by Waguih Ghali
‘I am not,’ I said.
‘… or than Ammoon and his brother Yassa?’
‘I am particularly worse than they,’ I said.
‘… or than the son of Foufou?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Or …’
‘It is decided,’ my mother said. ‘You are to go into the army and get married.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘After all, I have sacr …’
‘… ificed your life for me.’
‘A good girl from a good family,’ my uncle, the Pasha, said.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘with a little bit of land.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘And something in the bank.’
‘Would do no harm …’
‘Preferably of military background,’ I said. This annoys him somewhat. The fellah is not as terror-stricken at the word Pasha as he is now at the word Officer.
‘Tu as finis?’ my aunt said.
‘Yes.’
‘Because if you haven’t quite finished,’ she said, ‘I shall close your mouth for good.’
I shut up.
‘Om Kalsoom is singing on the radio,’ I told my uncle.
‘Voilà!’ shouted my aunt. ‘That’s all he’s good for. Anything to annoy us.’
From Turkey to North Africa, Om Kalsoom is the most beloved and revered person alive. She cuts across all sections of the people. A woman in her forties now, she has led an irreproachable life and she possesses a voice of heartrending simplicity and beauty.
‘What … what is she singing?’ my uncle asked, starting to fidget.
‘Voilà,’ my aunt repeated.
‘Sing to me slowly, slowly,’ I told him. Her songs last for hours. But those of the French pensionnat, the club and the ‘travelled’ consider it a sign of commonness to appreciate Om Kalsoom. Because they are nevertheless oriental musically, they listen instead to Madam Amalia Rodriguez of Portugal, who very feebly resembles Om Kalsoom in voice.
‘Her best song,’ my uncle sighed.
‘This is intolerable,’ my aunt said. ‘This is the limit.’
‘What have I done?’ I said.
‘Do you want us to sit for hours listening to those wails?’ she screamed.
‘I didn’t know you didn’t like her,’ I said.
‘Switch the radio on very softly,’ she said, controlling herself, ‘and don’t utter another word.’
I switched the radio on and returned to my seat, folding my arms. I pretended not to notice my uncle who had pulled his chair up to the radio, stuck his ear to the loudspeaker, and was looking miserable.
‘Put it on louder,’ she screamed, ‘nom de Dieu!’
I turned the knob until the music was audible and returned to my seat.
Corrollos, the servant, stood at the doorway listening. He wears an even more pathetic expression when my aunt visits us.
‘Get a chair from the kitchen and sit down,’ my aunt told him. He looked at her with indescribable devotion, managed to make his eyes water, and returned to the kitchen.
‘Pauvre type,’ my aunt said.
‘I don’t know that I can afford to keep him any longer,’ my mother said.
My aunt grunted.
‘I haven’t had a new dress for years. That’s how I live now,’ my mother continued. Two days before she had bought two new dresses.
‘First the car, and now the servants. God knows how it will end.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s terrible.’
‘It’s all because of you,’ she said, taking her handkerchief out again.
‘Now, now, now,’ my uncle said. ‘You’re a good boy, Ram. Don’t make your mother unhappy.’
‘I am sorry,’ I told my uncle. ‘Would you like a cigarette, Uncle Amis?’
‘Yes,’ he said, staring at me. ‘I’ll try one of yours.’
I took my pack out and went to him. I pointed to a particular cigarette and whispered he should smoke it in the bathroom. He nodded eagerly and left. Two minutes later he returned with a disappointed look on his face. I laughed out loud.
‘But he’s completely mad,’ my aunt said.
‘I am sorry,’ I said again. ‘I shan’t utter another word.’ My uncle had thought the cigarette was stuffed with hashish.
Corrollos returned again, standing within sight of my aunt, and thinking I didn’t notice him.
‘Miserable beggar,’ my aunt said. ‘Get a chair and sit down, Corrollos. Sit down until the song is ended.’ He shook his head and returned to the kitchen.
I followed him.
‘Leave him alone,’ my mother said.
I closed the kitchen door and sat on the gas-oven looking at Corrollos.
‘Where is the radio I gave you?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘By God, I’ll murder you,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know how to use it,’ he whined.
‘You’ve been using it for a year.’
‘I’m afraid to break it.’
‘Put it on the table,’ I said, ‘and switch it on.’
He got it out of the kitchen cupboard, put it on the table, and switched it on without plugging it in, shaking his head all the while and handling it as though it were a crystal chandelier.
‘It’s silent,’ I told him.
He bent his head to the loud-speaker and listened intently.
‘Well?’
He shook his head again.
‘You’ve broken it,’ I told him. ‘I am going to deduct two pounds from your salary.’ I pretended I was leaving the kitchen.
‘Perhaps I forgot to plug it,’ he said.
‘Perhaps,’ I said.
He plugged it.
‘What’s this theatre you play every time my aunt comes here?’ I asked.
‘What theatre?’
‘Don’t you know? Did she ever give you a tip in her life, you bloody swine?’
Tip? What tip? He starts whining and tears actually flow down his cheeks and because he has no handkerchief he makes a mess of the tip of his robe.
I left him and returned to the sitting-room.
‘I do all I can,’ my uncle was saying, ‘but they don’t pay.’
‘How long do we have to put up with all this?’ my aunt asked.
‘They don’t pay,’ repeated my uncle. ‘They haven’t got the money.’
‘Haven’t got the money,’ snorted my aunt. I’d rather let the land lie idle than have them rob us in this way.’
Egyptian landowners usually let the land to tenants and do not bother to cultivate it themselves.
‘That would be worse still,’ my uncle said. ‘The land would go bad and we’d get a bad name in the district.’
‘Bad name,’ mimicked my aunt.
‘The times are hard,’ said my uncle.
‘You’re too good to them,’ she said. ‘That’s what’s wrong with you. You’ve spoiled them.’
‘The times have changed,’ he said.
‘You’ll have to do something. Mounir will be getting married soon.’
‘We shall have to sell,’ he said.
‘Sell-sell-sell,’ she shouted. ‘If they have the money to buy, they can pay the rent.’
‘It’s not they that buy, my sister,’ he said. ‘Sell one of the apartment houses in Cairo.’
‘Do you think I am mad? That’s what we’ve come to. We starve while the fellaheen owe us money.’
He is kind and gentle, my Uncle Amis, and like any other animal bloats himself on what is within his reach without thinking of anything in particular. Even the fallaheen love him because he sits with them and cracks jokes. He even weeps at their misery at times, just like them, without searching for the cause of that misery. ‘The world,’ he sighs, and they sigh with him and repeat: ‘The world.’
‘Who’s starving?’ I asked.
‘What?’ she shouted. ‘Vivi,’ she said, turning to my mother, ‘I can’t bear to see your son any more. I’ll hav
e a nervous breakdown.’
‘I don’t know what to do with him,’ my mother cried.
‘But I know,’ said my aunt. ‘You are going to live with me and give this flat up. We shall see what he will do then.’
My mother started crying now, in earnest.
‘Apologize to your aunt, Ram, apologize,’ my uncle said.
‘I am sorry,’ I said.
‘Go and kiss her hand,’ he said.
‘Surtout pas!’ she screamed.
I made as though to go towards her, when the door bell rang. It was Marie. She made straight for my uncle.
‘Pasha,’ she screamed in Arabic, ‘how wonderful to see you again. I have always been asking about you. You look very well indeed.’ Then she turned round to my aunt and said: ‘Il a l’air malade, le pauvre.’
My uncle is always very embarrassed when society showers it charm upon him for a few seconds. He mumbled polite formulas in Arabic, smiled awkwardly and didn’t know what to do with his hands.
‘Vivi,’ Marie turned to my mother, and then saw she was crying. ‘Poor Vivi,’ she said, changing her tone. ‘You’ve always had trouble, Vivi cherie.’ She patted her on the back, kissed my aunt on both cheeks, took her gloves off, and sat down.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said.
‘Didn’t I say bonjour to you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘What an afternoon,’ she said. ‘I can’t think clearly any more.’
‘Tell us what happened,’ I said, in a conversational tone.
Marie has always been afraid of me. I don’t know why. She is one of those devout Catholics who used to go about calling everyone cousine and petite sœur, and had reached her forties without getting married. She continued to call everyone tante and oncle, jumping up to kiss them, wearing masculine-type shoes with flat soles, until my aunt suddenly took her under her wing. ‘Elle est tellement serviable, cette Marie,’ and told her at once not to call her tante and to put a stop to all the kid-play.
Marie now looked at my aunt, who made a ‘don’t bother about him’ sign with her head.
‘I hope you are keeping well, Madame Marie,’ my uncle said, ‘madame’ being his epitome of sophistication.
‘Comme il est gentil,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much, Pasha. Here we are living from day to day, not knowing what will happen next.’
He murmured appropriate condolences.
‘Je me demande,’ she told my aunt, ‘how he can live in that village all the time.’
‘Thank God he remained a fellah,’ my aunt said. ‘Can you see me dealing with those people there?’
‘You must come to Cairo more often,’ Marie said, raising her voice somewhat as is the habit with people who think the other person doesn’t speak the language.
He thanked her profusely.
I left them and went to bed. I lay on my back with my hands joined beneath my head. I had reached an impasse again; a cul-de-sac. Again I didn’t know what to do with myself. Seeing Edna again after such a long time; and now that scar of hers. I sighed.
Our love had always been mingled with politics. From the very day I had met her at my aunt’s, politics had something to do with our love. Un amour, like literature, engagé. I laughed.
Two hours later, when my aunt had left, the Pasha came into my room. I pretended to be asleep.
‘Come, come, you rascal, you are not asleep.’
I snored.
‘Look, look what I have.’
I didn’t move. I heard him fumbling with papers in his pocket.
‘Ahem,’ he said, ‘would you like to see …’
I sprang out of bed and snatched an envelope from his hand.
‘Ram—Ram. No, no. Be fair, be honest.’
‘So, you swine,’ I said. ‘Kah kah kah,’ I cackled like a hen. ‘You are going to spend a nice quiet evening with your sisters, you are.’
‘No, no, no, Ram. First give me back that envelope.’ He tried to snatch it, then sat down panting. I sat on the bed and opened it. They were hundred-pound notes. I counted fifteen.
‘I am not speaking to you,’ I said.
‘My God, what have I done?’
‘Siding with the others.’
‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘Just for form; just for form. Do you think I understand those foreign words they use? First give me back the money.’
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I am not taking you out tonight.’
‘Is this the way you treat your Uncle Amis? – your poor Uncle Amis who hasn’t been to town for a whole year? Is this the way? Your Uncle Amis who paid four hundred pounds for you which you lost gambling?’
‘What?’
‘I swear by the Virgin Mary; I paid it for you. Here, look.’ He took a receipt from his wallet and gave it to me, snatching the money from my hand as he did so.
Six months earlier I had lost four hundred pounds playing baccarat and had given an I.O.U.
‘You’re a king, you are,’ I told him. ‘You’ll have a wonderful time tonight. Don’t worry. My sweet fellah of an uncle. The nectar of the Gods you are … if only you’d treat the fellah a little better …’
‘Na na na na,’ he said. ‘Ram, don’t start with all this nonsense.’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘Come now,’ he said, pulling me from the bed. ‘To the telephone.’
‘First tell me what you want.’
‘First,’ he said, ‘a game of poker until the evening. Then … where is the place with the red-headed belly-dancer? And then …’
I went to the telephone.
‘Jameel? Uncle Amis is in town.’
‘Amuse-le, le pauvre,’ my mother said as we left.
I felt terrible when I awoke in the morning. I was sleeping in the sitting-room because my uncle occupied my room. We had smoked hashish the night before, and the memory of our vulgar orgy at the snooker club gave me nausea. He had spent six hundred pounds, my uncle. The red-headed dancer, three of her troupe and her flautist had been brought to the snooker club. Omar and Yehia had also been there. Ellena, too, and the other two prostitutes. I gave an involuntary groan. Font had started to cry suddenly amidst this dissipation, and to keep him company, Ellena had cried too. My uncle had collapsed at about three o’clock and Jameel ran into a lamp-post driving us home. The seven of us carried my uncle up to bed.
I opened my eyes. My mother was sitting darning my socks. She wears glasses when she does that; and when she wears glasses her appearance is completely transformed. As though in harmony with her appearance, which is intelligent and intent, she becomes more reflective and quiet.
‘Tu souffres?’ she asked.
‘A bit of a headache and a thick head. It was terrible yesterday. Your brother is horribly vulgar.’
‘What do you expect? Still a bachelor at his age and he only comes to town once a year. Besides, he never had our education.’
‘No,’ I sighed.
‘Have a cup of coffee. There is some warm croissant, too.’ She poured me a cup and gave me a croissant. Very rarely, we arrive at a son-mother intimacy, and when it happens, it is always in the morning when I wake up.
‘Don’t smoke yet. Eat something first.’
‘All right,’ I said.
She went on with her darning.
‘Dr Hamza telephoned twice yesterday,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Il est très aristocrat, cet homme; tiens, he’s the uncle of Didi Nackla. Elle est adorable, cette fille. Mounir will be very happy with her. She is also very lucky to get him.’
‘Are they going to get married, then?’ It surprised me. Mounir was not Didi’s type.
‘Yes. Your aunt is arranging everything. Ca sera un couple charmant.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘She was in England, wasn’t she?’
‘For a while,’ I said.
‘Did you often see her?’
‘She lived with us.’
‘Pas possible! You never told me about th
at.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Comment? She lived with you and Font?’
‘And Edna,’ I said.
‘It must have been wonderful, Ram. Don’t think I don’t realize it must be hard for you being poor.’ She sighed. Les beaux voyages, she continued, which she used to make every year. Dancing the Charleston the whole night. And then Paris, Josephine Baker, Maurice Chevalier, even Maxim’s, Ram dear. The best hotels only. Tout le monde me faisaient la cour. And now …
‘I wonder why he telephoned?’ she asked after a while.
‘Who?’
‘Dr Hamza.’
‘Probably something to do with Jameel,’ I said. ‘Levy is giving him Arabic lessons.’
‘A propos,’ my mother said; ‘your aunt wants Levy to brush up Mounir’s Arabic. You must give me his address. It was terrible what you did, darling. Why did you push him in the water? ll a toujours étalt très correct envers toi.’
‘Please, Mummy; let’s not start this thing all over again It was an accident.’
She sighed. ‘I don’t know why you are behaving so strangely all the time. I suppose you need a wife. I’ll have to go and live with my sister when you are married.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’ll never leave you. If I marry, you shall live with me.’
‘Oh, that’s what they all say. When you have a pretty wife all of your own, you won’t want an old hag like myself hanging about.’
‘You’re not an old hag,’ I said. ‘You are still very attractive and I love you very much.’
‘What do you want for lunch, dear?’
I wanted to smoke, but if I did that, it meant having to get up and go to the bathroom because that’s the effect the first cigarette of the day has on me.
‘Who do you think would marry me?’ I asked.
‘That won’t be difficult,’ she said. ‘Après tout, we still belong to one of the best families in Egypt.’
‘Vicky Doss,’ I said, ‘would accept me, I hear.’
‘She hasn’t got a penny.’
‘Neither have I.’
She sighed and continued with her work.
‘Mummy?’
‘What is it, dear?’
‘Mummy, what do you think of Edna Salva?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Well?’
‘You might as well know, people say she took you to London as her gigolo.’