Or he would shout derisively, “It seems you’ve given up on the plow, Manawi boy!” (In a reference to dwindling sexual prowess with age.)
When that happened, General Manawi would blush at the great honor he received. Many would envy him that humor, because it was a mark of trust and love from the president. He would bow and mumble in a prayerful voice, “At your service, sir. May God give you long life for the sake of Egypt, sir.”
While security procedures were in full swing, a few hundred Egyptians led by Nagi Abd al-Samad and Karam Doss together with John Graham gathered in front of the consulate in the green space close to the lake. The appearance of Graham in the middle of the group, with his natural charisma, being an old American who came to fight for the rights of Egyptians, galvanized the demonstrators, who kept shouting slogans and waving signs in English and Arabic: free the detainees, stop the torture, stop persecuting the copts, down with the tyrant, and democracy for egyptians.
Demonstrations against the president during his visits in the West were familiar to the Republican Guard officers. This time, however, they noticed that there were large numbers of demonstrators and that they were making a lot of noise. That caused General Manawi some concern, so he went to the head of the American security detail and asked him for permission to disperse the demonstration. The latter told him, “American law prohibits dispersing them.”
General Manawi smiled and said, “We can do it without taking the least responsibility. Some of my men in civilian clothes will slip among the demonstrators and discipline them. It would all appear to the media like an ordinary brawl.”
The American officer threw him a disapproving glance and a dismissive smile, then signaled his refusal with his hand and moved away. General Manawi was very angry at the arrogant American officer’s behavior but of course wouldn’t cause any problems with him. He had learned from experience that nothing worried the president more than having a problem with any American, no matter how lowly his position. There was a saying that he often repeated: “A ruler who challenges the American administration is like a fool who puts his head in a lion’s mouth.”
The story of the president’s information secretary, Dr. Na’il al-Tukhi, was still fresh in people’s minds. He had had a quarrel with an employee of the American embassy about the right of way on one of the streets in Maadi. This was an ordinary quarrel that took place dozens of times every day in Cairo, but it had developed into name-calling in English, which so enraged Dr. al-Tukhi that he pushed the other man in the chest. The American employee had complained to the American ambassador, who had called the president’s office to report the incident. The following day the American embassy received an official reply to the effect that the president was very disturbed by what happened, and that he had ordered an immediate investigation. He then decided to terminate the employment of his information secretary as punishment for his irresponsible action.
The demonstrators grew more enthusiastic and in Arabic and English shouted in unison in a thunderous voice, “Down with the president.” General Manawi kept observing them in exasperation from the other side of the wide street then ordered an officer in civilian clothes to film them with a video camera bearing the logo of a fictitious television news service, intending to send the footage to State Security to identify and pursue them.
The crescendo of the shouts coincided with the impending arrival of the president. Soon the procession appeared in the distance, approaching gradually until it came fully into view: the president’s huge bulletproof black Mercedes guarded by two armored cars to the front and rear. General Manawi let loose a shout that wailed like a cheerless warning siren. “Aaaatention!” All the officers tensed up and took up their positions, brandishing their weapons in every direction to guard against any eventuality. The procession slowed down then stopped in front of the entrance, and instantly, the bodyguards jumped and formed a full circle several meters in diameter around the car, observing the road from all directions without appearing in the photographs. They were huge men with shaved heads and tiny earpieces, pointing their guns at an enemy whose appearance was anticipated at any moment. The chief of protocol rushed toward the presidential car, bent toward it, and opened the door. Soon thereafter the president appeared slowly and haughtily, as if he were a crowned king, his face displaying that famous cheerless smile that, a quarter century earlier, he had deemed photogenic and so never changed it. He was wearing a very elegant light gray suit, a blue-and-white-striped necktie, and shiny Italian shoes with an eye-catching golden buckle on the side. Anyone seeing the president face-to-face, however, despite the awe surrounding him, would inevitably feel that his presence was somehow contrived. His hair, dyed jet-black, was rumored to be (in whole or in part) one of the best hairpieces available in the world. His complexion was exhausted by all the scraping, sanding, and daily ointments he used to give it a youthful appearance. His face was covered with layers of fine makeup so he would appear younger in photographs. That glasslike, cold, detached, and distant presence, devoid of any traces of dust or sweat, as if it were sterile, left in those who saw the president an uncomfortable, raw feeling like that experienced by viewing babies immediately after their birth, featureless lumps of flesh still displaying the stickiness of the womb.
The president, slowed down by his seventy-five years, had a diminished level of concentration and was noticing things around him a little late. So he looked at the other side of the road and waved to the demonstrators, and when their shouts grew louder he realized what was going on and turned toward the consulate’s entrance. He swaggered along and reached for his jacket buttons, feeling them. (This gesture has stayed with him since he replaced his military uniform with civilian clothes and discovered that his buttons came undone without his being aware of them.)
The president began to shake hands with those receiving him in a predetermined order: the Egyptian ambassador to the United States, Egypt’s consul in Chicago, Safwat Shakir, whose face looked calm because everything was going according to plan, and then members of the embassy staff according to seniority. At the end of the line Ahmad Danana looked as though he was attending a fancy dress party. He was wearing a blue Christian Dior suit that he had bought especially for the occasion and which cost him (together with the shirt, the socks, and necktie) fifteen hundred dollars that he paid for gladly with his credit card, keeping the receipts as usual, hoping that he could return them afterward and get his money back (as he had done with his wedding suit). He realized that meeting the president might change his life. He had heard of many prominent personages in the state whose careers were made under similar circumstances. They met the president, he liked them, and their faces made an impression on his magnanimous memory, and so he gave them important posts at the earliest change in cabinets. It would indeed be a turning point in which the smallest details acquired maximum importance: a missing button or one that was loose, or a crooked necktie or shoes that were dusty or not sufficiently shiny — any insignificant detail might give the president a bad impression and negatively affect Danana’s future. Another reason he took such care of his appearance was his attempt to prove to himself that he had completely recovered from what his wife Marwa had done. When he got up last Tuesday, he couldn’t find her. He went through the apartment in a daze, still sleepy, until he finally noticed a piece of paper on the refrigerator door in the kitchen, written hastily in large, uneven letters: “I left for Egypt. My father will contact you for divorce proceedings.”
Danana exerted a great effort to absorb the shock. He said to himself that he had never been happy with her. He could, undoubtedly, find dozens of women better than she. Yes, he would divorce her as she requested, but she should pay the price of the misery she cost him (and his expenses as well). A few days after she ran away, Hagg Nofal called him and started talking about kismet and how the most loathsome permitted thing in God’s view was divorce. Danana replied that Marwa had run away from their home and caused him a scandal, and that he neede
d time to get over the crisis emotionally. Then he promised to meet Hagg Nofal next time he was in Cairo, and to sit with him man to man to discuss their respective demands. He deliberately used the word “demands” to prepare him for the idea that he was going to demand money. Of course he would demand money: his life, his name, and his reputation were not little toys in the hands of Madam Marwa to play with at will. He made up his mind (motivated by greed disguised as anger) to demand from Hagg Nofal one million Egyptian pounds in return for divorcing his daughter. A million pounds for Nofal was nothing. Danana would purchase a certificate of deposit in the National Bank, and that should fetch him a respectable annual return. He rehearsed in his head: you’ll pay, Nofal, against your will. If you refuse or if your daughter sues me for khul‘, then I’ll show you my other face. I will sully her reputation, you dog, Nofal, everywhere, in such a way that she will never marry ever after. I’ll say that I didn’t find her to be a virgin.
He made up his mind and reassured himself, focusing on preparing for the president’s visit. He thought for a long time about the moment of the meeting. What should he do when he saw His Excellency? How would he stand in front of him? What should he say to him? The president shook the hands of all of those standing in line. When it was Danana’s turn, he rushed and hugged the president and kissed him on both cheeks then shouted loudly in a rural accent, “May God give you long life and victory for the sake of Egypt. I am your son, sir, Ahmad Abd al-Hafeez Danana from Shuhada, Minufiya Governorate.”
Thus he chose to present a comic folkloric act to prove his love for his leader and his authentic Egyptianness. The plan worked. The president looked pleased and the pleasure was immediately transferred to the faces of those around him and they began looking at Danana sweetly and affectionately. The president placed his hand on Danana’s shoulder and said, “So, you’re from Minufiya? That means we come from the same place.”
“That’s an honor for me, sir.”
“It seems you are a peasant to the core!” said the president and let out a loud laugh. The camera flashes captured the moment and Danana got the honor of appearing in a presidential snapshot that would be published in government papers with the caption “Our revered president jests with one of his student sons during his successful historic visit to the United States.”
The president crossed the entrance, followed, two respectful steps behind, by the ambassador, then the others in the receiving line in a semicircle to maintain a respectful distance. The large hall was designed in Oriental fashion, its walls decorated with Islamic motifs and inscriptions, while glittering crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling provided lighting. The hall was originally meant for lectures and showing movies. Today a stately dais for the distinguished guest was installed, surrounded with bouquets of roses. In the back, a life-size photograph of the president was hung. Under the photograph was a huge sign in Arabic reading:
EGYPTIANS IN AMERICA WELCOME THE REVERED LEADER. WE PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO YOU FOR MORE PROSPERITY AND DEMOCRACY.
Everything taking place in the hall was carried by video cameras to a huge screen outside, next to the consulate’s main entrance. Guests sat on the auditorium seats, exchanging small talk and laughter, perhaps to mask their tension. As soon as the president appeared they all jumped to their feet and the whole auditorium was filled with continuous applause. Danana gave an agreed-upon signal to a group of students that he had sat in a section of the auditorium to the right: they started a rhythmic chant accompanied by two successive hand claps, as he had trained them. The din kept getting louder until the president extended his hands and waved them in front of him as if to say “enough, thank you.”
Everything proceeded as planned except for a strange incident that took place moments later. A number of guests rushed forward, asking to have their picture taken with the president. He agreed and signaled to the guards to let them approach. They shook hands with him and stood around him proudly. The presidential photographer got closer, carrying his high-tech cameras. He was a fat, bald man in his fifties (it was ascertained definitively later on that he was a new employee with the presidency and was allowed to travel with the president for the first time after the original photographer fell ill). The president and those around him fixed a photogenic smile on their faces, but moments passed while the photographer fixed his eye on the camera without taking any pictures. Suddenly he extended his hand and said, “Please, Mr. President, move a little to the right.”
A profound silence prevailed, heavily and ominously. The president did not move as the photographer had asked. He remained standing where he was, looking upward, as if watching something moving on the ceiling. That was a well-known sign of his anger: to look upward when something happened that he didn’t like. Those around him had to correct the mistake immediately. It seemed the photographer was not intelligent enough to notice what had happened or he imagined that the president had not heard him. He pushed the camera away from his eyes and said, loudly this time, “Mr. President, you’re outside the frame; please move to the right.” Before he uttered that last word, a hard slap had landed on his face. The chief of protocol grabbed the camera and threw it up in the air, whereupon it fell a distance away, breaking into smithereens and making a loud smashing sound. Then he held the photographer by the shirt collar and roared in anger, “Did you tell our revered president to move, you donkey son of a bitch? The whole of Egypt would move while our revered president remains standing where he is. Get out of here, animal!”
The chief of protocol pushed him hard with his hands in the back and kicked him so violently that the man almost fell on his face. The photographer rushed outside in shock, dazed by the surprise and the abuse, while the chief of protocol kept hurling insults and curses at him. Those who had wanted the picture moved away when the hitting began and then returned to their seats slowly and cautiously, trying to forget the whole thing.
As for the president, he seemed pleased with the punishment that the impudent photographer had received. He looked around slowly and deliberately, as if to reassure everyone that his pride was unaffected. Then he continued walking in the midst of tense silence, which was broken as soon as he arrived at the dais, greeted by another roaring round of applause. The ceremony began with a recitation from the Qur’an by the bearded student Ma’mun, who chose the Chapter of al-Fath: “Surely We have given thee a manifest victory.” After that, there was more shouting of slogans and applause, then, from the podium, the president began to read his speech from the piece of paper in front of him covered in large print (because he never used reading glasses in front of cameras). He spoke of his achievements, which he could not have accomplished without God’s help and the greatness of the true and genuine Egyptian people. Then he concluded the speech by addressing the students, reminding them that each of them was an ambassador for Egypt, which he had to keep in his heart, mind, and soul. The speech was conventional, rhetorical, and boring like all the speeches written for him by Mahmud Kamil, editor in chief of the newspaper Biladi, published by the ruling party. As soon as he was finished, applause and melodic slogan shouting was resumed, led by Danana, whose enthusiasm had reached its peak. He began to wave his hand as the veins in his neck swelled while he shouted at the top of his voice, “Long live the Commander President!”
“Long live the hero of war and peace!”
“Long live the founder of modern Egypt!”
Words of welcome from the ambassador and the consul followed. Then came the resounding words of Ahmad Danana, president of the Egyptian Student Union. “We pledge to you, our revered president, that we will love the fatherland as you have taught us; to follow your example, Mr. President, to work as wholeheartedly as you have, to be graced with integrity and honesty as you have been graced. May God preserve you as Egypt’s treasure and for her might.”
Shouting and applause were resumed, then the ambassador began to introduce speakers according to a schedule. All the comments had been prepared ahead of time and scree
ned very carefully, and they all constituted various forms of praise of the president. Even the questions tended to glorify him rather than demand an answer. One person asked, “How were you so able, sir, to overcome all the major challenges facing Egypt?” Another asked, “How did you benefit, sir, from your military experience in running the affairs of the state so successfully?” During his answers the president repeated the usual words that those present had read dozens of times in the newspapers. From time to time he would tell a joke at which they laughed with great alacrity. Danana, of course, laughed the loudest (he would start laughing after everybody had stopped, to gain the president’s attention). Finally, the ambassador said in his dignified voice: “Now, a word from Dr. Muhammad Salah, professor of medicine at the University of Illinois.”
THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THE SECOND row, where Dr. Salah was sitting, and the podium at which he was going to deliver his speech was no more than ten steps, but it formed the separating line between two lives: between his sixty-year history and his future, which was being shaped at that very moment. There he was, carrying out the plan, exactly as he had agreed with Karam Doss and Nagi Abd al-Samad. Security asked to preview the speech he was going to give. He gave them a two-line speech in which he glorified the president, which they approved immediately. In the meantime, he had kept in his inside pocket the text of the statement that he was going to deliver in the name of Egyptians. His worst fear was that they might search him as he entered the hall, find the statement, and ruin everything. But it seemed his dignified appearance had reassured the officer, so he did not subject him to any additional procedures. Dr. Salah stood up and slowly approached the podium, his head bowed so that he wouldn’t look at anyone. He first had to make sure that he was fully within the range of the cameras so that he could aim his blow precisely. He was going to read the statement in a strong and clear voice, quickly, so that he could finish it before they prevented him. It was naive to imagine that they’d let him finish. They would be overcome with shock for a few moments, but they would soon come to and move. What were they going to do to him? It was unlikely that they’d shoot him. They would arrest him, beat him up, even muzzle him by force to prevent him from finishing the statement. All of that would expose them even further. Only two steps to go. He was hearing a subdued droning sound in the hall. If he raised his head now, he would see the head of the state faceto-face. What a life-changing moment! He would leave this hall a different human being. He was unafraid. All he feared was not being able to finish delivering the statement. What happened after didn’t worry him. Where had this spirit been? If he had had it thirty years earlier, his life would have changed. Zeinab would not have told him, “I regret to tell you that you’re a coward.” There he was, going the final step, standing in front of the president of the republic, delivering a statement defending Egyptians’ right to democracy and freedom. He was going to do that before the whole world. Cameras were going to beam his picture everywhere. When Nagi offered him the opportunity to read the statement, he felt that fate was providing him with a way out of his suffering. His instantaneous acceptance surprised Nagi himself.
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