The Republic of False Truths

by Alaa Al Aswany

  Once they were happy with the video, they started to discuss the details of the campaign. A young man from April 6 pulled out a map and said, “We can begin with Dar El Salam, then move to Maasara, then Turah.”

  Another young man said, “Why don’t we start with what’s closest, then move to what’s further away?”

  They decided in the end they’d begin with the neighbourhood of Mounira, in the Sayeda Zeinab district, and that the performance would be on Friday, right after the sunset prayer, so that the largest number of people could see it. The young people left, Ashraf checked the laptops, screens, and microphones, turned off the lights, locked the door, and went upstairs with Ikram to the flat.

  Ikram had made no comment on the idea of the travelling show. She’d been waiting for the right moment. She had her own special way of dealing with Ashraf—a mix of her natural intelligence, her experience of men, the sensitivity of a mistress, and the tenderness of a mother. She could now see through Ashraf at a glance, knowing immediately when he was stoned, hungry, tired, or angry, or even when he was feeling aroused and wanted to make love to her, and for every state she was ready with the appropriate response. She never confronted him, but rather guided him adroitly to what she wanted. Sometimes she was prey to misgivings. What if he decided to return to his old wife and throw her out? What if he became embarrassed at her being a servant and decided to end the relationship? At such times, she’d seek refuge with him, so that he could set her mind at rest and assure her that he still loved her and would never abandon her. Sometimes she’d cry because she was so afraid for him and sometimes she’d cry because she loved him so much. Her love for him was so strong that it often confused her. Her love for him was more than love. There was emotional love and there was physical passion, and she had never known such ever-renewed, burning, tyrannical love as she knew with him. There was also a deep feeling of gratitude. This man had taken her in from the streets and was spending thousands of pounds to rid her of the evil of her husband Mansour, the pill and Max addict. Also, he loved Shahd as though she were his own daughter or granddaughter. Ashraf had become the axis around which Ikram’s life revolved from the moment she woke to the moment she went to sleep, and she cared for only two individuals in this life, Shahd and Ashraf. Whatever she did, she did with Ashraf in mind, starting with taking care of her heels, which he liked to be smooth, and ending with the blood pressure pills she gave him every morning, following his health crisis on the day of the Maspero events. She’d even succeeded in convincing him of the importance of the popular remedies that she’d learned from her late grandmother. What a scene it was, difficult even to imagine! Ashraf Bey, the aristocrat and scion of pashas, lying naked and submissive to the hands of Ikram, the maid, as she spread pages of newspapers over his chest and then covered them with a woollen vest to absorb the dampness, or when she gave him a drink that she’d made with leaves brought from the apothecary’s, to lower his blood pressure. Ikram would corner Ashraf with the glass and whisper silkily, “Come on now, there’s a good boy. Drink up!”

  Ashraf appeared to enjoy the situation and would say, grumbling like a child, “This concoction tastes terrible. I want a reward.”

  Ikram’s face would then light up with a smile and every time he took a sip, she’d give him a kiss. Sometimes, desire would mount, Ikram would put the glass on the nearest table, and they’d start a bout of passion.

  That night, when they returned to the flat, there was something hanging in the air between them, something Ashraf knew she was going to say. Despite which, or because of which, Ashraf talked about other topics, telling her he’d noticed that Shahd was drawing beautiful shapes and he’d therefore decided to buy her a big box of crayons, and if she turned out really to have talent, he’d sign her up for drawing classes.

  “Shouldn’t she learn to draw first?” said Ikram, jokingly.

  He explained to her in detail why it was necessary to foster a child’s talent early. Ashraf was convinced of what he was saying but was also trying to put the other subject off. Ikram took her evening bath and returned in a blue nightdress and wearing make-up. Ashraf had smoked a couple of joints, which had put him into a contemplative, almost joyful mood. She lay down next to him on the bed, he couldn’t stop himself, and they fell into a passionate embrace. When they were spent, he lit a cigarette and kissed her on her cheek, and she said, “Are you really going to go out with the young people on the campaign?”

  He looked at her in amazement and said, “Of course.”

  “You know the government may send thugs to beat you up?”

  “The youngsters have taken that into consideration and there will be security details.”

  “Do you remember the doctor telling you to avoid excitement?”

  He didn’t reply, so she went on heatedly, “The doctor told you that if you subjected yourself to major excitement, your blood pressure could go up suddenly and you’d get ill, God forbid.”

  He looked away and said, “If I don’t go out on the campaign, I’ll get even more worked up.” He was silent for a moment, then continued sadly, “It’s the least I can offer the young people whom I saw being run over by personnel carriers and shot before my very eyes.”

  Something in Ashraf’s tone made her feel that her attempts to dissuade him from going with them would never work. They slept in one another’s arms. As the following day was a Friday, Ashraf spent the whole day with Shahd. He played with her and asked her to draw him simple shapes, rewarding her each time with a sweet, and then hugging and kissing her. Ikram was listening to Shahd and Ashraf talking while she was in the kitchen making food like any ordinary housewife. After lunch, Ashraf slept for an hour, waking to find Ikram and Shahd in outdoor clothes. He looked at them in astonishment and Ikram said, “I’m going out but I’ll be back soon.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to leave Shahd with my neighbour in Hawamdiya, so I can go with you.”

  Ashraf was on the point of objecting but a broad smile from Ikram silenced him. Then he kissed Shahd, took a shower, got dressed, and, by the time he was finished, Ikram had returned, and they went down to the street, where they found the young people waiting for them. There were three other cars in addition to Ashraf’s, plus a small truck they’d hired to haul the chairs as well as the timbers and cloth that would be used to set up the marquee. The procession of vehicles proceeded along the Corniche, then crossed Garden City to Qasr El Eini Street. They’d chosen a dead-end street next to the French Centre. They unloaded the chairs and began erecting the marquee. After a few minutes, a number of people appeared, asking what it was for. One of the young men said, “We’re a group of young people and we’re holding a cultural seminar.”

  This was the response they’d agreed on to avoid getting into arguments with passers-by that might prevent them from putting up the marquee. After about half an hour, everything was ready. The marquee, the seats, the spotlights, and the two screens had been hooked up to the laptops. The seats were about half full, and many people, driven by curiosity, were standing around at the entrance to the marquee, as though they were watching a quarrel in the street. Ashraf had agreed with the young people that he’d begin the talking, and his voice now echoed from the microphone as he said, “Good evening. My name is Ashraf Wissa. I’m an Egyptian Copt and I want to ask you a question. Isn’t it the duty of anyone who sees a crime to report it? In Christianity, in Islam, and in the law, anyone who sees a crime and doesn’t report it is considered a participant in it, exactly like the criminal. The aim of this seminar is for us to report to you. We have seen horrible crimes committed against innocent Egyptian citizens, and so as not to be participants in them, we’ve made a video for you, which we’re going to show you now.”

  60

  “Providing security for the cement trucks we can do. Two security guards armed with automatic rifles can go with each truck. I’m concerned
about something more important.”

  The man was in his fifties. His head was shaved, his expression piercing and probing, his body athletic, all of which gave him a military appearance, despite the fact that he was wearing civilian clothes. He was sitting in the large armchair in the living room of Mazen’s small flat, which consisted of a bedroom at the back and the small living room containing a number of chairs and an arabesque table that Mazen used for eating and reading. The walls were painted white and hung with pictures by artists both international and Egyptian. Mazen looked at the man and asked, “What do you mean?”

  The man smiled and said, “Can you tell me how the thugs know, every day, the route the trucks will take?”

  Mazen didn’t answer, and the man went on, “The only explanation is that you have people inside the factory who inform the thugs of the route. It follows that it’s not enough for you to provide security, because the attack could be switched to inside the factory, and your security guards aren’t qualified to handle that.”

  Mazen thought for a little, then said, “Very well. So what is your suggestion?”

  “My suggestion is that the factory should sign a comprehensive security contract with me. If you do that, you’ll have a hundred security guards, armed and trained to the highest level. Security operations will cover the trucks, the furnaces, the mills, and every stage of the production process.”

  “How much would it cost?”

  “I’ll do the sums and send them to you by email.”

  “Can you do them now? To be honest, it’s urgent.”

  “Very well.”

  The man opened his laptop and became engrossed in making the calculations. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. The man seemed nervous and asked, “Are you expecting guests?”

  Mazen shook his head, then rose and cast a quick look around the place. He didn’t keep any information or papers at home, and even his mobile phone and laptop were stripped of anything that might give a clue to his activities. The doorbell rang again, and Mazen looked through the peephole, astonishment appearing on his face. He opened the door and Asmaa entered, saying, not yet having noticed the presence of a third person, “Thank God I’ve found you! Why don’t you answer your phone?”

  “Please come in,” Mazen said, once he’d got over his surprise.

  Appearing embarrassed, the man said, “We can continue the meeting at some other time, if you like.”

  “No, not at all,” Mazen replied. “This is Asmaa, our colleague. The brigadier has a private security firm, and we’re making an arrangement for protection of the factory.”

  Asmaa nodded and threw herself into the chair that was furthest away. She seemed despondent and completely absorbed in her own thoughts. Mazen returned and sat down in front of the brigadier, who was busy writing on a piece of paper, which he soon gave to Mazen, saying amicably, “I’ve included the security charges for the entire factory and given you a 10 per cent discount as my contribution.”

  “I have no objection to the amount. Security will save us millions. But my colleagues on the four-man committee will have to agree, and we’ll have to get the consent of Legal Affairs.”

  “At your service.”

  “I’ll get back to you tomorrow at the end of the day. If we agree, when can you start providing guards?”

  “If we sign the contract and you make the first payment, you’ll have guards the same day.”

  “Great.”

  Mazen fell silent and looked at the brigadier with a smile, as if to indicate that the meeting was over. The brigadier excused himself, shook Mazen’s hand warmly, and said goodbye to Asmaa, who responded in a low voice. No sooner had Mazen closed the door than he went quickly over to Asmaa and said, cheerfully, “What’s this lovely surprise?”

  Asmaa looked at him for a moment, then said quietly, “I’ve left home.”

  61

  Danya took no longer than the time needed to reach Maasara. She arrived at Uncle Madany’s house accompanied by a professor of psychiatry she knew from the Gezira Club; she’d phoned him, and he had come immediately. They met at Roxy Square, where he left his car and got into hers. On the way, she told him everything. The moment they knocked on the door, Hind came out and whispered in panic, “Dad just keeps talking on and on. He doesn’t want to sit down or sleep or eat. I speak to him and he doesn’t reply, as though he can’t hear me. He’s been saying the same things since the moment we were in court.”

  The doctor calmed her down and they agreed that they’d introduce him as a professor at the Faculty of Medicine who’d been abroad and had heard of Khaled’s death when he’d got back, so he’d come to offer his condolences. They entered and found Uncle Madany standing in the living room in the same clothes he’d worn in court. He appeared tense and stared at them straightaway. The moment he saw the doctor, he said, “Sir, I have a question, if you don’t mind. When my son is murdered in broad daylight, and all the witnesses say that the officer Heisam El Meligi killed him, I have the right to talk to the judge, don’t I, and it’s his duty to listen to me, isn’t it? Right, sir?”

  Hind cried out in a tearful voice, “Dad, all the lawyers told you that the judge couldn’t give his opinion on the case or he’d be disqualified.”

  As though he hadn’t heard her, Madany said, “I said two words to the judge and he went and cut me off. He said the court was adjourned!”

  The doctor signalled to Hind not to continue with the conversation and went up to Madany, shook his hand affectionately, introduced himself, and expressed his condolences. Uncle Madany looked at him and suddenly became excited.

  “You taught the late Khaled, sir? Welcome, welcome!”

  He invited him into the guest parlour and asked what he would drink, insisting until the man asked for coffee, which Hind went off to make. Madany sat down in front of him and greeted him again: “Welcome, welcome, Doctor!”

  They sat together for about an hour, during which the doctor was able skilfully to conceal his probing glances behind his smile and his talk, which appeared normal and appropriate to the situation. Then he excused himself, with Danya, and Uncle Madany bade them a warm farewell. Hind went out with them and stood outside the flat, where the doctor spoke to her in a whisper, a serious and entirely professional expression on his face.

  “Uncle Madany has what’s called post-traumatic stress disorder. When a person is subjected to a violent shock, he is likely to suffer certain disorders. He will have a tendency to withdraw, meaning he will speak little and show no interest in anything. Then, suddenly, he’ll suffer a strong reaction, which will last for a long time. But Uncle Madany has retained his memory and his powers of concentration completely. Thank God—his condition could have been much worse. I’ll write you a prescription for a tranquilliser that he’s only to take if he has trouble sleeping. At this stage, we have to keep an eye on him without letting him feel that anything is wrong with him. The Lord be with him.”

  62

  The battle that now ensued between Nourhan and Basant was so packed with ferocity, hatred, and bile, that it took on a somewhat animalistic character, as though the women were two beasts fighting for survival, one of which had to die for the other to live. It took place under a concentrated mutual bombardment of phrases of extreme vulgarity. Nourhan initiated the attack, pulling Basant violently by her arm so that she tottered and almost fell, while with her other arm she was able to tear off her hairpiece. Basant shrieked and began insulting Nourhan’s mother, only to quickly discover that Nourhan’s Islamic dress provided her with protection from her blows, which led her to begin kicking her with all her might on her shins instead, using her pointed, metal-tipped shoes, time after time and in the same place, to make the wound deeper. Nourhan was able, however, despite the pain, to get her hands on Basant’s face, digging her nails in and then dragging her powerfully towards her, after which she brought her mouth down onto her shou
lder and bit it with all the strength her teeth possessed, causing Basant to emit successive, piercing screams.

  At this point, the channel’s staff arrived on the field of battle and were able to separate the opponents. Basant’s wounds were severe: her face had been scratched in more than one place by Nourhan’s long fingernails, while Nourhan’s bite on her shoulder had torn the skin right open, and this was not to mention her many blue bruises. Nourhan’s injuries, however, amounted to no more than a few bruises on her legs from Basant’s shoes. The odd thing is that Hagg Shanawany, in front of whose office door the terrible battle took place, never emerged to see what was going on. Some attributed this to poor hearing as a result of his advanced age. The truth, though, is that he heard everything but had realised—in view of his long experience of life—that to interfere in a battle of this ferocity would be to take a risk, the outcome of which could not be guaranteed. He stayed in his office, following the situation via a phone call from a member of the channel’s staff, until Nourhan pushed the door open and entered, yelling and crying.