The Cheapest Nights

by Yusuf Idris

  He was given a twenty-piastre tip by her father, and ten by her husband. He shook his head many times and kept up a broad smile and told everyone not to worry. He was going to be like a true brother to her, born of her own mother and father.

  It was a strange procession running through the town, with El Shabrawi at the head. People stopped to stare. Those who knew him asked where he was going.

  “Only around the corner,” he replied with modesty.

  “How far?” they persisted.

  “Oh, only up to Cairo,” he said with feigned indifference.

  “Lucky man!”

  His belly tingled with excitement.

  After a long wait the Delta train came puffing in. He got on with Zebeida who sat down quietly beside him. Presently the train started. El Shabrawi felt for his papers for the third time. They were safe in his inside pocket. Seeing all was well and everything in order, he removed his wide uniform belt and relaxed, sitting back a little, almost forgetting Zebeida.

  After a long time the loitering and meandering and interminable stops came to an end and the train crawled into Mansura like a long caterpillar. When they got off El Shabrawi crossed the bridge, holding Zebeida by the hand, all the time invoking the blessings of the Sayyeda Zeinab.1

  He looked for the train to Cairo and found it crouching in its place, waiting for him. He got on and sat Zebeida near the window. When the lemonade man came around he bought two glasses which he gulped down one after the other. Then he bought a third one which he offered to Zebeida who rejected it irritably. He patted her soothingly on her back and gulped it down himself.

  The train began to move. The passengers were sitting snugly in their seats, idly staring at nothing. Zebeida was looking out of the window like a child, a beatific smile on her face, while El Shabrawi lost himself in visions of approaching bliss.

  Just before they reached Simbellawen, Zebeida suddenly turned around and beat her breast violently, looking at El Shabrawi in a strangely accusing manner. The latter snapped out of his visions with a jolt.

  “What . . . what’s the matter?” he asked anxiously.

  She gave no reply but, holding her hand above her mouth, let out a joyful trilling-cry which she followed by a string of others. A sudden hush fell on the carriage and the passengers all turned to stare. El Shabrawi’s head reeled with embarrassment as he fumbled for an explanation. He tried to swallow but his throat felt dry. He turned to Zebeida and implored her to stop, gently patting her hand.

  “There, there, now, don’t worry, everything will be all right. Please . . .”

  Finally she calmed down. But the passengers did not. They began to comment on what had just happened in low whispers that grew steadily louder, never taking their eyes off Zebeida or El Shabrawi.

  “Must be his wife, poor dear,” he heard a woman say.

  A peal of laughter rang out at one end of the carriage. The man sitting in front of him woke up and cleared his throat. Two children stood on their seats to get a better view. El Shabrawi broke into a sweat that seeped through his khaki uniform. He felt like changing the bitter taste of his mouth so he opened his large handkerchief in order to spit in it but his throat was too dry and he folded it up again and put it back in his pocket.

  “What’s wrong with the lady, Officer?” asked his neighbor, who did not seem to appreciate the situation.

  “Oh, n . . . nothing,” replied El Shabrawi. He was able to recover his speech though his knees still felt rather watery. “Just a little . . . ,” he said making a circular motion with his hand near his temple. The man shook his bulk and nodded knowingly. El Shabrawi was still moving his hand when Zebeida turned on him again.

  “What do you mean, nothing? Who said there was nothing?” she asked in a shrill cry.

  El Shabrawi looked at her with genuine alarm as she poked her face close to his. He leaned back until his head hit the wall, placing his knotted handkerchief, with its contents, between them. She stopped abruptly and stood up with a jerk. She peered unsteadily at the ceiling and screamed again at the top of her voice. “Who said there was nothing? Down with the Omdah2 of our town, Ibrahim Abou Sha‘alan! . . . Long live His Majesty the King, President Mohamed Bey Abou Batta!” And another trilling-cry went up.

  The carriage was now in utter pandemonium. Sleeping passengers woke up. The man sitting in front of El Shabrawi pulled his basket from under his seat and hurried away. In one second Zebeida and El Shabrawi had half the carriage to themselves, while the rest of the passengers huddled apprehensively in the far corner. Some left the carriage altogether while a few remained out of curiosity. El Shabrawi’s uniform was now drenched in perspiration. He tried to force her back into her seat but she jerked his hand away.

  “Down with our Omdah!” she shouted again to the tune of more trilling-cries. “Long live His Majesty the King, President Abou Batta!”

  Everyone was laughing, even the boys selling peanuts and soft drinks. El Shabrawi joined in too, seeing no reason why he shouldn’t, but he soon had to stop as the situation suddenly threatened to take a turn for the worse. Zebeida was preparing to take off her dress, the only garment she had on. He made an effort to grab hold of her hands but she pushed him away, still uttering her piercing cries. Soon they were caught in a scuffle. He won in the end, forcing her back into her seat, and tying her down with a muffler which a passenger lent him—but not before she had flung his tarboosh out of the window. He was incensed, for throughout his years of service he had never once been seen without it, and now he had to suffer the indignity of remaining with his head uncovered except for his cropped, scanty hair. With that much accomplished Zebeida was apparently still not satisfied. She continued her volley of trilling-cries, and every time it was down with the Omdah and long live the President.

  As the train neared Bilbeiss she was starting to calm down and some of the bolder passengers were encouraged to return to their seats. Infuriated by the loss of his tarboosh, it was all El Shabrawi could do to refrain from throwing her overboard. There was nothing for him but to simmer in his rage until the train pulled in at Cairo.

  He waited until all the passengers got off, then he caught her arm like a clamp and marched her out. As they walked down the platform he relaxed his grip a little when he saw she was following meekly, tame as a lamb.

  The imposing structure of the station hall filled him with awe, but in his present state of mind he was in no mood to relish his surroundings or to allow happy memories to invade his thoughts. Immediately he boarded a tram, with Zebeida obediently in tow, and got off at Ataba. From there he took a shortcut to Al Al Azhar Street where he bought himself a new tarboosh with the twenty piastres her father had given him, cursing Zebeida all the time, together with her father and his illicit money. The new tarboosh bothered him, it weighed a ton.

  Taking thought he decided to get rid of Zebeida before he gave himself up to the joys of the capital. So he squeezed with her into another tram. As it wound its long, tortuous way through the crowded streets of Cairo El Shabrawi sat reviewing all the mishaps he had suffered up until now and glumly contemplated those yet to come.

  Somewhere in the middle he remembered Zebeida and threw a quick glance in her direction. With her jaw hanging open, a fatuous and placid expression on her face, she was leaning heavily on the man standing next to her. The latter had his eyes on the paper he was pretending to read, but seemed obviously to be enjoying himself. El Shabrawi pulled her away roughly. The placid expression vanished and a nasty look came in its place. Once again the trilling-cry went up, and again it was down with the Omdah and long live President Abou Batta.

  The conductor blew his whistle and stopped the car midway between stops. He went up to El Shabrawi and ordered him to take Zebeida and get off, roundly abusing him for exposing the passengers to so dangerous a creature.

  Finding himself in the street again El Shabrawi decided it would be wise
r to cover the rest of the way to the Governorate building on foot. Zebeida walked alongside on his right, her trilling-cries rending the air. A large crowd was collecting behind them as they walked along, El Shabrawi hardly daring to raise his eyes from the ground in his mortification.

  The guard at the door anticipated some sensational happening as he saw the crowd approach. El Shabrawi inquired about the Governorate doctor. The guard’s practiced eye took in the situation at a glance. He was very sorry indeed but it was past six and there was nobody there. El Shabrawi’s heart sank.

  “And what do I do now?”

  “Come back tomorrow,” the guard returned calmly.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Morning,” he specified. He turned and shouted at the crowd which began to disperse loaded with a stock of anecdotes.

  El Shabrawi begged to be allowed to stay the night. Having nothing more to add, the guard did not bother to reply, and knowing better than to argue El Shabrawi grabbed Zebeida by the hand again and moved away.

  Slowly, the enormity of his predicament began to dawn on him. With Zebeida tied to his neck there was nowhere he could stay the night. He was tired and worn out and he had had nothing to eat for hours.

  He walked into the nearest café in Bab El Khalq and sat down, keeping her close by his side, paying no attention to the many stares that fastened on them. He ordered tea and a water-pipe and was just starting to give himself up to the delicious euphoria that was spreading to his tired limbs when a sudden rumbling in his belly made him almost double up with pain. He realized he couldn’t wait. He must find the toilet. When he inquired of the waiter, the latter pointed to a place not too far off. But he had to park Zebeida somewhere. He took a look around the place and noticed a man sitting near them who was wearing a coat on top of his gallabieh. It was not difficult to start a conversation with him. It turned out he was a police detective and El Shabrawi found himself obliged to tell him the whole story, asking him in the end if he’d mind keeping an eye on Zebeida while he went to the loo. No sooner had the man accepted with reluctance than El Shabrawi had shot out of sight.

  When he got back he found the café had turned into a fun-fair, with Zebeida as the star attraction. Furiously he pounced on her and dragged her away with profuse apologies to the police detective. He walked out blindly with no idea where to go. It was getting dark and the glaring lights of the city dazzled him with memories of those bygone days, sadly overshadowed by all he was having to endure.

  Probing his memory he recalled a distant relative, a student of agriculture. His memory threw up the address as well, somewhere in Giza, but when he got there he lost his way as he had only been to the house once before and that was during the daytime. He found it in the end, however, after a long search, and his relative gave him a warm welcome, asking where he’d been all this time and how everybody was. El Shabrawi was just about to open his mouth and explain the purpose of his visit when Zebeida, until now on her best behavior, sent up one of her choicest trilling-cries. If he had had a knife on him El Shabrawi would gladly have cut her throat. He didn’t even try to explain why he was there, but hurriedly took his leave and scuttled away, allowing his relative only snatches of the story.

  When the streets contained them once more, he dug his fingers fiercely into her arm and longed to crush her bones. The thought of murder occurred to him even though he knew it meant a life sentence. He was past caring. Meanwhile Zebeida was waddling along beside him like a goose, totally impervious to the threats he kept muttering at her between his teeth. Suddenly he had a flash of inspiration as the thought of murder and the life sentence he was prepared to face made him see visions that evoked the police station. He could think of no better place to take shelter that wretched night.

  So they got on a bus and a moment later they were standing before the sergeant on duty at the Sayyeda headquarters. Being well practiced by now, it did not take El Shabrawi long to sum up the situation for him. The sergeant shook his head slowly.

  “That’s a responsibility I will not risk.”

  “Take us into custody then,” suggested El Shabrawi, his rage starting to mount.

  “That’s still a responsibility,” returned the sergeant indifferently.

  As he left the building El Shabrawi was bitterly cursing responsibility and everything to do with it, including himself for having volunteered like a fool to take Zebeida to Cairo. For a moment he considered a hotel but gave up the idea when he remembered he would have to account for Zebeida, plus the fact that it would fleece him of at least fifty or sixty piastres which anyway he didn’t have. The Sayyeda Zeinab mosque, which was not far off, seemed to offer the only solution, so he took himself there and, grabbing Zebeida, pulled her down by his side as he sat down on the ground by the wall. He was now on the verge of tears and only his pride kept them back. He could think of no one in the world more miserable than himself at that moment.

  The place was swarming with the usual crowd of saintly idiots and half-wits always to be found in profusion around a shrine, so that when Zebeida started up her piercing cries her voice was lost in the din of their mutterings and the chattering of the women and the giddy whirlpools of the rings of zikhr.3 El Shabrawi was glad of that. Something like relief began to ease his torment at last, for now Zebeida was in her element. Nothing she could do was going to appear odd in those surroundings. It was he, rather, who was feeling out of place and he longed to lose his reason too and join these carefree people in their bowers of lunatic bliss.

  Slowly, and in spite of himself, he began to relax, forgetting his troubles and his frustrations as he sat watching their antics. They were quite an entertaining lot. They did what they liked and nobody stopped them. He turned his attention to a Sheikh who was lying down near him at the foot of the wall. Leaning his head on his arm, the man was watching the people come and go with perfect detachment, a rapt expression on his face and a look of pure contentment in his eyes. Every now and then he would look down, then up at El Shabrawi, then in a mocking drawl order him to repeat the profession of Allah’s unity, fixing on him a relentless stare. El Shabrawi could only comply.

  As the Sheikh lay there, his vacuous thoughts dwelling on nothing, a cigarette stub fell at his side. Nonchalantly he picked it up and inhaled deeply, enjoying the smoke with obvious relish. He fixed a rapturous gaze on El Shabrawi as the smoke coiled slowly around his face.

  “Say there is but one God,” he ordered again in dead earnest, which made El Shabrawi chuckle in spite of himself. Suddenly he longed to lie down too, brainless and free of care like the Sheikh. That reminded him of Zebeida. He turned to look at her and was overjoyed to see she was beginning to yawn. Little by little her body relaxed, her eyelids drooped, and slowly she sank into sleep.

  Now for the first time El Shabrawi was able to contemplate her face. She wasn’t pretty, but her skin was fair and she was small. Her feet, weighed down by heavy anklets, were covered with bruises and layers of mud. The peaceful mask of her face now totally concealed her insanity. El Shabrawi noticed that her gown was torn and her thigh was showing through. He covered her up and looked away. Then he turned to the Sheikh and engaged in an endless rambling conversation with him until the latter fell asleep.

  As the dark and the silence grew, and the saint’s followers bundled up and lay snoring by the wall like tired monkeys at the end of a long day, El Shabrawi realized his angry mood had left him. He couldn’t recall the exact moment when it had happened; he settled down, resigning himself to the snoring that rose all around him, nearly raising the saint from the dead.

  Although it had been a long day and he was worn out by the journey and all he had gone through, he decided to sit up through the night. He could hardly wait for daylight to come as he dozed fitfully, his eyes never leaving the big clock in the square.

  On the dot of seven he was standing in the Governorate building waiting for the doctor and shooing away the
crowd that had collected like flies. Zebeida meanwhile was sustaining a new barrage of trilling-cries. Finally the doctor arrived, and after many ordeals El Shabrawi and Zebeida were conducted to his presence. He turned her papers over and scribbled something.

  “Take her to the Kasr el Eini to be put under observation.”

  They withdrew and, hopping again from one tram to another, found their way to Kasr el Eini. There, he stopped a man for information but got no answer. Another looked at Zebeida and walked on. Finally an old nurse showed them the way to the outpatient clinic.

  The doctor in charge listened patiently to Zebeida calling for the Omdah’s downfall and long life for the President. And he laughed long and heartily as he questioned her and she ranted in reply. El Shabrawi looked on hopefully, beaming with pleasure, seeing they were getting on so well. But the doctor at last put on a serious expression and informed them there was no room in the observation department. He put that in writing on the papers.

  “Where do I go now?” asked El Shabrawi, his soul about to leap from his breast.

  “Back to the Governorate.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  The entire globe seemed to weigh on his head as he walked out of the building. Thoughts of murder returned. He would kill the lot. Zebeida, the doctors, the lot, and then he would feign insanity and that would be all. But it was only a fleeting notion.

  He trekked back to the Governorate building and arrived gasping for breath. The doctor turned the papers over and asked El Shabrawi if they had brought a relative with them. His heart sank as he said they hadn’t. The doctor explained that the hospital forms could not be filled out except in the presence of a relative. He must take her back where they came from.

  El Shabrawi paled.