by Ibrahim Essa
Everyone roared with laughter and Tawhid himself laughed so hard he nearly choked. Umm Abdel-Rahman was Tawhid’s wife and was in fact there, with several other women on one of the balconies of the building, all of them wearing the hijab or niqab.
“And on the occasion of the opening,” Hatem continued, “Mr. Tawhid has decided to offer presents from the store to some recently married couples. He has awarded a 12-cubic-foot fridge to Mr. . . .”
Hatem read out the name from one of the slips of paper, to the consternation of Tawhid and to cheers, shouts, and cries of ‘Allahu akbar’ from the crowd below. A vast hulk of a man suddenly came forward, with coarse features and tattered clothes, and everyone realized he must be the man whose name Hatem had read out.
Hatem leaned over toward Tawhid.
“You should get a mortuary fridge ready for this guy, not a regular fridge,” he joked.
With Hassan in tow, Hatem went into the large hall that Tawhid had prepared for the dinner. Guests had already started pouring in, competing to say hello to the guest of honor, the famous sheikh, to have their pictures taken with him, and hopefully to receive some of his baraka. Hatem had decided to bring Hassan along on the trip to show him how interested he was in him. Although bringing Hassan along was no bother, especially after Omayma’s reaction, Hatem couldn’t forget the grave responsibility he had taken on, trying to reconvert to Islam the son of just about the richest man in the country and the brother-in-law of the president’s son. Hassan was wearing pieces of leather around his wrists so that no one would notice the crosses he had cut into the skin. No one asked about Hassan and how he was related to Hatem, though he was too old to be Hatem’s son and too young to be a colleague. They settled for the idea that he was the sheikh’s student or disciple but definitely not a member of his staff. This was evident from the quite different way in which Hatem dealt with Khodeiri, who seemed eager to know the minutest details of the schedule for the trip and who took on an importance shared only by Sirhan on a trip of this kind.
Hatem felt a tremor in Hassan’s hand, which he was holding for fear he might get lost when people pressed around Hatem to say hello and embrace him. Hatem turned and saw a priest in his black ecclesiastical robes and tall cowl, sitting in the corner of the hall. He glanced at Hassan and then at the priest, who then caught sight of Hassan. The priest looked closely at Hassan’s face as Hassan approached, and Hassan’s hand shook even more. The priest took an even closer look, clearly perturbed, and began to stroke his thick, coarse beard with his hand. Hatem headed straight for the priest, dragging Hassan by the hand after him. But Tawhid suddenly appeared out of nowhere and took Hatem by the arm. The priest stood up to greet them.
“This is Father Mikhail, Mawlana,” said Tawhid.
“Sheikh Hatem el-Shenawi,” he added, turning to the priest.
“Of course, there’s no need to introduce him to me,” said the priest.
“Nice to meet you, Father. It’s a great pleasure,” Hatem said warmly.
“So here we are in national unity,” said Tawhid, from behind. “No fanaticism or sectarianism. Father Mikhail has been the pastor of the church in the town for the past three years. And for your information he has a doctorate from America.”
“Fantastic,” said Hatem. “In theology?”
“No, in chemistry,” said Father Mikhail.
“Really? And yet you decided to go into the church. The more we know, the closer we are to God.”
Hatem wasn’t speaking to Mikhail as much as he was watching Hassan. Hassan didn’t shake hands with the priest, which added to Hatem’s suspicions. They didn’t look at each other, though they were only a few inches apart. He was increasingly convinced that something was up, but then people came up and dragged Hatem away from the priest to say hello to him. Tawhid finished off introducing him to the important guests, then invited everyone to have dinner, telling them all that Sheikh Hatem had blessed the store that night, not only by opening it but also by shifting the first goods as a charitable gesture—a fridge, a washing machine, and six fans. The guests said prayers for Hatem and Tawhid and murmured admiration for the roast lamb placed in front of them, while Hatem kept his eyes on the apprehensive Hassan and the oblivious priest.
After dinner, although it was late, Hatem made up his mind to go and visit Father Mikhail. Sirhan and Khodeiri were reluctant to go along with Hatem’s plan, while Hassan was silent.
“Are you into making bets?” Hatem asked with a half-smile mixed with a trace of defiance.
The question was addressed to Hassan, who was sitting withdrawn next to him in the car. They were driving along an unpaved road, kicking up clouds of dusts and running into potholes that took Sirhan the driver by surprise. Sirhan cursed the potholes, then restrained himself, trying to act professional and so that he wouldn’t upset the sheikh. Then more potholes rattled him and he shouted out again, and Khodeiri put his hand over Sirhan’s mouth to silence him.
“Let him shout,” Hatem commented irritably. “It only proves he’s an inexperienced driver.”
The journey was unexpected and a mystery to them. Why had Sheikh Hatem decided to visit Father Mikhail in his church? Anyway, here they were following the priest’s car toward a small town deep in the remotest countryside. Behind them came two cars full of admirers, sent by Tawhid to keep Hatem company and help him if needed.
“They’re the backup team,” said Sheikh Hatem.
Hassan finally replied to Hatem’s original question, very much in Boutros mode.
“Do sheikhs make bets?” he said.
“Oh yes,” said Hatem. “But in this case I’ll make a bet with you as Hatem the citizen, not Hatem the sheikh. Are you on?”
“What’s the bet?”
“That the mosque in front of the church we’re going to now is newer than the church, and built many years later. In other words, if the church has been there for fifty years, the mosque will have been there about twenty years.”
Hassan was amazed. “How could you tell that?” he asked.
Hatem smiled triumphantly.
“Clearly you know there’s a mosque next to the church there,” he said.
“What do you mean?” said Hassan, stumbling over his words in his confusion, half defiant and half friendly.
Hatem stretched his legs. The strain of the journey showed on him, as well as the pain of knowing what to expect.
“Nothing special. When you have a town like this that has a church with a priest who’s well known and conspicuous in the area, then it provokes the local Muslims, despite their claims of tolerance. They can’t bear being outdone, so frictions arise with the Salafist and fundamentalist preachers in the mosques, and in the parliamentary elections one of the candidates buys a piece of land next to the church from heirs whose house has been demolished after the father dies. To outdo the candidate from the ruling party he then decides to donate the land and have a mosque and a Quran school built on it. People in the town are invited to contribute to the building costs, and the mosque gets bigger and bigger and the minaret goes up and up, higher than the domes and the crosses above the church. And although the fundamentalists are against minarets in principle because they think they contravene the practice of the Prophet, they approve of them when it’s a matter of showing off and intimidating the infidels by putting up taller buildings, and those mosques are the ones that draw the largest crowds every prayer time, and the preachers start giving sermons saying that churches shouldn’t ring their bells close to mosques.
“Then the problems heat up after the Muslims who come to pray complain that Christian girls are walking past the mosque on their way to the church, so the priest makes some modifications to the church entrance, but the Muslims reject them and the police have to step in, and in return they get a commitment from Father Mikhail that he won’t ring the church bells. Then the Muslims decide to play recordings of the Quran all the time, and the priest and his congregation complain, and they all hold a meeting spons
ored by the State Security officer in the area and the members of parliament and some of the sheikhs from the mosques. The meeting decides that the loudspeakers at the mosque will operate only for the call to prayer and during prayer times, in order to be respectful and tolerant, but some people reject the decision as a concession, and State Security has to intervene and the protests die down.”
As Sheikh Hatem went on with his story, disrupted by the lurching of the car as it battled over the potholes, the church loomed in the distance, next to the mosque, just as he had explained. He could see in Hassan’s eyes that he was impressed and inquisitive.
Hatem checked his clothes and his appearance before getting out of the car, then put his hand on Hassan’s shoulder.
“You know, I’ve understood from this trip that you really are enthusiastic about Christianity,” he said. “From the fact that you came all this way and made such an effort, it’s clear you’re really determined. But the question is: Why did you come here? What does this church have that others don’t have? And what is it about Father Mikhail in particular?”
*
Hatem’s candor bowled Hassan over like a left hook and left him shaken. Hatem hurried off and stood by the car. In the distance he could see Father Mikhail heading toward him.
“See how big and grand the mosque is from the outside,” he said. “They took great care to ensure it would inspire awe, in a show of strength toward the church. It has a minaret like the Cairo Tower, in a town that’s more like a village, and a round dome that hides half the nearby houses, and verses of the Quran inscribed along the mosque walls. The church, on the other hand, is very austere, as if it’s trying to project the same simplicity and spirituality as the Christians themselves.
“And I bet you that on the inside the church is a masterpiece of splendor,” he added, advancing toward Mikhail, who was coming to meet him.
“Good evening, Father,” he said, embracing the priest.
Once they were in the church he gave Hassan a dig in the ribs. Hassan knew what he meant. He might have said, “Didn’t I tell you how grand it would be, what with the carvings and the paintings, the ceilings, the wooden panels, the icons, the statues, the stained-glass windows, the candles, the lamps, the carpets, the curtains, and furnishings?” There was even a large library with shiny beechwood tables. Nothing in the church suggested it was rustic or neglected. On the contrary it was richly endowed with donations from the pious, either out of rivalry with the mosque or because, under the priest in charge, the church had a mission to perform.
The other visitors stayed in the hall, while Hatem and Hassan followed the priest to his office upstairs. Hatem had asked to be alone with Mikhail—a request that had made the priest feel vulnerable.
Hatem sat down, determined to find out what those around him knew, or what he thought they knew.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Father,” he said. “I know I’m imposing on you, though I’m exhausted too. But this visit will be the talk of the whole area, which will set an example for tolerance and cooperation and show that we are all part of the fabric of one nation, without bigotry or sectarianism. The bigots on your side will find out how tolerant we are and the bigots on our side will realize how tolerant you are.”
Hatem paused a moment and let the priest say some nice words in return. The priest, with sweat on his brow, stroked his beard and threw tense glances toward Hassan.
Then Hatem took the bull by the horns and asked straight out, “Are you the great-grandson of Sheikh Mikhail Mansour?”
The question took the priest by surprise and struck him dumb, but the impact of the question on Hassan was so mysterious that it struck Hatem that maybe Hassan didn’t know who Sheikh Mikhail was. He was surprised.
“Do you really not know Sheikh Mikhail?” he asked Hassan.
“Is that really possible, Father?” he added, turning to the priest. “I doubt there’s a single convert who started out on his journey without knowing about the life of Sheikh Mikhail.”
Father Mikhail smiled at last. He thought the sheikh was teasing him, to be honest, and he decided to take it one step further.
“How did you find out, Mawlana? From State Security?” he said.
Hatem roared with laughter, pleased that the priest was so sharp.
“Father, I’m not one of those and you know them very well. Don’t they have meetings with you and negotiate with you and make requests and give orders and sometimes plead with you? Could you survive in this church of yours without their approval, without keeping them happy? But you seem to be much more intelligent than them, because I doubt they know about your family or your great-grandfather, or else they wouldn’t have approved you. In fact I’m sure they don’t know about your private meetings here with young men like Mister Boutros.”
With that, he pointed to Hassan, who was following every word, every gesture from either of them.
“Clearly you’re different from the other sheikhs,” said Mikhail, surrendering graciously. “In fact, different from how you are in the programs we see. But tell me, how did you know?”
Hatem looked around the room.
“From your office,” he said. “You’re obviously more interested in evangelical books than in theological books. You feel safe that your visitors are ignorant so you’ve splurged on books. On this shelf in the bookcase there’s a book about Mikhail Mansour and there’s Kamel Mansour’s book about his brother on another shelf, and there’s that same book again in several corners, which means that you give away many copies of it.”
Hatem reached out and took a copy of the book from a pile on the priest’s desk. On the cover there was an old photograph of Sheikh Mikhail.
Hatem put his finger on it and said, “The same eyes, Father, with the same name.”
Mikhail smiled the same disciplined, formal smile and his voice sounded less strained.
“I’m impressed by your detective skills,” he replied.
Hatem laughed. He detected a trace of sarcasm.
“You put our humility to shame, Father.”
“If I told you I wasn’t the great-grandson of Mikhail Mansour,” said the priest, a touch of coldness in his voice, “what would you say then?”
“I’d say you’re the great-grandson of Kamel Mansour, his brother.”
Mikhail slapped his hands on his thighs, making a loud crack.
“You’re quite something, Mawlana!” he exclaimed.
Hassan stood up, stunned by what he was hearing.
“Are you really the great-grandson of Kamel Mansour as he said, Father?” he asked.
“For shame, boy. Of course he is,” Hatem cut in.
And then, after winning on points, Hatem asked Mikhail to tell Hassan the story of his grandfather. When Mikhail began Hatem realized that the priest knew his grandfather’s book about his brother by heart because of his reverence for the man and for what he had done.
Hatem picked the book up, held it at chest height, and skimmed through the pages while glancing up at Mikhail as he spoke. Hassan was listening, embarrassed at how little he knew. Hatem realized that the boy hadn’t read anything about Christianity, hadn’t done any research, and didn’t know anything. Hassan’s conversion, he was now sure, was a psychological compulsion that had been unsuccessfully treated by an incompetent doctor who didn’t understand Hassan’s aims in becoming Boutros. Hatem welcomed the chance to go over the story of Sheikh Mikhail again, because his knowledge of it was very cursory, from books or things he had heard here and there, and now the story had caught his interest to such an extent that he would stop Father Mihkail to correct something that didn’t quite match what was written in a line of the book he was holding in his hands. He could see from the seal on the inside cover that this luxurious bound edition of the book was printed in a church press and not through an ordinary publisher or a publishing house that specialized in Christian books. It was clear that someone didn’t want the book to give rise to any problems with religious institutions
, or in any other way. It remained an internal publication that circulated in secret and was passed only to those who believed in its contents and could be trusted with it.
After a restrained preamble, Mikhail started to get enthusiastic as he narrated as much as he could of the details of the epic of his family. His great-grandfather had been writing about his brother Mohamed Mohamed Mansour, who came from the southern town of Girga in Sohag province at a time so far back in history that Hassan who was now Boutros couldn’t grasp how far back it was or what significance that distance in time might have.
“Mohamed Mansour, who became Sheikh Mikhail Mansour, was born in March 1871,” Mikhail said. “As usual, his family enrolled him in the elementary Quran school for him to memorize the Quran. That was in the al-Aref Billah mosque in Sohag under a Quran reader who was well known in his town at the time, Sheikh Massoud al-Azazi. Mansour memorized the Quran within a few years, like all of his generation.”
Hatem turned to Hassan. “Notice carefully, Boutros, that at the time memorizing the Quran in childhood was normal,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean that the people who memorized it remained believers or never rebelled. The Quran schools produced ulema who served their communities as well as thieving bastards. In those days the Quran schools were more like elementary schools. Going there was no proof of belief, no step toward Heaven. I apologize for the interruption, Father. Carry on with the account of your venerable great-grandfather, sir.”
Mikhail tried to give them the impression that taking pride in his ancestors was beneath him, but he failed. He paused for some seconds and tried to cut the story short. Hatem dissuaded him by brandishing the book and Mikhail continued.