Abdel Samad refused outright, saying, “Have you forgotten that I’m the older brother? I don’t need protection. Plus, it has to seem to the Sheikha’s agent that this money doesn’t mean anything to me. Otherwise the Sheikha might think I’m after her money. Let me deal with my business rationally and not emotionally. You go to Tanta, and may God grant you success.”
Ayman wanted to talk to his brother again about their mother. He wanted to talk about the weight on his chest. But he felt that Abdel Samad had relaxed a little after talking about what awaited him the next day. So Ayman just said, “May God grant success to us all.”
18 Palermo
The opening of the NGO conference in Palermo was really impressive. More than seven hundred of the world’s most important NGOs and not less than one thousand political activists from five continents were there. After the opening session, the conference participants decamped en masse to the city’s main square, the Piazza Politeama. Local residents looked on from the streets and waved from balconies.
The following day, after a rousing welcome from the audience, Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni gave his speech. He spoke of ruling parties’ monopolization of political life in the third world, and explained how civil society in Egypt was working hard to bring about change. It was demanding political reform by establishing the rotation of power—the basis of democratic practice—and by amending the constitution, which had been written by the ruling party to ensure its sole control of political life in the country.
Doha, sitting in the auditorium, felt that Dr. Ashraf was looking at her when he spoke. Civil society was a new arrival in Egypt, he said, but its influence was steadily growing. It was just like a butterfly. With a beat of its wings, that seemingly defenseless and fragile creature could influence the global weather system and, according to Lorenz’s well-known theory, might even cause a hurricane. He concluded by saying that the movement for change would triumph on the banks of the Nile, restoring Egypt to her former greatness. The Nile, creator of the greatest civilization, would then revert to its natural course.
Doha smiled when she heard the words that Dr. Ashraf had confided to her before they were in Palermo. After his speech, members of the audience crowded around to congratulate him. His picture appeared in the following day’s papers, and one had the headline, “Will the beat of a butterfly’s wing set the Nile back on course?”
That evening, the chairman of the conference invited some of his friends among the participants to dinner. Among them were the Egyptian delegate, Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni, and Doha al-Kenani—everyone thought she was a political activist who had come to the conference with him from Egypt. The meal was in an ordinary local restaurant that served what southern Italy was renowned for: pizza and the songs of Naples.
Doha al-Kenani had gone to Italy to take part in a fashion show, but here she was participating in a political conference. She had intended to spend her time in Milan in the north, but found herself heading to Palermo in the south. If Mabrouka, the fortune-teller who used to read her mother’s coffee grounds, had told her this before she set off, Doha would have said that the woman must have gone senile. Yet Doha had not been pushed into anything. It had all been as a result of her own free will, without influence or pressure.
All the barriers between Doha and Dr. Ashraf had gone. She saw in him everything she had been looking for. She had found the means to save her country from political tyranny, and had discovered why she hated politics. She hated and despised the politicians she knew through her husband, but she esteemed and respected Dr. Ashraf. He was the ideal type of a man who loves his country and works faithfully to improve conditions. He believed in his cause. Politics, for him, was not a means to personal gain. He gained nothing from his political positions. On the contrary, he lost a great deal as a result of the attentions of the security agencies that blocked his opportunities for professional advancement. If the committee overseeing the campus building had not been an independent one formed by the project contractors, his design, which was adopted unanimously, would never have been chosen.
Nevertheless, Doha realized there was still a barrier between her and Dr. Ashraf. Admittedly, it was a flimsy barrier, but Dr. Ashraf did not know that. What could she say to him to make him drop the reserve toward her that she sensed? He treated her genuinely and naturally, but her feelings toward him were more than friendship. Should she tell him that her marriage to Medhat al-Safti was a façade? Should she say she was actually not married, or a widow or divorced? Should she tell him about the marital problem that prevented a proper relationship between her and her husband? Should she tell him he had to take on her cause, and the cause of the many wives whose husbands suffered the same problem as Medhat al-Safti? The reform of society and women’s rights that Dr. Ashraf believed in—did they not mean that husbands should be fit and healthy, just as men demanded that their wives should be virgins? Women got married to men who seemed normal with no shortcomings, but after the wedding they discovered that the truth was different. If Medhat had been totally impotent, perhaps her family would have stood by her; sharia law would have supported her and the law would have treated her fairly. But when it came to premature ejaculation, our male-dominated society considered a woman who complained about such a situation, to say nothing of one who asked for a divorce, as sex-mad and immoral, her only concern being getting more sexual pleasure than her husband provided. Medhat was right when he accused her of being frigid. But subsequently she knew that he had made her frigid. Her coldness was only toward her husband; with herself, she was a burning flame that no one could put out.
More than once, she thought that the feelings she had started to harbor for Dr. Ashraf and her trust in him would drive her to tell him the secret she had kept hidden from everyone. But she held off for two reasons. First, it would be like trying to implore him to love her out of pity. Second, she had kept her husband’s secret all the years of their marriage, and she would lose her self-respect if she told another man the most intimate details about her husband.
Such was her state of confusion that she did not know what she ought to do. For the first time she felt how much she missed not having Talaat around. She felt she really needed to talk to him about her psychological, emotional, and marital crises. But she was afraid that he might say the same things her mother would have said were she still alive: divorce might be allowed but it is odious; good girls don’t get divorced; her dissatisfaction could be dealt with—or at least made slightly better—in some way or another, but not by bringing disgrace on herself and her family by divorcing. To this her mother would have added that Doha should remember that she was the wife of one of the most important men in Egypt and that thousands of women longed to be in her position.
No, she would not discuss the matter with Talaat or reveal her secret to Dr. Ashraf. She would continue battling on her own until she burst a blood vessel in her brain and ended up paralyzed or dead.
These were Doha’s thoughts as she lay alone in bed in her hotel. Then her phone rang. The number did not appear and she knew it was her husband. She felt no desire to talk to him and left the phone ringing. It stopped, then rang again. “I might be able to ignore it now,” thought Doha, “but what will I do tomorrow or the day after, or when I go back to Cairo? In the end, I’ll have to reply to him. It’s my fate and I can’t escape it.” She pressed the answer key.
“Where are you?” asked her husband.
“In Palermo,” she replied calmly.
“Was the fashion show in Palermo?”
Equally calm, she said, “I told you it was in Milan.”
“I forgot. How was the show?”
“I didn’t go.”
He said quickly, “Why didn’t you go back to Rome then?”
“There was nothing to go back for.”
“Do you have news of the prime minister?”
“The prime minister and the cabinet can go to hell.” And for the first time since she had known Medhat she hung up on him and burst i
nto tears. Medhat had reminded her of real life. All that had happened to her in Italy seemed a dream, and when it ended she would return to her real life in Egypt.
People, when they traveled, seemed to lose their grounding and act according to different rules. She could not believe that she had come to Palermo and attended the international NGO conference with Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni, only to end up going back to her life in Egypt. The dream would lead nowhere. She cried more passionately than she had for years.
The phone rang again. She could not face hearing Medhat’s voice, and picked up the phone to turn it off. Mervat’s name was on the screen. She quickly answered before the ringing stopped. Mervat noticed the distress in her voice and asked her what was wrong. Doha was sobbing in spite of herself as she said, “I’m tired, Mervat.”
“Of what?” Mervat asked.
“Of my life. Of myself. Of the whole world. Just a few days ago I thought I’d found everything I was looking for. But now I’m certain I’m not destined to be happy in this world.”
Mervat sounded shocked as she asked, “Why, Doha? What happened at Fashion Week? Didn’t they like your clothes?”
“I didn’t show my clothes. I canceled the show.”
“Oh no, that’s terrible!” exclaimed Mervat. “But why?”
“There was nothing terrible about the show. It’s my life. My life is terrible. I have no control over anything.” Doha ended with a deep groan, like the pain of an animal fighting for survival. She did not realize that the call had ended until the phone started ringing again. Mervat’s name was displayed. Doha pulled herself together a little and answered the phone. It was Talaat. “What’s wrong, Doha? Mervat has made me worried for you.”
Doha could no longer bear it all on her own. She said, “Are you strong enough to hear what I’m going to tell you? Are you brave enough to deal with your sister’s woes?”
“What are you saying, Doha?” asked Talaat. “I’m your brother. I can’t abandon you or let you down.” For the first time, Doha felt that her brother was worried about her. His desire to help was obvious, so she told him everything. Each time she said that she would go into detail when she came back, he said, “I won’t leave you in such a state until you come back.”
She tried to keep personal details about Medhat under wraps. She just told him that they had not been sexually compatible since the start of their marriage. But she did tell him her feelings toward him and what she had found in Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni; the circumstances that had led her to cancel the fashion show; her attendance at the Palermo conference. At the end of the conversation she said, “Now do you understand why your sister has been so unhappy all these years, why she’s suffering now, and how helpless she is?”
Talaat listened to her until she had finished, then said, “Listen, Doha, there are a lot of things I want to say to you when I see you. This is the first time you’ve turned to me for help. You’ve dropped me from your considerations for a long time, but I’ve always been your brother. Mama and Baba are both dead, and we only have each other left.”
Doha felt relieved by her brother’s words and replied, “I’m so happy at what you’ve said, Talaat. Even though I know that there is no solution to my problem, it’s enough that there is someone I can share my troubles with.”
Talaat interrupted her: “We only live once, so we have to enjoy it. There’s no reason to put up with unhappiness as long as we can still change it. This might seem strange, but in all honesty I tell you that you must ask for a divorce. I promise you I’ll back you up all the way.”
Doha replied in a voice cracking with emotion: “God bless you, my brother.” She hung up without hearing his reply and was overwhelmed by a hysterical mix of crying and laughter.
19 Kikhya Mosque Does Not Exist
When Abdel Samad woke up, there was no sign of Ayman. He quickly got up and half an hour later was in the street. He took a taxi to avoid being late and to keep the money he had with him safe. The money that would open the door to the future of his dreams. He was heading for Qasr al-Nil Street downtown, and the taxi took him through Tahrir Square. Talaat Harb was closed off by Central Security vans because of demonstrations. The driver nipped through Abdel Moneim Riyad Square into Ramsis Street. But when it turned into Abdel Khaliq Tharwat, there were Central Security vehicles lined up on both sides of the street in front of the Lawyers’ Syndicate. The road was not closed, but traffic was crawling. The driver said he would go no farther, as the demonstrations were surrounding the Lawyers’ Syndicate and the Journalists’ Syndicate a little farther on. Central Security forces were surrounding the demonstrators and the situation did not bode well. The driver asked Abdel Samad to get out of the cab because he would not continue downtown even if he paid him a thousand pounds. The address Abdel Mu'ti had given him was at the end of Qasr al-Nil, near the Kikhya Mosque. Abdel Samad told the driver that he had not agreed to be dropped off where they were. The driver replied that if he did not want to pay the fare it was okay, but the cab was going no farther. Abdel Samad got out of the car without paying. No way would he pay a driver who had not taken him where he wanted to go. He was also angry because he knew he would never find another taxi in the middle of the crowds.
He took the envelope with the money out of his jacket pocket and put it under his vest. That way he could feel it pressing against his bare stomach and be sure it was there and had not gotten lost in the crush. He steeled himself and walked through the demonstrations.
“O my country where are you? We need to feed our children too!”
“Let the government tell the truth: has the party cut us loose?”
“Palestine’s lost and so too Iraq, Duwaiqa’s gone and so too Warraq!”
He forced his way through the crush with difficulty by folding his arms on his chest and elbowing people aside. If the demonstrators had known he had five thousand pounds tucked in his shirt, they would have jumped him straightaway. What did Palestine and Iraq have to do with us? Everyone should look to themselves. If people focused on their own interests, the country would not have gone down the drain. Anyway, in a few days he would depart the country for good, leaving it to these lost young men to look for as they pleased.
“O my country, where are you? O my country, where are you?”
He walked quickly through the crowds until he left the masses of demonstrators behind him. Their voices faded, and the Central Security vehicles disappeared. The dark vehicles were a depressing sight: mobile prisons on the hunt for inmates.
He went from Abdel Khaliq Tharwat on to Talaat Harb and then Qasr al-Nil. When he reached the end of that street, he found himself in front of the historic Kikhya Mosque. He asked for directions to Bustan Street, as instructed by Hagg Abdel Mu'ti. “Go right.” “Left.” “Right then left.” He followed all these directions but could not find the street. Wouldn’t it be better to say “I don’t know” than making people run around in circles? He retraced his steps to the mosque and saw a parking attendant. He would have to know the area like the back of his hand. “Bustan Street isn’t around here,” said the man. “It’s in Bab al-Luq.”
“But isn’t this the Kikhya Mosque?” asked Abdel Samad.
“I’ve been working here for forty years, and I’m telling you that there’s no Bustan Street near here.”
What a difficult day. Could Hagg Abdel Mu'ti have made a mistake in the address? But how? Didn’t he want to take the money? After a few more failed attempts to find the place, he decided to call Hagg Abdel Mu'ti. “I’m in front of the Kikhya Mosque,” he said, “and there’s no street by the name you gave me in the area.”
“Well, stay where you are, and I’ll be right with you.”
In front of the entrance to the mosque, a group of visitors was hovering around a tour guide. He pointed at the mosque and said, “This is the mosque of Emir Uthman Katkhuda al-Qazudughli, built in 1734. His Mamluk name, Katkhuda, came to be pronounced Kikhya, but there isn’t really a Kikhya Mosque.”
As if Ab
del Samad had summoned a genie, Hagg Abdel Mu'ti suddenly appeared before him. He was a plump man whose potbelly hung over his belt and whose jacket did not button up. “Hello, my son,” he said. “I would have liked to meet you in my office and welcome you properly, but I didn’t want to tire you out looking any more. Come with me to the mosque and we’ll pray together for God to bless you and make things go smoothly. Have you brought the money?”
Abdel Samad answered at once, “Yes, I have it.”
“So let me have it.”
Abdel Samad undid his shirt and stuck his hand inside his vest. He pulled out the envelope and gave it to him. He blushed in embarrassment and said, “I’m sorry. I had to make my way through the demonstrators, and I was afraid someone in the crowd might pinch it.”
“Never mind. I won’t count the money here in the mosque. We’ll go up to my office in a minute to sign the contract. Have you washed?”
Feeling embarrassed again, Abdel Samad said, “No.”
“So let’s wash and then pray for God’s blessings.”
Hagg Abdel Mu'ti took Abdel Samad by the hand and they went into the bathroom. The Hagg opened the door to one of the cubicles. Abdel Samad went in and, for the first time in years, performed his ablutions. He was not accustomed to praying, but he was particularly in need of blessings on that day.
He quickly finished washing and came out of the bathroom. He did not see Hagg Abdel Mu'ti and thought he had gone to the prayer area. It was still early for the noon prayer, and there were only a few people: two men over on one side of the mosque and an old sheikh sitting in front of the prayer niche. Hagg Abdel Mu'ti, however, was not there.
Abdel Samad headed to the entrance where he had left his shoes. He looked for Hagg Abdel Mu'ti’s shoes. Abdel Samad had seen him placing them to the right of the other shoes, but now they were gone.
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