The Queue

by Basma Abdel Aziz

  Shalaby was still angry with Ines for what she’d said about his cousin Mahfouz; she’d insulted him, and Shalaby had been waiting to get his revenge. Her words hadn’t left his mind, and he gnashed his teeth in anguish as he remembered their conversation. He blamed himself for not giving her the response she deserved, and now he felt as though his words were tainted. Every time he told his story he glanced around, looking for her, afraid she would butt in like last time, ruining it and turning him into the laughingstock of the queue.

  He had to admit that she’d really riled him from the moment he had arrived in the queue, even if she was only a woman. She was just one person out of dozens, hundreds even, one against a whole village, but she was still just a woman—and one who didn’t know her place. She thought she was so smart, but he knew more than she did. He had heard things from behind the scenes, from people who knew things, that the young man Mahfouz had killed had been a believer, who’d prayed and fasted and went to mosque on Fridays, and that he probably wasn’t a rioter, just a passerby. But surely Mahfouz hadn’t known this. They said that the young man had been on his way to work, but Mahfouz had also been working, just obeying orders. Mahfouz had wanted nothing more than to complete his service as soon as he could and return home; his cousins had moved recently, and he planned to join them.

  Yehya arrived at the queue as Shalaby was returning from the coffee shop. Despite the pain, he felt blissful. In his mind he held the first gentle smile that had crossed Amani’s lips since she’d disappeared. Now that he’d seen her, he felt a faint flickering of hope suddenly glowing inside him, giving him the will to keep fighting. She’d agreed to see him again and now the world was different, almost brighter. True, she hadn’t revealed anything new or confessed what pained her, or eased his concerns about how wary she had become. If anything, she’d confirmed his fears that he wouldn’t find out what had happened to her, at least not until the Gate opened and resolved this overwhelming situation. But she’d given him permission to visit her at work, and that was all that mattered. Even if only rarely, he could be near her again. Next time, they would have cinnamon tea together, with milk, just the way she liked it. They’d go out to dinner like they used to do, and he wouldn’t say so much, to stop time rushing by as it had today. He would let her tell him this secret when she wanted to, without pressuring her.

  Suddenly, Shalaby’s rough hand reached out in front of Yehya, startling him, rupturing his reverie. Shalaby was fishing out leaflets from his old frayed leather bag and distributing them to everyone around him. Yehya saw that it was an article photocopied from The Truth. Ehab grabbed one eagerly, and another landed in Um Mabrouk’s hands, but when she realized that there weren’t any pictures she could understand, she passed it to Ines, who had become so skittish lately that she flinched. When Ines realized that everyone else was holding the same thing, she accepted a copy cautiously. “MASTERMIND OF THE DISGRACEFUL EVENTS DISCOVERED!” was the article’s dramatic headline. There weren’t enough papers to go around, so the woman with the short hair volunteered to read a few lines to everyone who had gathered.

  It has been revealed that a foreign individual, who was accused of terrorism in his home nation and sentenced in absentia to life imprisonment, entered the country several months ago. Assisted by operatives, ingrates, and fools, he plotted to stir up unrest and destroy the trust between the Gate and the people. It has been reported that this foreign instigator succumbed to a fatal injury last week, before his wicked schemes were accomplished, leaving no information behind. Extensive investigations are now underway to determine the extent of this man’s involvement in the Disgraceful Events, as he is believed to have been responsible for the gunfire witnessed in the square during that time.

  Shalaby weaved around the queue to see what reaction the leaflets were getting. He darted here and there, rereading the article: it claimed that the Quell Force, which included the branch that Mahfouz had belonged to, hadn’t shot anyone; the Disgraceful Events were simply a conspiracy hatched by some cowardly foreigners and a few measly traitors who had orchestrated the Events by planting seeds of discord among people, intentionally trying to divide them. These traitors and foreigners had framed the guard units (guards like his cousin, thought Shalaby) for the deaths that had occurred during the Events, and then vanished before anyone could suspect them. These conspirators had a long history of concocting plots and schemes just like this one, but God was just, and so their role in the Events had been revealed.

  The truth has finally emerged, thought Shalaby, pleased with this new version of events. This meant that Mahfouz was blameless, not guilty of any wrongdoing. It was those rabble-rousers who’d crossed the line, and his cousin the martyr had simply taught them a lesson—using his truncheon. He’d used it before, nearly every day, and according to the experts, truncheon blows never result in death. Mahfouz had had nothing to do with the casualties from the Events, Shalaby told himself; his cousin had probably never even fired a shot. What’s more, he thought, it was possible that Mahfouz hadn’t even been carrying his truncheon at the time.

  Shalaby now had the proof to defend his cousin. Even if skeptics claimed that Mahfouz had fired his gun—and even if he had—now they knew that a foreign spy had been shooting, too, so who could say which bullets belonged to whom? Shalaby couldn’t verify it himself; he hadn’t seen Mahfouz’s gun and didn’t know whether it was missing a bullet. But he’d heard from other guards that no one had found the bullet that people claimed had penetrated the man’s skull. The man had been taken to a military hospital and the doctors tried to save his life, they’d even opened up his head. But the doctors said they hadn’t removed any bullets—not from the man, not from anyone.

  At any rate, the real culprit had finally emerged, and investigations being conducted at that very moment would definitely prove that Shalaby was right. Mahfouz’s family deserved a pension, compensation, and recognition. Shalaby’s imagination ran wild as he thought about what he would ask for when he got to the Gate. He dreamed of building a memorial in their hometown with the names of all the martyrs, and Mahfouz at the top of the list, so people would always remember that he had died a hero.

  Shalaby returned to his place behind Ines and stood there triumphantly, like a military general just back from victory in battle. He puffed out his chest, thoroughly pleased with himself and his new position as the cousin of a martyr. With this newspaper, he had finally been given justice. He’d been watching Ines the whole time he was distributing leaflets, and he’d observed her face carefully to see how she reacted to the news. Even while discussing it with other people, he’d made sure to keep her in view. He’d finally had his say and shut her up for good. After today, he thought, there was no way she’d dare question Mahfouz’s honor, or accuse him of turning on his countrymen, or claim that he’d killed someone. She hadn’t said a single word. Maybe she’d realized how wrong she was. Maybe she would apologize to him in front of everyone, Shalaby thought eagerly, just as she’d mocked him in front of them all before.

  After Ines read the article, her fears multiplied. She knew that her conversation with Shalaby had been recorded: she’d made accusations, called for justice for people she knew were untouchable, and crossed the biggest line. She was definitely going to be arrested, she thought, now that this foreign instigator had been discovered. If anyone found out what she’d said, she’d be charged with spreading lies. They would accuse her of colluding with him, and maybe Shalaby would add the charge that she’d tarnished his cousin’s reputation. She was sure to be convicted, and new evidence would probably appear proving that she was connected in some way or another to this “foreign hand,” who of course wouldn’t be at trial to deny it, since he was dead. She wouldn’t just lose her job, or be disappeared for a while; she’d spend the rest of her life in prison, and all the flyers in the world wouldn’t be able to help.

  Was the paper that Um Mabrouk had stumbled upon the only record of that conversation, and had she unintenti
onally recovered it? Maybe she should take all possibilities into consideration and search for a lawyer among the people in the queue.

  Amid all the debates and discussions that Shalaby had sparked, not a single person was aware of her predicament. She stood firm in her place, nervously fidgeting with her new, more conservative attire, making sure that her neck and hair were completely covered. Then she went to the man in the galabeya to ask if she could use his phone, claiming that hers had broken when she’d accidentally dropped it on the ground.

  Nagy grabbed Yehya’s arm and dragged him away from the people who had gathered around Shalaby and his leaflets. Nagy wasn’t concerned with Mahfouz or whether or not he’d actually shot someone. Something in the article had roused a question in his mind. The newspaper acknowledged that bullets had been fired during the Disgraceful Events—did that mean the Gate also acknowledged that people had been injured by gunfire? Or was it still covering that up? The wording was so vague that they had nothing to grasp. They didn’t spend long discussing what this might mean for them, and just agreed to forge ahead with their plan, unswayed. Yehya knew where the bullet moving around in his pelvis came from, he’d seen who shot him, and nothing could deny or change that, not as long as he was still alive.

  Um Mabrouk gradually secured more space for her stand and set up two plastic chairs in front of her, as well as a big rock she’d dragged over from the sidewalk opposite. With a young man’s help, she turned it on its side to make a little table and put out drinks for her favorite customers. She told Mabrouk to collect the newspapers and magazines that people left at the coffee shop, on the street, and around the Booth every day. She also had him collect things that people in the queue didn’t need—anything that could provide a bit of distraction and entertainment. She told him to ask around at the front of the queue in particular, as that was where the more distinguished and wealthier people stood.

  The woman with the short hair settled next to Um Mabrouk, figuring that the constant flow of customers would be a good opportunity to recruit for the campaign. Her discussions with customers went further, branching out beyond the Violet Telecom boycott to address people’s livelihoods and other issues that were affecting them. Meanwhile, her radio, which had been on constantly since she’d arrived, remained a steadfast source of news.

  Little discussion groups sprang up and slowly grew larger, frequented by students, lecturers, and ideologues alike. Soon they became social meeting points that attracted everyone with a desire to hear and debate the latest on the Gate, or with questions on more distant developments. Um Mabrouk’s gathering place became the mouth of a river that filled the queue with news and rumors. Sometimes they were invented from within and shipped upstream, while other times the queue accepted rumors arriving from far-off places. Either way, they inevitably churned through Um Mabrouk’s stand before being passed along.

  Um Mabrouk soon put all her skills to use to invent a series of excuses and apologies to defend the woman with the short hair, and evade the threats from the man in the galabeya. He harassed her relentlessly now that the woman with the short hair had attracted an audience whose size rivaled—sometimes even exceeded—that of his own weekly lessons. Several times he advised Um Mabrouk to distance herself from the woman and to stop providing space for her meetings, and when she didn’t obey him, he berated and shamed her, and ordered her to throw the woman out right away. But Um Mabrouk—who had raised nearly enough money for her daughter’s treatment—was unshakable and faced him brazenly, refusing to get rid of her new friend. Encouraged by the people around her, she disobeyed him and got rid of her free phone, and bought a cheap one instead. When he realized how outright rebellious she was being, and that she was no longer under his control, he forbade her from attending his weekly lesson. Gathering for any purpose other than to pray and understand religion was hateful, he repeatedly announced; it caused people to lose God’s favor, brought His wrath upon them, and was tantamount to apostasy.

  But despite the best efforts of the woman with the short hair, a few months later the Violet Telecom boycott campaign waned. The issue was hard for people to fathom, especially as fewer and fewer citizens had been disappearing recently. Yet there remained a prevailing belief that a new wave of disappearances was yet to come, and people stayed on their guard. They left their phones in empty rooms at home, afraid that their important or revealing conversations would be transmitted, and kept their calls to short social pleasantries, congratulations, and condolences. No one was able to change phone networks to avoid such precautionary measures. Again and again other networks explained that they were completely subscribed and couldn’t take on any more customers. Meanwhile, Violet Telecom continued to hold its lottery twice a month, and no one ever heard of someone who’d won a free phone declining it.

  Under Um Mabrouk’s protection, the woman with the short hair strengthened her popularity and defied a string of threats and countless fervent prayers from the man in the galabeya. He had singled her out in group prayers, claiming that the path she’d chosen led to an abyss of corruption, and that she was planting seeds of evil among people by urging them to think, and ask questions, and engage in other such undesirable activities. But she paid him no attention. Instead she developed a daily program: she would take all the flyers that Um Mabrouk collected, decide which news was the most important (anything to do with the Gate came first, of course), and then mark those in red for people who could read, and read them aloud to those who could not.

  One day, in a departure from this routine, she spent the morning reading out corrections and clarifications in The Truth. Apparently, investigations had revealed that the foreigner previously accused of orchestrating the Disgraceful Events was a medical officer implicated in certain war crimes. He had fled his homeland years ago and reappeared here, changed his religion, married, and settled down under a new name in District 11. He’d stayed out of political activities and hostilities, despite what he’d done in his own country under a powerful regime that fell shortly after he left. The piece added that his embassy had released a statement stating that his country’s judiciary had halted prosecution after confirming that he had died a natural death. After the judiciary’s arms had searched for him for half a century, the man’s case had been closed. This brief redaction took up just a few lines at the bottom of the second-to-last page, while the front page was plastered with a large headline about spies in the country and an article on the long history of unrest that they had stirred up while undercover.

  The truth was clear for all to see, and Shalaby was thrown into confusion. His pride was broken, his shoulders sagged, and he didn’t say another word about his story, though before that day he’d never tired of rehashing the details, which few people were actually interested in. At noon, he gathered his resolve and, despite their history, asked Ines to save his place for him. She immediately agreed, without asking any questions. In those brief hours, he seemed to have changed from his usual self, so much so that she pitied him. His voice had become hollow, his face was filled with weariness, even shame.

  But she didn’t delight in his sorrow as he had in hers. Shalaby, she’d discovered from people around them, was down on his luck; he and his family and his cousin’s family desperately needed a steady income to escape the landowner’s threats and intimidation. Yet she also knew that this wasn’t the only reason he was waiting to process his paperwork at the Gate. He had once confessed to her that he deeply wished to bring his family a title that was worth something, something that would make them glorious and renowned in their poor little town, something to put them on a par with the landowner.

  He had arrived an optimistic braggart and was now dejected and confused. He was uncertain of what to do, just as she was, and like her was overcome by a slew of calamities that had arrived one after the next. In her case, it was all thanks to her loose lips and a tongue she couldn’t keep in check. She hadn’t been like this before coming to the queue, not at all. Something frightening had
come over her here, changing her; she never used to talk back to anyone or pick fights, and had never delved into others’ affairs. Now she was the complete opposite. The strange thing was that after each slip of the tongue, she vowed she would go back to her usual self—quiet, introverted, and reserved—but then she would break her own promise the first chance she got. She was relieved to hear the correction in the newspaper; at least the person actually responsible for killing people during the Events had still not been identified. The matter had not yet been resolved, so what she’d said about Mahfouz and Shalaby and the other guards could still be proven right and beyond reproach. But she realized that there was no one to protect or defend her if disaster struck in the meantime. What friends did she have here in times of need, with this mouth of hers that would only get her into more trouble?

  Later that afternoon, the woman with the short hair read out another piece from The Truth with a sarcastic smile. There was an unusual ad in the Help Wanted section about a new department in the Booth. It said anyone seeking employment there should submit their paperwork, including certificates and permits from their university and the Gate, and would undergo a personal interview within a week. It included an address where applications should be sent by registered mail: The Gate’s Booth, Communications Department, Behind the Restricted Zone. Nagy chuckled when he heard it, and told the woman that this was by far the strangest ad she’d read yet; there were no job summary, candidate profile, responsibilities, requirements, or conditions. Yet even so, it was an attractive government job with a steady salary and holiday allowance. He still hadn’t heard back from the translation department; as usual, his checkered past kept him from being hired anywhere. He considered submitting an application to this new department, not because he thought he had a shot at the job but just to spite the hiring committee. They would certainly be surprised by his file and his nerve at applying for any job, much less this one. He waved at Ehab when he saw him approaching and told him about his idea, but Ehab surprised him by saying that he was going to submit an application, too. Ehab lowered his voice to say that he suspected the ad might be connected to the phone-tapping operation. They still didn’t know the extent of the surveillance or how long it would continue, and they could get no information about those who’d vanished, although the disappearances were becoming less frequent.