The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul

by Sandor Jaszberenyi

  “Do you want some?” he asked.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “They’re betting for the boy 3:1,” he said, his mouth full.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “That’s not so good,” he added. “Soon there won’t be anyone to take him on.”

  He shouted out to the yard for Amr, and the boy appeared at the door in a minute.

  “At your service, Mr. Ramzi.”

  “Sit down. Abu khoaga has of course already told you that you’ll be fighting tonight, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Abdelkader’s boy is good. I’ve seen him fight.”

  “I know him, sir.”

  “Can you beat him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve got a lot of money on this fight.”

  “Don’t you worry, sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

  “Fine, then. Go and get ready.”

  Amr nodded and went out.

  “The match begins at nine tonight. Now I’ll go bet on the boy. The two of you should be there by eight.”

  The nighttime prayer, the Isha, found us already on the road to the Bahtak. The speakers on the mosque walls distorted the muezzin’s voice, which reverberated in false notes and incomprehensibly off the crypts. The sun was setting behind the Mokattam Hills. The boulders were red, the sky was red, the starlings zigzagging among the houses were red. Amr was running in place beside me to warm up his muscles. We didn’t talk. I watched the ground under my feet, the sewage-swollen mud, and my shoes, whose original color I would have been at a loss to say. There was no public lighting in the alleyways. The locals burned trash at the end of the road, and the air was heavy with the odor of burning plastic.

  After passing the café where I’d had a coffee that morning with Ramzi, we turned left, and there was the alleyway leading to the Bahtak. Two mongrels were again hanging from the walls. Fresh kills.

  “Why do they hang out dogs?” I asked Amr.

  “Because it’s custom.”

  People were gathering on the square, and the usual oil barrels had already been set up to create the ring. Ramzi waved to us from the other side of the square.

  “You got here just in time.”

  “What happens next?” I asked Ramzi.

  “Soon they’ll signal that the betting will begin. Meanwhile the boys will stand in among the barrels. Can I ask you for a favor, Abu khoaga?”

  “What?”

  From his pocket Ramzi pulled a roll of sterile gauze and a roll of tape.

  “Would you put the bandages on Amr while I go around and talk with those I’ve bet with?”

  “Sure.”

  I waved to Amr for us to stand off to the side somewhere where I would be able to see something too. We stood beside one of the burning heaps of trash, opposite the wind to keep the smoke from descending on us. The fire’s light drew our shadows on the wall. Amr took off his T-shirt, deferentially extended his arm, and I began wrapping the gauze.

  “Aren’t you anxious?” I asked.

  ‘No, sir,” he replied.

  “Not even a little nervous?”

  “No, sir. I wasn’t born to be beaten.”

  I paused with wrapping the gauze.

  “Then what were you born for?”

  “I don’t know that. All I know is what I wasn’t born for.”

  “That isn’t bad for a start.”

  I resumed the job. Having finished with his right hand, I pulled out a length of tape to secure the gauze. I took the switchblade from my pocket and used it to cut off the strips.

  “May I ask something, sir?”

  “Ask.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I have time.”

  “You don’t belong here.”

  “That’s not certain.”

  “But it is, completely certain. Don’t you have a family?”

  “I did,” I said, and finished his left hand.

  “What happened to them?”

  “They died. Now go.”

  Amr headed off, slipping between the oil barrels and stopping in the middle of the ring. The crowd began getting boisterous, some people clapping and others shrieking, as do married women at weddings in the Middle East. Finally, the other boy, too, got in the ring. He was just as tall as Amr, but a good bit heavier. He didn’t seem weak; one look at his arms made it clear that he was used to manual labor. The two children stood up beside each other in silence, not even looking at each other while the betting was underway. For several long minutes they just stood there without a word, and then a silver-haired old man with crooked teeth, using the same board that had signaled the start of the betting, once again hit one of the barrels. The onlookers fell silent.

  “May Allah decide which one of you is better,” said the old man. The two children locked eyes and began circling each other.

  The pudgy boy swung his right hand. Amr dodged it and replied at once. His left hand cracked against the boy’s forehead. The crowd began raving, urging the boys to show no mercy. Though Amr’s punch was by no means strong, the other boy was clearly consumed by rage. He charged toward Amr, intending not to hit him but to take him to the ground. The momentum sent both boys at one of the barrels, which lurched before the crowd set it back in place along with the fighters. The pudgy boy pummeled Amr’s torso with both his hands. He got in at least six blows before Amr drove an elbow full-force into his nose, sending him flying out of the corner. He fell on his back but got right back up. Blood started flowing from his nose, and the spectacle sent the crowd into a hoopla.

  Again, the other boy surged toward Amr, who was, however, counting on it. Stepping out of his way, he hooked his right foot between the other boy’s legs and struck him in the face with his right hand. The momentum sent the pudgy boy even further now, headbutting the barrel and dropping flat on the ground.

  “That’s my boy!” Ramzi howled.

  Turning toward Ramzi, Amr raised his hands in the air.

  He heard the crowd’s cautionary murmurs all too late. The pudgy boy, taking advantage of Amr’s distraction, grabbed a wooden board from among the barrels and struck Amr with it in the side so hard that it broke in his hand. Amr toppled over from the blow, pressed a hand to his side, and spat blood. The crowd took to hooting and hollering, with some flinging rocks and trash at the pudgy boy, who dropped what remained of the board from his hand and shouted, “Stand up!”

  Amr got to his feet. The crowd then fell silent. Someone called out, “Kill him, Little Lion!”

  Holding both his hands high, the pudgy boy headed toward Amr. Pressing his left hand to his side all the while, Amr took a couple of uncertain steps backward, and when the pudgy boy got within striking distance, he tried defending himself. The pudgy boy again took to pummeling Amr’s torso. Pain shot through Amr’s eyes after every single blow. Amr managed to shove the pudgy boy backward and get in a weak punch on his face. This was just enough for the pudgy boy to lose his balance and fall backward. Amr didn’t hesitate for a moment. He fired away at the boy on the ground with precise, mighty blows. The first sent the boy reeling backward just as he was again rising to his feet, while the other two ensured that he would stay down. The crowd was raving, but Amr didn’t bother with that, and he let down his hands only when he was sure the pudgy boy would not be standing up again.

  “My boy!” Ramzi howled with a full mouth, and with a self-satisfied grin he set off to collect the money from those who’d placed bets. Amr silently climbed out of the ring. His eyes searched for me, and when he saw me, he came my way. He didn’t bother with the people slapping his shoulders and congratulating him, saying things like, “You’re a real lion” and “There’s no one in Cairo who could beat you.” On reaching me, he extended his hands for me to cut off the bandages. I took out the knife and first cut the gauze of his left hand when I noticed the suffusion of blood under his skin. It covered the whole of his left side.

  “Doesn’t it hurt when you take
a breath?” I asked.

  “A little.”

  “A couple of your ribs might have broken.”

  By the time I finished cutting off the bandages, Ramzi appeared as well, with a wide grin and fat wad of money comprising 100-genēh notes. He was happy, virtually walking on air.

  “This is yours, boy,” he said, counting out seven hundred genēhs into the kid’s hand.

  “But this is two hundred pounds more than what we agreed on, sir,” said Amr, with wide eyes.

  “No problem, you deserve it. You fought like a lion.”

  “You are really generous, sir. I really thank you for what you do for me.”

  “Abu khoaga, tonight we’re celebrating!”

  “Did the Bedouins arrive?”

  “Not yet, but this was really a good day. Come on, you two.”

  We headed toward the crypt.

  Along the way Ramzi stopped at a food stand, shouted inside, and ordered a kilogram of koftas and rice. By the time we got home, they’d already delivered it.

  We sat in the big room, on the floor, eating. We dipped the koftas in tahini and washed it down with cola. Ramzi really was in a good mood. He put meat, salad, and rice on one plastic plate, and called to Amr to give it to his sister. I wasn’t hungry; I just poked about in the food.

  “Abu khoaga, you are already waiting for Abu Salam,” said Ramzi through a grin.

  “What was that?”

  “For the father of peace.”

  “Yes,” I said, realizing he was thinking of the opium.

  “And here you are,” said Ramzi, removing from his djellaba the plastic bag in which he kept his personal supply of raw opium. He took out a bit and put it in my hand. I stared at the moist, red opium before placing it under my tongue.

  “Do you want some, too?” said Ramzi, turning to Amr. Amr stood up, but the movement clearly hurt him, since he immediately pressed a hand to his side.

  “What, sir?”

  “Opium. It brings lovely dreams.”

  He held the bag out toward Amr, but I pushed Ramzi’s arm aside.

  “You don’t need this, boy,” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t he?” asked Ramzi, smirking.

  “Because it’s those who don’t have dreams who eat this.”

  The boy looked at Ramzi before then giving a wave of the hand to say thanks but no thanks.

  “No problem,” said Ramzi with a hearty laugh. “More remains for the dreamless.” He stuffed his share into his mouth.

  I climb up a hill toward a tent encampment under the Milky Way. Not as if I ever did know much about the nighttime sky, but the stars now glimmering above me are just like milk spilled on black fabric.

  Gypsy encampment, I think on noticing tents pitched on top of the hill. The sort one still sees in rural reaches of Eastern Europe. Carnival carts piled high with bric-a-brac and human beings. When they wander, an entire people moves its destitution from one place to another. But they are not wandering. The tents are staked, the tarps stretched tight.

  Over stamped-down earth I walk upward toward the camp. Millennia have perhaps passed since I last heard a human voice. Of course, it is anything but certain that I will find people up there. In this desert anything can happen. If I do encounter any, it’s possible they will be only reminiscent of the humans they once were, once, before moving into the desert. Now they savor the nighttime music of the jackals.

  The destitute draw in each other under the Milky Way; fucked-up lives light up for other fucked-up lives, like lighthouses on the sea.

  As I ascend along the stamped-down earth, I pass the first cart. Little kids are sleeping inside. I see their filthy little heads, feet, hands. I see a blazing fire in the middle of the encampment, flames shooting high, people standing in their shadows, two women in the light, dancing around the fire, tambourines in their hands, bells on their feet. Light gathers in their naked navels.

  “You did come, after all,” they say on seeing me, their bodies still shaking about.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” say toothless old people from the shadows as I reach the fire.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because you have business here.”

  “What sort?”

  The two dancing girls smile and wave their hands for me to follow them. They head off, flames flaring up on both sides of their tracks in the wake of their tinkering steps. They lead me all the way to a chasm we come upon suddenly at the edge of the hill. It is deep and seemingly bottomless, like despair. I am not alone here, at this precipice, but surrounded by faces from many nations, people flinging their things over the edge. I watch this lovely jettisoning of possessions under the milky stars and I have nothing to say. The two dancing girls don’t stop dancing for even a moment. They beat their tambourines and drum with their feet, providing the rhythm to the discarding of all those things. As I stand and watch, a cold sweat draws patterns on the back of my shirt.

  The dancing girls turn to me and smile, revealing their gold teeth.

  “Now it’s your turn,” they say. “The time has come.”

  A wizened old man steps forward from the dark, holding a small child he now hands to me.

  “Who is this?” I ask.

  “He’s dead,” they say. “And if he’s not, after all, throw him down all the same. Because you can’t do anything for him, anyway.”

  I look at the blond little boy. He is asleep in my hands. Or really dead? It occurs to me that if I throw him away, I really won’t have anything left.

  “If you don’t throw him away,” says the old man, “you’ll be the one plummeting into the dark.”

  The wind whistles in my ears as the lights fade into the distance.

  The sand grated between my teeth. I lay on my belly, my face buried in the filthy mattress. I was parched. Noticing the previous day’s bottle of cola in the corner, I reached over, picked it up, and unscrewed the cap. Not much more than a gulp was left at the bottom; it was warm, and the fizz was gone, but at least it washed the sand out of my teeth. I reached into my pocket to check the time on my phone, which had, however, lost its charge.

  I stood up. My trousers sloshed about on me. I wanted to tighten the belt, but there were no more holes to do so with, so I raised the whole thing toward my belly. Since my insomnia had begun, I’d lost nearly a quarter of my weight.

  It was quiet in the yard of the crypt; not a thing was stirring. Dizzy, I sat down on the ground. Pulling a cigarette from my pocket, I lit it. I thought, Life is actually wonderful as long as you can sleep normally. I turned my attention to a green carrion-fly as it landed on my hand and rubbed its legs together. The clunking of the metal door roused me from my brooding. Someone was pounding away at the door. I tried to look but couldn’t see a thing and hadn’t the slightest intention of opening the gate. No one would be looking for me here, that much was certain.

  Whoever it was kept pounding away until Amr finally emerged. He was shirtless, a huge purple splotch on his side. He took slow, measured steps, drew the latch, and pulled the door wide open. Standing there was Mohamed Gamal, with whom we’d been sitting at the café along with Ramzi.

  “Assalamu Aleykum Arrahmatulla,” said Gamal.

  “Va Alaykum salam,” said Amr. “Mr. Ramzi isn’t home.”

  “No problem. In fact, it’s you I’m looking for, Little Lion. May I come in?”

  Amr opened the door even wider and Gamal stepped inside.

  “Come, let’s sit down,” said Gamal, taking out a cigarette. “Want one?”

  “I don’t smoke, sir.”

  “That’s good. It’s not healthy.”

  He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. I could hear the tobacco frizzling. For a few moments they sat beside each other in silence.

  “You know, the Palestinian is my man.”

  “I know.”

  “Soon he’ll be taken away to the army. I’d like you to come over to me, fight for me. You could be the champion in all of Araf. I’d pay you very
well.”

  “I fight for Mr. Ramzi.”

  “I don’t know how much Ramzi pays you, but I’ll double it.”

  “It’s not about money. He saved our lives.”

  “Oh, come now. Ramzi is a scoundrel. He doesn’t do a thing out of the kindness of his heart.”

  “Get out of here, sir,” said Amr, standing up. Gamal followed.

  “You don’t get it. If you don’t work for me, you’ll have to take on the Palestinian, who will kill you. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Alright, then, son of a dog, have it your way. I’ll have it arranged for you by tomorrow.”

  “Get out.”

  Gamal headed toward the gate and went out, but turned around on the street.

  “I’ll be laughing my head off as I watch you drowning in your own blood, you little shit.”

  Amr locked the gate and headed back toward the hovel he and his little sister lived in. I could hear her whimpering from within.

  “I don’t want you to die and drown in your own blood,” she said through her tears.

  “No one will kill me, Emira, don’t be scared. Allah won’t allow it.”

  “Good, then.”

  I stood up and went to the yard. The sun blinded me completely; colored circles flitted about before my eyes. I stepped over to the barrel to wash off, but as I dipped the watering can inside and lifted it out, the world began spinning around me. I fell flat like a log. I have no idea how long I was out cold, but on coming to I saw Amr leaning above me and wiping my face with a wet rag.

  “Are you alright, sir?” he asked. “I thought you had gone with Mr. Ramzi.”

  “I was sleeping,” I said. “I forgot to eat, that’s all. I need to eat something.”

  I sat up and then stood. The dizziness had not passed.

  “I’m off for a bite to eat,” I said.

  Amr nodded.

  “How is your side?” I asked.

  “It hurts. Especially when I move.”

  “It’ll be better in a week or two.”

  “Inshallah.”

  I stumbled out the gate and went down the alleyway all the way to the first food stand. It had been fashioned out of a garage; grease had burned black onto the big cauldrons. They were frying falafels in a huge pan; the oil was already brown. I asked for two geneihs’ worth, and the clerk wrapped it in newspaper. Forcing myself to eat, I took the falafel into my mouth, started chewing, and swallowed. After the first two bites I thought I would throw it up, but I managed to get hold of myself.