The Televangelist

by Ibrahim Essa

  *

  He put his gown back on, though after reciting the Quran he was no longer aware of the bitter cold. He felt he had broken his shackles and armed himself with self-knowledge. Now he felt he was stronger than them, even when they were trying to humiliate him, and he realized that if he could live the rest of his life at home reciting the Quran to himself and thinking about it, and poring over books of Quranic exegesis, confident that his son Omar was in good health, then he would not need anyone and would not want anything further.

  He walked briskly around the room, liberated and indifferent to what was happening, then he went to the door to bang on it with the strength of someone with nothing to lose. Then he started going around the sofa; he turned it over, and wiped the soles of his shoes on the walls. Nihilist, capricious ideas were now swimming in his blood. If they were intimidating him because he knew about Hassan, alias Boutros, and held a secret about the son of their president that would cause havoc if it came to light, and if Mukhtar was their victim and he—Hatem—their hostage, then he could take them hostage too. If they harmed him, he would harm them too. Then he felt that his bladder was about to burst, and because the door was locked and because there wasn’t a stir outside, and because hours had gone by since he relieved himself, he decided to go ahead and urinate. He lifted up his galabiya, took the hem in his teeth, undid his pants, took out his penis, and started to urinate on the walls. He walked around, urinating on the desk, on the curtains, on the worn carpet, and on the back of the door. It was an expression of anger and of freedom. Now, when they opened the door, he was ready for any interrogation. He was certain they could see him through cameras planted in the room, and he was urinating on them too.

  Day came but the sun didn’t come. The only light in the room was the cold light from the light bulbs and they didn’t show what time it was outside. Although the single tiny window was tightly closed, Hatem knew from a glance at his watch that time was passing and that it was almost morning. He was standing, unable to sit down because everywhere he looked there were puddles of urine. A sense of relief came over him and gave him the strength of someone who is no longer afraid of failure and is ready for any trial of endurance. The door suddenly opened, startling him, and someone, who looked like a blockhead, appeared wearing a suit with a smile stuck on his face—like a smiley face icon in a text message.

  The blockhead bowed. He seemed to be unusually flexible for a blockhead. “Come this way please, Mawlana,” he said.

  So Hatem had recovered some of his prestige. Perhaps they had learned a lesson from when he urinated in all their faces. He walked behind the blockhead till they came to a corridor that led to an inner staircase, which they then went down. Hatem found himself facing a hallway that ended in a grand door guarded by two more blockheads, who were less flexible than their colleague. They knocked on the door, opened it, and waved Hatem in. He entered a large, spacious, elegant room and a welcoming, cheerful face with an exaggerated smile rushed toward him.

  “Welcome, Mawlana. You bring great baraka. Your virtue does us honor,” said the man.

  The reception was so vulgar and disgusting that Hatem almost forgot what had happened in the previous hours. Hatem quickly recognized the man’s face despite his foul mood and his physical exhaustion. It was the same man who had visited him in the Giza security headquarters. He turned and found Ahmed el-Faisal in all his impudence coming toward him with three others who were no less obnoxious than Ahmed. They welcomed him, shook hands warmly with him, then went back to their seats in a sitting area in a corner of the room while the other man sat behind a desk in the center of the room and asked Hatem to sit down too.

  “Sit down, relax, Mawlana,” he said.

  He looked toward the blockhead who hadn’t moved and was standing there awaiting an order.

  “One medium coffee for Mawlana and a bottle of water,” he said. “And make sure you use the Hassan Pasha coffee,” he added.

  He waved the flunky away and looked back.

  “You realize, Mawlana, that I’m here as a guest of the gang.”

  He looked toward the three officers sitting there, then sprang up from his seat as if stung by a bee.

  “Let’s go and say the dawn prayers together, led by the sheikh, before the sun comes up,” he said, pointing to a half-open door. Beyond it Hatem’s sleepy eyes made out a small en suite bathroom.

  “Are you going to do your ablutions, Mawlana?” the officer said.

  “No, I’ve abluted without water,” Hatem said coldly.

  They all laughed. Brigadier Faisal came up to him, took his hand, and led him to the bathroom.

  “We all know it’s not just a basin you need,” he muttered.

  No doubt he was referring to Hatem urinating all over the room, which made Hatem proud of himself and what he had done.

  When he had washed, he came back into the room.

  “And so I guess you’re all washed and ready,” he said, “or do you pray without washing, since clean living doesn’t count for much with you?”

  They burst out laughing with strange abandon, and Faisal added, “You are being very bold with us, Mawlana.”

  “Or else he’s very upset with us,” added one of the others.

  “Honestly, you people are merciless,” said the most important of them, the one who called himself their guest. “No one would ever trust you. You don’t know who you’re dealing with and you don’t respect people and their learning. Isn’t that right, Mawlana?”

  Hatem felt they were treating him as a toy and decided to ignore it. “Which direction is Mecca?” he asked.

  Faisal pointed in one direction but Hatem turned and stood facing the opposite direction. “No, the other direction, Mawlana,” Faisal corrected him.

  “Are you sure you pray facing the same direction as the rest of us?” Hatem asked calmly.

  “Enough, Sheikh Hatem, we know you’re upset. Come on, put your trust in God and earn some merit through us by being our imam in prayer,” said Faisal.

  Hatem was surprised by their shallow faith and the lighthearted way they did things. They thought that praying would purge them of their misdeeds.

  “Okay, are there any chapters of the Quran that are banned during these prayers, or can I choose freely?” he asked them.

  The man couldn’t help roaring with laughter until he started coughing and spluttering. “Generally speaking, I’d concentrate on the verses about Heaven. There’s no need for the ones about Hell,” he finally replied.

  “Heaven? Do you think Heaven’s a police club on the Nile that you can enter with a membership card?” asked Hatem.

  He then said, “Allahu akbar,” and started the prayers. The way they had received him distracted him from concentrating fully on the prayers. Was it a truce, a trick, or was it a final blow against him, Hatem wondered. Anxious and yet scornful of them, he recited the “Afternoon” and “True Devotion” chapters in the prayers. Then he felt free to meet his fate at their hands. When he rose from the prayer mat he found they had gotten up quickly, put their shoes on, and gone back to their places as if they were re-assuming their authority.

  “May we pray together in Mecca one day, Mawlana. So tell me, what news of Hassan?” said the senior officer.

  “Hassan who?”

  “Please, Mawlana, we’re being serious now.”

  “Ah, you mean Boutros.”

  “You’re responsible for Hassan, and we need to reassure the big man that he has come to his senses and he’s back to normal and the good Lord has shown him the light thanks to your piety and learning and your powers of persuasion. You’re the young people’s preacher, Mawlana. But tell me, can I tell the big man that everything’s okay and reassure Hassan’s father while we’re at it? That man is patriotic and he’s been serving the country since he was a young man. I tell you, Sheikh Hatem, and the guys here know it, that man is one of Egypt’s most important sources of economic support. He alone is responsible for billions of pounds a ye
ar coming into the coffers from the export of gas, despite what the riffraff and the hirelings say about him. His shoes are worth more than any of those people who call themselves the opposition. As far as the gang here is concerned, the files on those guys are all much the same. We’ve got plenty against them, but when we pick any of them up the agents of America and their American masters make a fuss and attack Egypt, but they won’t touch a single hair in this country as long as it is protected by the president and his vigilance and his wisdom.”

  The officer stopped for breath and then continued: “By the way, you should sit down with the president. You’ll find him very simple and kind, with the decency of a real Egyptian and the patriotism of a hero of the October war. Just for your information, he understands everyone in the country and cares for them, and for us, and he’s saved Egypt from some real disasters.”

  Hatem expected the brutish trio to sing the chorus part in this patriotic anthem but their only contribution was some mumblings and mutterings.

  The coffee had arrived while they were praying. The man gestured to Hatem to drink and he took a sip. Then he put it aside because a nauseous feeling had turned his stomach. Neither the man nor his aides had yet come around to the purpose of this humiliating summons. Perhaps they had decided to wait till he asked or to let him leave in complete confusion. He decided to stay silent too, especially as his exhaustion had started to affect his limbs and his throat was dry. Then Brigadier Faisal came and sat down in the chair opposite him.

  “Sir,” he said, addressing the senior officer, “we have full confidence in the loyalty of Sheikh Hatem el-Shenawi. All our reports confirm that, and when His Excellency”—he now turned to Hatem, looking deep into his eyes and emphasizing each word—“invites you to meet the president, it’s not just an honor to you, Mawlana, but also a sign of complete confidence in you.”

  The most senior official took over. “I’ve apologized for the evil deeds of my colleagues here in State Security. They’re inexperienced, ruthless, heartless people and they don’t know who’s who, as I told you. I’ve given them a piece of my mind.” At this he turned to Brigadier Faisal. “Isn’t that right, Faisal? Tell Mawlana what I’ve done.”

  “His Excellency did indeed think that what we did was a terrible mistake and we’re going to put it right,” said the brigadier. “The man will be released soon. We just have to sort the case out and tone down the media campaign so that we can let him out quickly.”

  It was too complicated for Hatem, who no longer understood who the police had apologized to nor exactly why. And what he said about the case and campaign and the man, what did he mean by it?

  Then suddenly it all made sense. Before he even needed to ask, the man in charge started speaking. “We know how much you like Sheikh Mukhtar el-Husseini. And before you defend him, yes, everything you’re going to say is right. He was set up by us here in State Security. The man isn’t a Shi’ite and he never went to Iran. He’s not a spy and there’s no organization, and there’s no truth in any of that nonsense that’s all over Egypt at the moment, and that will continue for two or three weeks. They’ve stigmatized the man for the rest of his life and pretty much ruined his future in this country. None of the thousands upon thousands of people who used to surround him will go anywhere near him now. No followers, no donations, no pledges, no moulid or any of that. But Husseini can thank God that he’s going free without a trial or a prison sentence.”

  The boss turned to Brigadier Faisal and started to reprimand him, although his act was unconvincing.

  “You’ve treated him monstrously and I’m not at all happy with what I saw of Husseini. He looks like he’s suddenly aged twenty years. The marks from the beatings and the bruises on his face and his chest are very obvious,” he said.

  Hatem thought that maybe this was all a show designed to intimidate Hatem because they thought he was still too defiant. “And he can’t go free any time soon when he’s in that state,” the man continued. “What will people say? Did you really have to give him that many electric shocks on his balls, you brutes? When I was alone with him in the cell and he was crying like a baby, I wanted to have you shot.”

  It seemed quite clear that he was threatening Hatem with a similar fate. The boss turned back to Hatem and could see that Hatem was wincing. His face was troubled and sad, as if he were about to give in and cry.

  “I know you’re very upset, but rest assured, everything will get back to normal,” the man went on. “I promise you he will be back with his mother soon, and by the way, we very much appreciate the fact that you didn’t contact her or his wife, although I heard from her father that she was going to ask to be divorced from Sheikh Mukhtar, I’m sorry to say. Oh, and I’d also like to reassure you about something else. Don’t worry in the least about the things he left in your house.”

  Hatem was taken by surprise, and then he was surprised that he had been surprised in the first place. Of course they had done their searches and monitored him and found out all his secrets, invaded his privacy, and bugged his telephones.

  “Firstly, don’t bother looking for them in the house because we have them and we’ve seen everything that’s there and we’ve confronted Sheikh Mukhtar with the details of what’s in the notebook and the recordings and the man didn’t deny anything. And by the way, when I met him, I denied you had handed them over to us. In fact I made it absolutely clear to him that we got hold of them by our own means, so he has no reason to think ill of you, Sheikh Hatem.

  “Secondly, don’t get the idea that we wanted to harm Sheikh Mukhtar, but he really was used by people who don’t want good things for this country and they misunderstood him. He’s a good man but he’s naïve. He’s truly religious, but he doesn’t understand politics and the brutes in security had to prove to him that he couldn’t perform miracles, and if he could, it wouldn’t be at our expense or at the expense of the president’s son.”

  When the man in charge said goodbye to him at the door, he reminded him of Hassan and how important it was that he didn’t fail to win him over. When Ahmed el-Faisal said goodbye to him at the door to the building, the sun was up and the brigadier put on dark glasses that confirmed how creepy he was. He handed Hatem the cell phones they had confiscated when he arrived, and told him they had called Sirhan to bring the car. They had sent Sirhan off the day before and told him that Hatem would be going away on a trip with just the boss.

  “Try to speak to Nader Nour,” the brigadier said, “because he called your cell twenty times yesterday and left you a message saying he wanted to meet you urgently. Goodbye, Mawlana.”

  Hatem was in some middle zone between being confused and being tense. He didn’t know if he was confused and therefore tense, or whether he was tense and therefore confused. He couldn’t pin down what he felt.

  Sirhan found him when he came through the door of the State Security building. They had left him to walk through the yard that lay between the inner gate and the outer gate. It was daytime but the sun was hiding behind clouds that threatened rain, and a biting wind stung his face and whipped at his turban. He walked slowly and deliberately, dragging his pain and frustration behind him. The sense of humiliation began to course through his veins again, as if he had found himself thrown abandoned on the pavement. Although he had regained his self-respect when he was alone in the waiting room (he had even had no qualms about pissing on their furniture), his one-hour meeting with the police officers had been a complete waste of time. It had shown that under their pressed trousers they had the legs of devils, like the wicked magicians in books on black magic and in spells cast by spirit mediums, but in the end he was as trapped as he had been in the first place. None of the policemen standing guard outside showed any interest in him, as if they had orders to ignore him, and when he came out through the gate, he stood there lost until Sirhan came up behind him, gave him a friendly tap on his shoulder, and showed him the way to the car.