permit and thanked her for her patriotism, his face betraying his struggle to prevent himself from sliding into inappropriate thoughts. The same day, Nourhan phoned Sheikh Shamel to ask him for the perspective of religion on disseminating false news via the television. Sheikh Shamel was silent for a few moments and then told her, “At present, we must regard ourselves as being in a state of war with saboteurs who wish to bring down the state. The True Religion makes allowable to Muslims at war things it does not allow them in times of peace, in accordance with the well-known principle that ‘necessity permits the prohibited.’ ” Nourhan was reassured by this legal ruling and set about implementing the colonel’s instructions with zeal and mastery. She didn’t limit herself to giving airtime to callers selected by Security; she would even go over what they were to say with them, word for word, before going on air, and would lay out for them, like a seasoned professional director, a performance style. Egyptians are much affected by the scream of a woman. Every day, therefore, there would be a female caller begging for help because thugs wanted to rape her, along with her daughters. The officer had told her, “Our goal is for each demonstrator to feel that his mother and wife are in danger, so he’d better leave the square and go home.”
Even this was not enough for Nourhan. She took it upon herself to phone well-known artists of stage and song and coordinate on-screen interventions in which they cursed the Tahrir demonstrators and accused them of being agents of foreign intelligence services. She invited Sheikh Shamel on air and asked him for the religious view of what was happening and the sheikh said, with incisive clarity, “These demonstrations anger God and His messenger. Islam requires of us obedience to the Muslim ruler and to limit ourselves to offering him advice should he contravene the laws of religion.”
“Revered Sheikh,” Nourhan asked, “what do you have to say to the demonstrators?”
Anger appeared on the sheikh’s face and he yelled, “I say to them that this is a Masonic plot devised by the Jews to divert the Muslims from their religion. I adjure my young sons in Tahrir Square—the sons of Zion have led you astray! Repent and avert a schism that will drown this country in blood! Young people, return to your homes, for this is not the path to change! You are simply destroying Egypt with your own hands. Return unto God! Return unto God!”
Nourhan ended the episode with Sheikh Shamel’s appeal, after which patriotic songs were played until the next programme. That evening, Essam phoned her but she didn’t answer. He drank another glass slowly. She then phoned back, sounding embarrassed.
“Sorry, Essam. I was on air.”
“I want to see you, Nour.”
“That will be very difficult. I have work to do at the television station.”
“Finish your work and come.”
“My work is never finished.”
“Ask their permission and come.”
“Where?”
“Here, to my house.”
She refused, but he insisted, then got angry and said, “When I tell you I want to see you, it means I have to see you!”
His tone of voice was angry, and somehow threatening. Nourhan submitted, but she made it a condition that she wouldn’t stay late. He didn’t usually meet her at his flat, but that night
he didn’t want to go out. As soon as he opened the door and saw her, he realised that she was not in a normal state. She seemed tense. She had gathered her hair into a ponytail and her face, after she had removed her make-up, appeared pale, with rings of exhaustion visible beneath her eyes. She threw herself into the nearest chair in the living room. She didn’t show her annoyance, as she usually did, at the fact that he was drinking alcohol. She appeared grave and somewhat preoccupied. He made her a cup of tea, and as soon as she’d taken a sip, she started talking fast: “Essam, please don’t be angry with me. I’m under a lot of pressure and my nerves are suffering. I stay at the station almost all the time. They may ask me to broadcast anything, at any time.”
Essam didn’t answer. He took one sip from his glass, then kissed her hand and drew her into the bedroom. The sex was different this time. None of that bawdy, festive character remained. She was agitated and exhausted. He threw himself hurriedly into her arms, as though to squeeze out the remaining drops of joy before they disappeared. They were struggling to overcome something heavy in the air; they were resisting something funereal. They finished quickly and got up in silence. He went back to his seat in the living room and poured himself a glass. After a little while, Nourhan returned from the bathroom, having dressed in preparation for leaving. “Are you leaving?” he asked her.
“I have to go back to the station immediately.”
He didn’t respond. He sipped the whisky and lit a cigarette. She said, “I want to ask you a question. What’s your opinion of the demonstrations?”
The Republic of False Truths Page 18