Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature)

by Mohamed Salmawy

  “And because of finding you, I’ve found myself.”

  24 The Dream

  In her sleep, Doha dreamed of Ashraf; wide awake, Ashraf dreamed of Doha. She dreamed that life was beautiful. The ugliness that marred everything around her was gone. No more ugly politics, no more ugly personal life. In Doha’s dream, the streets, houses, and shops once again rivaled the world’s great capital cities in beauty. The country was once again how she remembered it as a child, when there had been justice for people. Her personal life was wonderful. Dr. Ashraf stood beside her, her partner in private and public life. She had achieved personal happiness, something she had been deprived of since marrying Medhat al-Safti.

  Ashraf al-Zayni was detained in solitary confinement. He might have been deprived of his freedom, but he had found a priceless jewel. It had been quite a shock when he saw Doha at the demonstration. From a distance he had thought it was her, but ruled out the possibility: going to demonstrations was just not part of her life. Yes, when he met her, he sensed she loved her country, but that was abroad. Back home in Egypt, her old life would take over. It was not so easy to change the direction of your life, especially by 180 degrees.

  Because of this, Ashraf did not want to get too close to her. He recognized that their nascent relationship, be it close or distant, sprang from the unforeseen circumstances of their trip. Those circumstances would disappear soon enough, and everything would go back to the way it had been. He knew he was attracted to her. He thought more than once that for a woman like Doha he could embrace married life. He was also well aware that Doha was attracted to him. But surely that was only a passing fancy that he should neither encourage nor take too seriously. It was an Italian caprice, like the Tchaikovsky they had listened to together at the hotel restaurant in Milan. Beautiful, yes, but transient, like any piece of music. So he was careful to keep their relationship—a brief encounter—within limits. It would all end at the end of the journey.

  Dr. Ashraf allowed his head to rule him, even though his heart took him in another direction. His thoughts were confirmed once he got back to Cairo, for the relationship did not continue. He began to feel he had been right not to allow things to develop. Besides, Doha was not for him—she belonged to another, after all.

  All of that changed when he saw Doha at the demonstration. Her presence proved she had been genuine in Italy. She had been telling the truth when she said she did not belong to the ruling party. Her decision to attend the NGO conference in Palermo had been genuine. But more than that, her presence at the demonstration meant that she did not really belong to another man, whatever her ties to him.

  These thoughts made him go over to her at the demonstration. He wanted to make sure that the woman he had spied in the distance really was Doha al-Kenani, the woman with whom he had spent some of the most beautiful days of his life, in Rome, Milan, and Palermo, and for whom his heart had pounded by the Lovers’ Fountain as it had never pounded for a woman before.

  He had just confirmed it was her when the swaggering officer threatened to assault her. That had made him intervene, and he had been arrested. Still, he knew that such a step would not be a spur-of-the-moment decision. There must have been orders given in advance, otherwise the officer would not have detained him. Being arrested was something he had known could happen at any time; it was no surprise.

  None of that mattered. In the squalid cell where they had flung him, all that mattered was that he had found what he had been looking for. He felt that his personal life was nearing fulfillment. Together, he and Doha would be able to realize their shared hopes.

  Doha’s dream was more passionate. She felt Ashraf’s presence in bed with her. His scent, which had announced his presence when they first met and had lingered in her mind as if he had infused her body with it, flooded her. It was like the scent a male animal uses to mark its territory, defying any other creature to approach. Now she understood why she had found the scent so off-putting to begin with, and why it had become the invisible thread joining their two bodies in the embrace that she had refused on the plane, come to long for in Italy, and was now experiencing in her dreams.

  This was Doha’s first complete sexual experience. There were no barriers or blocks preventing fulfillment as there had been with Medhat al-Safti. For the first time, she felt herself reaching orgasm simultaneously with Ashraf. He had no complaints that she was frigid.

  Doha decided that she was entirely Ashraf al-Zayni’s. Ashraf al-Zayni decided to fight every battle to win Doha al-Kenani, who had been usurped just as the country had been usurped from its rightful owners.

  Doha awoke from her dreams filled with a strange ethereal feeling. She remained lying in bed for a while, unwilling to leave it and lose the rare moment she had experienced in her dream. Eventually she got up and found herself alone in her brother’s house. Her phone rang a few times. She did not answer. She had no desire to communicate with anyone as she luxuriated in her unfamiliar joy.

  At that moment of clarity, the new and long-sought designs for her clothes filled her head. She sat at the dining table sketching new lines with her colored pencils. This time, her designs were for working women who needed clothing that was simple and practical as well as beautiful. They were nothing like the designs for her old friends, politicians’ wives that she no longer wanted to have anything to do with. Her inspiration came from the Egyptian tiger butterfly, with its beautiful colors and bitter black body that poisoned any creature that tried to eat it.

  The drawings flowed from her fingers easily and rapidly. Her phone rang again. She did not answer it. The doorbell rang. She ignored it. The doorbell rang insistently, so Doha felt she ought to answer. Perhaps it was something important for her brother or his wife.

  She left the paper and pencils on the table and went to the door, hoping that whoever it was had gotten tired of waiting and left, so she could get back to her drawings. She opened the door and two men were standing there. One asked, “Madame Doha al-Kenani?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you come with us, please?”

  “Where to?”

  “We want you to answer a few questions.”

  She felt it might be connected with Dr. Ashraf and asked to fetch her handbag from inside.

  When she came back, Doha saw two other men standing next to them. They looked like mukhbirs, police informants. She asked the man who had originally spoken to her, “Have you got a warrant, officer?”

  The man did not deny he was an officer. He just said, “A warrant for what?”

  “To arrest me,” said Doha.

  “You’re not being arrested. You’ll be home again in fifteen minutes.”

  25 Qasr al-Nil Jungle

  In the evening, Abdel Samad came in without saying a word and went straight to his room. Ayman was lying on his bed looking at the ceiling. Abdel Samad did not say hello. Ayman was longing to tell him what had happened. He had to tell someone or his heart would burst, unable to contain the life that had opened up before him that day. The two brothers had not talked about their mother for many years, but today Ayman had to tell his brother everything. As soon as Abdel Samad entered the room, Ayman got up from his bed. “Abdel Samad,” he said in a loud voice, “today was everything I ever hoped for.” Abdel Samad did not reply. Ayman looked carefully at him as he said, “What’s wrong? You look as though you’re going to a funeral.”

  “Today I’ve lost everything,” he said. He sat down heavily on the bed, put his head in his hands, and burst into tears. It was the first time he had cried that day, and the first time in years. It felt strange to be crying—he was not used to it. When was the last time? He did not remember. He could not stop crying. It was involuntary and he had no idea where it was coming from. It was though he had kept it in since the morning and was waiting to meet his brother before letting it out.

  Ayman sat down next to his brother and put his arms around his shoulders. Without even knowing the reason for his tears he tried to comfort him. H
e guessed it must be to do with his departure—that was the only thing that mattered to Abdel Samad. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to Kuwait?”

  Abdel Samad threw off his brother’s arms and sat down on the other bed. “No, I’m not going,” he said.

  “How come? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand what happened. I’ve been tricked and all the money I borrowed has gone.”

  “What! The five thousand pounds?” cried Ayman.

  Abdel Samad had stopped crying and calmed down. He said, “Yeah, the five thousand pounds. There’s not one pound left.”

  “Were you robbed?” cried Ayman.

  “Yeah, I was robbed. And I handed the money over myself.”

  Abdel Samad told Ayman what had happened. He said that Hagg Abdel Mu'ti had vanished as soon as he had taken the money. He was like a genie who had been summoned and then vanished. Abdel Samad had tried to call him, but his phone was off, and of course it would never be turned on again. He had probably thrown it in the Nile. Then he had tried to find the office, but the address was not real. He had tried to contact Sheikha Ruqaya, but her email address, which he had used for months, did not exist. It had gone as if it had never existed.

  Ayman said excitedly, “It’s a gang. Let’s call the police. They must have form. I’ll go to the police station with you.”

  Abdel Samad was once again his usual self, the big brother who knew it all, and said, “Who are we going to make a complaint about? Invisible ghosts? I don’t know Hagg Abdel Mu'ti’s full name, and now I doubt that’s his name in any case. I bet the Sheikha isn’t Kuwaiti and her email address isn’t in Kuwait.”

  “Didn’t you say you’d spoken to her on the phone in Kuwait?” asked Ayman.

  “But she called me every time and her number never appeared.”

  Abdel Samad started crying again, and Ayman did not know what to do. He sat down next to him and held him in his arms in silence. Painful seconds passed during which neither of them uttered a word. Ayman eventually spoke. “You haven’t lost anything,” he said. “What you never had, you can’t lose. It just wasn’t destined to be.”

  “But I’ve lost so much,” said Abdel Samad. “I’ve lost the five thousand pounds. How am I going to repay the people I owe?”

  In an effort to cheer his brother up, Ayman said, “You managed to get the money in the first place. You can do it again. I’ll help you. Don’t give up. You’re still alive and have your life before you.”

  “No, I died today and there’s nothing to look forward to. My life is ruined.”

  Another moment of silence fell between the brothers. Abdel Samad suddenly stood up to leave the room. Ayman asked him, “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going for a walk. I can’t sleep now.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You being around won’t help.”

  “I wanted to talk to you. Tell you—”

  “I want to be alone and think,” interrupted Abdel Samad, and left the room.

  Ayman rushed after his brother. Their father was, as usual, sitting in the living room watching TV. The voice of Umm Kulthum singing a line from the long poem al-Atlal—The Ruins—could be heard: “A citadel of imagination it was, only to collapse.” Father said to Abdel Samad, “Where are you off to?” Abdel Samad did not answer. He went out, shutting the front door behind him.

  Ayman went back into his room and collapsed on the bed in tears. He had never imagined that he might cry on this of all days. He had been waiting impatiently for his brother so he could tell him what nobody else in the house knew. Yet here he was keeping all his feelings in. Was that what had made him cry? Perhaps. Great joy was as much a burden as sadness if you could not find anyone to share the intense emotion with.

  Abdel Samad walked aimlessly for a long time. He did not know how far he had gone, but found himself in Saad Zaghloul Square before the lions of Qasr al-Nil Bridge. The opera house was behind him, and on the other side of the Nile twinkled the lights of luxury hotels and tall buildings. These structures were strange compared to the building where he lived, with its three stories that had not been repainted since it was built more than twenty years before.

  It was late, past midnight, but the area was still so busy and noisy it might have been midday. Some young men had climbed the pedestal of one of the statues and were standing on a bronze lion taking photos of each other. Like baboons in the jungle, some of them were leaping around between the lion’s front paws. Screaming and laughing … were they drunk? Did they not know that life was a long series of tragedy and misfortune? Couples dotted both sides of the bridge. Their bodies pressed together as they looked beyond the bridge and the lights on the east bank of the Nile, gazing into the distance as if into the future. But what future awaited these miserable creatures? They were so stupid and ignorant. Abdel Samad was stupid and ignorant like them, but the veil of ignorance had fallen from his eyes that day and he understood what life was really like. Life was a savage jungle, a dog-eat-dog world of cheating and lies. Even for lovers it was cheating and lies. Each one of the guys had his arm around the waist of the girl he had promised to marry. But once he got what he wanted, she would never find him, no matter how hard she searched. A new cell phone number, a deleted email account, and that was that.

  On the other side of the bridge, a crowd had gathered, taking pictures of a bride in white and her groom on their happy day. Happiness? What happiness? Perhaps the groom was one of the few who had kept his promise, but the lies would begin after the wedding. That was the way of the world. The law of the jungle.

  What was he going to do with his life? Where was he going to go? No idea. He kept walking to the end of the bridge, then turned right onto the Corniche. The Nile was to his right and the Semiramis Hotel to his left. He wandered along for about five hundred yards, passing the Semiramis and the Shepheard, then the British Embassy and the Four Seasons Hotel. At the ramp leading to the Grand Hyatt on its island in the Nile, he stopped. He did not know what he was doing or where he was going. He stood vacantly watching the cars coming down from the hotel, one after another, in dull succession.

  Unable to make a decision, he must have stood in the same spot for a long time, for when a car stopped in front of him, he remembered having already seen it pass. The driver must have gone past then turned around and doubled back. The car stopped and the passenger door opened. Abdel Samad went over to the open door and got into the car as if he had been expecting it. He closed the door and they drove off.

  The car was mid-size and black and of uncertain model. The driver looked to be in his fifties, of medium build, and with a thin moustache that reminded Abdel Samad of actors in the old foreign films he had seen on TV.

  Abdel Samad was like a sleepwalker in a trance. He did not know why he had accepted this stranger’s invitation. Without knowing where they were heading, he had gotten into the car without a moment’s thought. He had not hesitated for a second. But why hesitate? Hesitation meant weighing two options and choosing between them. He, however, had no choices. He had nothing. He had lost everything and no longer had anything to fear. The future had gone. The money had gone. Worse, he had to pay it back. He realized that he no longer had choices. Every door had been slammed in his face, every exit had been sealed. He was like a broken prisoner without will who had to obey whatever he was told to do.

  Abdel Samad came back to reality at the sound of the man’s voice. “What’s your name?” The voice was harsh and brassy like a military reveille, thin like the man’s moustache.

  “Samir,” replied Abdel Samad.

  “Your eyes are like a hawk’s. They have attracted their prey.” Abdel Samad said nothing and the man went on: “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They drove off into the night toward the meandering streets of Garden City, a labyrinth without exit.

  26 Detention

  Mervat tried to cal
l Doha on her cell phone, but it was off. She had come home in the afternoon and Doha was not there. She thought she would be back soon, but the hours passed and there was no sign of her. Mervat started to feel anxious. She spotted the drawings for the new designs on the dining table. Doha had clearly abandoned them suddenly without tidying them up.

  When Talaat came home, Mervat told him she was worried about Doha, given the events of the last few days. They waited for her to turn up for dinner, but she did not come and did not call to say she would be late. Eleven o’clock went by and Doha had still not returned. Talaat did not know where to look for her or who to contact. Mervat remembered that Doha had mentioned that she was going to the demonstration at the High Court with her friend Dr. Mushira Abdel Rahman, the university professor. After a lengthy search, Mervat found Dr. Mushira’s number among Doha’s papers. It was now past midnight, and Talaat was reluctant to call her. But Mervat insisted, and he suggested that it would be better if she spoke to her.

  Mervat apologized to Dr. Mushira for calling so late and said that she and her husband were very worried about Doha, who had not come home. Mushira replied matter-of-factly, “Unfortunately, Doha has been arrested. A group of lawyers from the human rights association is trying to reach her, but no one knows where she is exactly. If you should hear any news about her, please call me at any time of the night or day.”

  This was quite a shock for both Mervat and Talaat. No one in the family and none of their acquaintances had ever been arrested before. They had no idea what to do.

  Talaat did not sleep a wink. The first thing he did in the morning was call Medhat al-Safti. Talaat was extremely worked up; there was no way Doha could have been arrested without Medhat’s knowledge—she was still legally married to him. “How could you arrest your wife, Medhat?” he asked him. “Don’t you have any decency?”