“You think you know anything about Our Lord, you impostor?” Uncle Madany yelled.
Sheikh Shamel could sense the gravity of the situation, so he made straight for the door. The colonel first carefully closed the case, then picked it up and stood, looking at Uncle Madany for a moment. Then he issued an angry roar and yelled, “You think you can throw us out, you good-for-nothing son of a bitch?”
The colonel rushed at Uncle Madany, intending to strike him, but Sheikh Shamel threw himself on him and pulled him with difficulty out of the flat. Madany slammed the door, the colonel’s ugly curses continuing to reach his ears. He returned calmly to the couch in the living room and sat down, tucking his legs under him, as though nothing had happened. Hind, who’d been listening to the conversation from the kitchen, quickly appeared and threw herself into her father’s arms, weeping. He hugged her and stroked her hair, without saying a word. The next day, when he went to the factory, he spoke to no one. He spent his time, as usual, absorbed in his inner world, sitting silently in the garage, a fixed, grim expression on his face. He would read the Koran until a job came up, then drive off in the ambulance, take care of it, and return to where he’d been sitting before. From time to time, he’d break his taciturnity with a comment or a word, or maybe behave in some sudden, violent way, as he had done with the sheikh and the officer, then revert as quickly to his deep, angry calm.
As usual, he didn’t sleep on the night before the court session. He prayed the morning prayer at the mosque of Sayeda Zeinab, then went to the café opposite the courthouse and started avidly drinking coffee and chain-smoking. When Khaled’s colleagues and friends arrived, he shook hands with them warmly. These were the only people for whom he could raise a smile. They reminded him of Khaled—they had the same innocent looks and enthusiasm, and the deep, honest awareness of his sorrows was present in their voices, their loving, embarrassed faces, and their constantly asking him if there was anything they could do for him. Uncle Madany sat, as usual, next to the dock and kept his eyes on the officer Heisam, who had hired a well-known lawyer who, in his elegance and conceit, resembled a film star, while the lawyers for the late Khaled were three young volunteers, whose competence, nevertheless, embarrassed the masterful jurist more than once. The judge heard all the witnesses and all of Khaled’s colleagues confirmed that they had seen the officer Heisam El Meligi kill Khaled with a bullet that he’d fired from his government-issue revolver from the police car. The celebrated lawyer tried to catch the witnesses out and show up contradictions in their testimonies, but the young lawyers raised objections and compelled him to be silent, at the request of the judge. Then the lawyers clashed with him again when they refused the long postponement he requested. All of a sudden, during the turmoil of the arguments, Uncle Madany emerged from his private world and started shouting, leading to uproar in the hall, and the presiding judge, his face registering distress, began banging on the dais with his wooden gavel, saying, “Silence! If anyone makes noise, I’ll have him imprisoned!”
Uncle Madany, however, had got started and could no longer restrain himself. At the top of his voice, he yelled, “Your Honour, I have a few words I have to say to you right now.”
49
When Nourhan appeared on screen with her hair covered, her popularity increased. Millions of women viewers who wore the headscarf felt a kind of pride when they saw her doing so too, as though they’d scored a victory in an important war. Over and above this symbolic triumph for Islam, Nourhan provided a model of elegance for the Muslim woman. Her dresses were designed to cover the body completely but bore the labels of the biggest global fashion houses, though usually Nourhan (who’d mastered the art of sewing during her days in Mansoura) would make certain modifications as required by religious law. Her headscarves, on the other hand, were brightly coloured and original.
One of the nicest things Sheikh Shamel had said to her was, “I pray that God, Great and Sublime, grant you blessings commensurate with your good influence!” What the Reverend Sheikh had in mind was that Nourhan’s Islamic chic would drive many girls to imitate her by covering their hair. However, Nourhan’s brilliance extended beyond her clothes to her face, so that when she put on her headscarf, it was as though she were simply completing the picture. She moved through the world like a full moon, the serenity brought by faith visible on her face, along with the tranquil smile of a female believer who has tasted the sweetness of obedience and by so doing pleased both her Lord and herself. Nourhan became one of the most prominent broadcasters on all the channels and her daily show, “With Nourhan,” registered unprecedented ratings, according to the ratings organisation and the statistics of specialised companies. Each night, the Egyptians watched Nourhan host academics, intellectuals, and strategic experts who asserted, unanimously, and basing their assertions on scientific evidence, that the revolution that had taken place in Egypt had been no more than a conspiracy funded and planned by the CIA with the participation of Israel’s Mossad. And each time, concern would appear on Nourhan’s lovely face and she’d bring the episode to an end by repeating the following prayer, uttered in a voice full of reverence as the camera held the closing shot: “O Lord, make Egypt a secure land, and save her from the evil-doers and the traitors!”
Sometimes, a tear would find its way into one of her beautiful eyes, and she’d take out her coloured handkerchief and wipe it away as the programme titles appeared on the screen. All the guests were nominated by the security apparatuses, but Nourhan had her additional touches. In one celebrated episode—the one that had perhaps the greatest impact on public opinion—Nourhan began with a little speech that she had written herself and that she read with her face composed into an expression of elegant distaste. She said, “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. Dear viewers, we are accustomed, in this programme of yours, to transparency and openness. We are accustomed to speaking the whole truth, however painful it may be. We have hosted the greatest minds in Egypt, and all of them agree that what is called “the revolution” is nothing but a despicable conspiracy to destroy our country. Tonight I shall host a strange character, someone who herself asked to appear with us, on condition that she remain unidentified.”
Nourhan now stood up and moved, followed by the camera, to where the guest was sitting. The director had blurred out the girl’s face so that no one could recognise her. Nourhan sat down in front of her and said, “Of course, we’re not going to give your name, as per your request.”
“Thank you, Madame Nourhan.”
“Why do you prefer to remain unidentified?”
“Because I feel so ashamed,” said the girl, in a troubled voice.
“And why did you ask to appear on this programme?” Nourhan asked her.
“My conscience has been troubling me. I want to make the people understand the magnitude of the plan that I took part in against Egypt.”
“That is a grave thing to say. Kindly proceed.”
“I and all the young people in Tahrir have taken money from foreign sources.”
“From whom precisely did you take money? Be specific.”
“We took money from foreigners whose identity we don’t know, but they were probably from Western intelligence services.”
“How much did you receive?”
“Each one of us received one thousand dollars for every day he spent in Tahrir.”
“Are you really saying that the thousands of protesters all took money?”
“All the young people who organised the others took money. But there were people who believed us and followed us.”
“You’re saying that every one of the young people involved in the revolution got a thousand dollars a day?”
“A thousand dollars a day plus travel costs.”
Extreme distress appeared on Nourhan’s face and she said, “Please, you have to explain to us about the travel costs.”
“We went to Serbia and Isra
el and were trained in how to demonstrate so as to bring down the regime and we got large sums of money for the training.”
“How much did you get?”
“I, for example, went to Israel. I got fifty thousand dollars and was trained in stuff there for three months.”
“Where?”
“In a camp on the outskirts of Tel Aviv.”
“What exactly were you trained in?”
“In stirring up public opinion on Facebook and Twitter, organising demonstrations, wearing down the security forces, and a bunch of activities that would inevitably lead in the end to the downfall of the state.”
“And the rest of the young people in Tahrir?”
“Listen. There are about five thousand of us, boys and girls, from all the provinces of Egypt. We all got training and we all took money. Some people got trained in Israel and some in Serbia, in Qatar, and in Turkey. The trainer would usually be Israeli or American, though. The people believed us and rushed out to demonstrate but we were carrying out the instructions of the organisations that had trained us.”
Here the conversation was suddenly interrupted, and the camera moved in close to Nourhan’s face, on which an expression of revulsion could be seen.
“You mean to say that you and others like you are traitors and took money to reduce Egypt to ruin? And that the good-hearted Egyptians believed you and followed you? Shame on you! You’d betray and destroy Egypt, your own country?”
“Enough!” the girl cried. “I despise myself!” Then she burst into tears, her face still hidden.
The camera now turned back to Nourhan, whose face had taken on the look of one shocked by a vile betrayal, and she said, “To be honest, I cannot find words to describe what these traitors did. Egyptians, be on your guard against them! They are traitors. O Lord, preserve Egypt from their evil!”
Nourhan left the set and conducted the girl to the supervising officer, who looked pleased and said, “Bravo, Muna! You were great!”
She was a petite girl with a headscarf and smart clothes and she nodded her head gratefully while breathing heavily, like an actress worked up at the end of a performance.
“Thank you, Madame Nourhan,” said the officer, “for your patriotism.”
The supervising officer at the station treated Nourhan with special consideration, firstly because she was the best of the broadcasters and the one with the most impact and secondly because he was aware of how close she was to Hagg Shanawany. And here we must stress, once more, that Nourhan did nothing to make Shanawany fall into her clutches. Nourhan, an observant Muslim woman, could never have attempted to seduce Shanawany or anyone else. Everything, however, is fate, and no son of Adam takes a step that God has not commanded. All that happened was that her problems with the drunkard Essam grew worse; she asked for an appointment with Hagg Shanawany, via his office manager; he gave her an appointment for the following day (a rarity, considering how busy the hagg was); Nourhan went to Shanawany and told him about Essam and, unable to control herself, wept bitterly. Shanawany, moved, said, “Nourhan, I have a question which I want you to answer frankly.”
She looked at him with her tear-filled, mascara-ed eyes (she used an imported brand that didn’t run) and said in a quivering voice, “I’m at your service, Hagg.”
“Has your life with Essam truly become impossible?”
Fervently, she replied, “I cannot live with someone who drinks alcohol night and day and has weird ideas about religion.”
“Could you elaborate on that?”
“He has no religious convictions!”
Anger appeared on the hagg’s smooth face, made shiny by the masques that his private hairdresser applied to it weekly. Then he said, “If you are certain that he is not a Muslim, it follows that you must separate.”
In broken tones, Nourhan replied, “He told me that he’s not a Muslim, and when I asked for a divorce, he refused and threatened me. I’m afraid he’ll do something to my son, Hagg. I’m very afraid.”
Nourhan used, once again, the tone of voice that caused the hagg’s face to take on a livid hue, while his eyes briefly glazed over. Then he controlled himself and said, “Don’t you worry. Leave the matter to me. He’ll divorce you whether he wants to or not.”
“Really, Hagg, would you do that? If he divorces me, you’ll be in my prayers for the rest of my life, and I’ll never forget the favour you’ve done me.”
Shanawany smiled and said, “He’ll divorce you and then—who knows?—maybe Our Lord will put a better man in your path.”
The sentence rang loud in Nourhan’s ears though she pretended to pay it no attention. An expression of satisfaction did, however, cross her face like a sudden flash of light.
This was how Essam came to divorce her, under pressure from the Apparatus. She went to the villa in Zamalek and refused to speak to him or even look at him until the customary marriage contract had been torn up and he’d sworn the oath of divorce before her. She thanked the general, then went to Shanawany to thank him, and he looked at her for a while before smiling and saying, “Listen, my dear lady (bless the Prophet!).”
“May God bless him and grant him peace!”
“I, praise the Lord, live and die in obedience to God and His messenger. I am asking you to marry me. I have two wives. The mother of my children, and another wife whom you may know—Salwa Hamdan, the actress—so you’ll be the third. God willing, I shall treat you all equally.”
Hagg Shanawany wasn’t saying anything she didn’t already know and she looked at him for a moment and almost said something, but then became very confused. A kind of regal distress seemed to affect Hagg Shanawany and he asked her, “What’s the matter, Nourhan?”
In a voice broken by emotion, she answered, “It’s too much for me. I can’t believe it. Who am I to marry, Your Excellency?”
“You are the best of women!” replied Shanawany, contemplating her lovely face, which suddenly changed, as will the colour of the sea. “May God’s blessings upon you, Hagg,” she said, “be equal to the righteousness with which you have treated me!”
When he asked her what she would ask for, she said in a submissive voice, “I swear, Hagg, if my bride price were nothing but a few dates, I would be the happiest woman in the world!”
She’d heard the sentence at a class given by Sheikh Shamel. It had been said by a woman to one of the companions of the Prophet when he asked her to marry him. “God bless you!” said Hagg Shanawany, startled and clearly moved.
Shanawany married her the day after the mandatory waiting period was over. He threw a small party in the villa that he’d bought for her in the Fifth Settlement that was attended by Nourhan’s brothers and sisters, her aunt, who was her proxy at the writing of the contract, and a few close friends of Hagg Shanawany’s (among them two generals from the ruling Military Council). Shanawany didn’t announce his marriage to everyone at the channel. “By the way,” he told the director when the latter was in his office and as though mentioning something mundane and of merely passing interest, “I’ve married Nourhan, according to the rules established by God and His messenger.”
The director of the channel congratulated him in an embarrassed way and the news spread with the speed of lightning. No one, however, dared to congratulate him publicly, as ordinary people would do. Perhaps one or two plucked up their courage, waited for an opportunity, and whispered, “A thousand congratulations, Hagg! A happy home and children, God willing!”
To be fair, Hagg Shanawany was the best of all the men Nourhan had taken as husbands. Her two previous husbands couldn’t hold a candle to him, perhaps because he was seventy-four (as she learned from the marriage contract) and that made him look after her with the paternal affection she’d lost with the premature death of her father, or perhaps because his wealth made him more able to provide her with a comfortable life than her two earlier husbands, o
r perhaps because he was very generous by nature and saw, in spending money on his wife, a way of drawing closer to God. Suffice it to say that he made a formal marriage contract with her, because common-law marriage was, in his view, of dubious validity, or so at least a number of legal scholars believed. Nourhan welcomed the marriage even though she knew that getting married formally would lead to the termination of the pension she received as a result of her marriage to her first husband, the late Hani El Aasar (Shanawany’s wealth made her protectiveness of her pension seem far-fetched and silly). All this aside, the basic reason why Nourhan got on so well with Shanawany was their shared faith that fear of God was more important than this world and all that was in it. Hagg Shanawany was an admirer of Sheikh Shamel’s and frequently invited him to give a lesson at one of his mansions. Sheikh Shamel attended the wedding party, congratulated the bride and groom, then taught Nourhan a prayer that she was to say each day after the evening prayer to prevent the envy that is mentioned in the Koran. As well as the villa in the Fifth Settlement, which he registered in her name, Shanawany bought her a Mercedes of the latest model, paid a bride price much larger than that specified in the marriage contract, set aside five million pounds as the payment to be made in the eventuality of their divorce, and gave her a collection of jewellery that Nourhan hesitated to show her girlfriends for fear of envy. He also furnished a private wing in the villa for her son to live in and when she asked him, in a pitiful voice, whether her son’s living with them would bother him, he smiled and said, “First, you won’t be at ease psychologically unless your son is with you, and second, do you want to deprive me of the heavenly reward that goes with raising a fatherless child?” Weeping, Nourhan called down fervent blessings on his head.
And so things were settled. Nourhan moved her son Hamza to the American School in the Settlement and he lived with her during the week; then on Friday and Saturday, she sent him to her uncle in Mansoura so she could be free to attend to her husband. Shanawany, in keeping with the custom of the Prophet (God bless him and grant him peace), spent two days with each wife, then rested for one day in his private mansion on the Maryoutiya Canal. If he bought one wife a present, he bought something similar for the other two. Nourhan, naturally, investigated how things stood with her two co-wives. The first, the mother of Shanawany’s children, was out of the competition: she was old and being treated for a number of medical conditions. The second wife was Salwa Hamdan, an actress whom the hagg had married some five years before, after which she’d adopted the headscarf and ceased playing anything but religious roles. Nourhan watched her in a number of roles in serials that had been shown recently, inspected her minutely, and discovered that she had had, at the very least, two cosmetic operations on her face: she had had her lips plumped out, she had had the wrinkles removed, and her cheeks had definitely been injected with something (they looked puffy when the camera came too close). Nourhan felt a deep relief and waited for a moment when the hagg was in bed and in a good mood to say, as though the thought had just occurred to her, “Just imagine, cosmetic surgery is everywhere in Egypt these days. Really, it’s disgusting.”
The Republic of False Truths Page 31