The Day the Leader Was Killed

  “Ask your guest to stay for dinner with us.”

  “That’s an order!” said Anwar Allam.

  Dinner consisted of grilled meat, diverse salads, cheese, and olives, followed by custard pudding and apples. As we were having dinner, I could hear Anwar Allam saying:

  “I handle her affairs, for she has inherited from her husband two buildings and investment certificates.”

  I was struck by the fact that he wanted to let me know what she actually owned. I imagined more than one reason for his doing so. Then—on a compassionate note—he went on to tell her all about the problems involved in my engagement.

  “This is how it is for an entire generation.”

  “What makes matters worse is that Elwan is a man of principles!” said the man.

  “It’s wonderful to hear that. To have principles is the most important thing in the world,” she said with admiration.

  Her tone is indubitably sincere. I find her most attractive. I turn into gunpowder when I’m excited. I really do have problems this way.

  “My sister is perfect from all points of view except for one thing on which we disagree, and that is, her turning down more than one good offer of marriage,” said Anwar.

  “I’m not to be bought and sold. Besides, those are not men,” she said calmly.

  “A woman’s fortune is a legitimate asset, and this shouldn’t be taken against the man as long as he gives her her due, and then there are all the other advantages,” remarked Anwar Allam.

  “No man is to be trusted nowadays,” said Madame Gulstan.

  “Excuse me, sir, but why are you still not married?” I asked my boss in an attempt to change the subject.

  “For many reasons,” he answered somewhat vaguely.

  “He’s wrong, for he could easily get married,” added Gulstan, noticing that he hadn’t mentioned a single reason.

  He then went on to ask me about my family and Randa’s. My answers were frank but curt.

  “Randa is a wonderful girl but time is getting the better of her,” he said.

  A stab, and what a stab! Was it deliberate or accidental? Anyway, it ruined the evening for me. Neither did things get any better when Gulstan said:

  “One’s real age is measured in terms of love.”

  I left the house, furious at the man and roused by his sister.

  Randa Sulayman Mubarak

  Anwar Allam signed the letters I had translated and I was on the point of leaving when he leaned back on his swivel chair and said:

  “Miss Randa, I have a story that will interest you.”

  I wonder what it is?

  “She was a young doctor engaged for many years to a colleague of hers, also a doctor. They despaired of ever getting married and broke off their engagement. She then married a rich merchant from Wikalat al-Balah and consented to stay at home as a simple housewife,” he said.

  “Why do you think this story would interest me?” I asked him calmly, although I was both astounded and indignant.

  “What do you think of this woman doctor?” he asked me, ignoring my question.

  “I can’t judge someone about whose circumstances I know nothing,” I answered somewhat dryly.

  “I consider her smart: better a housewife than a doctor who’s a spinster!”

  I took leave of him with a look of utter indignation. He eyed me covetously in a way that simply cannot be ignored. In fact, he’s a burden on us both—Elwan and me.

  On Friday morning, we went to the Pyramids Resthouse. That was after his visit to Anwar Allam. It’s truly cold but the sun is out, and here we are looking from up above onto the city, which looks great, calm, and vast, as though free from worries and dirt.

  “How was your visit to the Right Honorable Director?” I asked as we were having our tea.

  He told me all about it in some detail and succeeded in ruining that lovely morning for me.

  “It doesn’t seem to have been much of a business call,” I said.

  “But we did work for three consecutive hours.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said defiantly.

  “He’s a nerve-wracking person,” he said angrily.

  “And his sister?”

  “Poised and reasonable. I respect her as one would one’s own mother.”

  “And did she treat you as a son?” I asked, laughing coldly.

  “Randa, am I being accused and tried?” he inquired on a note of protest.

  “God forbid!” I retorted quickly.

  I then told him what had gone on between us in his office. He frowned and cried out, “I shall ask him not to interfere in what doesn’t concern him.”

  “It would be wiser to simply ignore him so that the relationship between you both does not deteriorate,” I pleaded.

  “The problem is that my position vis-à-vis you is weak, and I don’t know how to defend it,” he said resentfully.

  “You’re not being accused and I’m not asking you to put up a defense,” I said gently.

  “I’m responsible for this and I feel unhappy.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “But he’s a miserable wretch, and is clearly up to something.”

  “Disregard him and his cheap, vile ways.”

  We grew silent for a while, seeking refuge in nature until I could hear his plaintive voice saying:

  “It’s as though we’ve forgotten all about love.”

  “We don’t need more of it,” I said, concealing my own unhappiness.

  “I love you,” he said, casting a look of desire in my direction.

  “I love you,” I said, touched to the core.

  “I wonder what grand adventure is in store for us now that we’re in need of money?” he remarked, perplexed.

  “Maybe you’ll discover you have the talent of a young premier on the screen?” I said, smiling.

  “How about you? Have you tested your voice, even if only under the shower?” We laughed in spite of our worries.

  “The problem isn’t just one of salary; it’s a problem of both key money and furniture,” he said.

  “Al-Mahruqi simply got married, but he’s living in a camp with his sect,” he continued after a period of silence.

  I imagined the camp and his life as though it were fiction, not fact. In spite of this, my heart went out to him. A simple tent but one suffused with love. I was overwhelmed by a certain feeling of tenderness.

  “I want you more than anything else in this world,” he said, echoing my own yearnings and desires.

  I have always had self-control, ever since I was very young. I have always triumphed over my indomitable desires. The experiences I have witnessed at close quarters have not marked me. I have conservative views on freedom, and I have not been ruffled by the usual sarcastic jibes at my expense: reactionary, unprogressive. Neither have I been spared unhappiness.

  Muhtashimi Zayed

  Last night, I beheld, as in a dream, our master Abu Dharr. Worship endows me with a certain clarity of vision. But because I love the world, I cannot cross over to the other side. I am suddenly reminded of the following story: Muhammad Ibn al-Attar said: “Sheikh Muhammad Rahin one day asked me: ‘What is your heart like?’ When I mentioned this to our master Shah Naqshaband, who was standing there, he suddenly stepped on my foot and I fainted. In my state of unconsciousness, I was made to see all of existence concentrated in my heart. When I came to, he said: ‘If the heart is thus, how could it possibly be fathomed?’ That is why we are told in the Hadith: ‘Neither can my earth or sky contain me. But the heart of my faithful worshiper can.’ ”

  When I recall this story, I cannot help envying the saints and yearning for miracles. But here I stand on the brink of Sufism, clinging on to the joys of worship, content that it is there at the very heart of God’s world. My calm, contemplative vision bathes in the light of the Giver. Neither do I regret the stages of life through which I have passed, for each stage has bestowed upon me its own particular light. Do unto
the world as though you were to live forever, and unto the hereafter as though you were to die tomorrow.

  Around noontime, the doorbell rings. Who is it? Today isn’t Umm Ali’s day. I open the door and in walks Zeinab Hanem, Randa’s mother. I welcome her warmly. I am amazed at her corpulence given her meager means. She seats herself in the living room as I turn off the radio.

  “I have no one but you, Muhtashimi Bey,” she says. I wonder what on earth has got hold of her.

  “We are all in God’s hands,” I said.

  “I should have been speaking to Fawwaz Bey and Hanaa Hanem, but they’re so busy working that they’ve no free time. And it’s no use addressing Elwan either. That’s why I’m resorting to your good offices.”

  Now I understand everything even before she as much as utters a single word. She has come to discuss Elwan and Randa’s problem.

  “I’m at your service, Zeinab Hanem.”

  “You judge, Muhtashimi Bey. The girl is on the verge of utter ruin.”

  “God forbid!”

  “As far as we’re concerned, you people are our first choice, but for how long is she supposed to wait?”

  I could sense danger encircling my dear grandson.

  “Zeinab Hanem, isn’t Randa old enough and sufficiently educated to be able to distinguish between what is good and what is bad for her?”

  “Love misleads, Muhtashimi Bey. And, nowadays, love has become a god. Was yours a love match, Muhtashimi Bey? Was Fawwaz Bey’s a love match?”

  “But they believe in it.”

  “Are we to let it ruin them both?”

  I let out an audible sigh as one clearly helpless. With her double chin swinging up and down, she added:

  “Let us then do what we can to save them, and may God help us. Maybe each of them will eventually find the person who suits him best.”

  “Is Sulayman Bey of your opinion?”

  “He’s her father just as I’m her mother. But we’re both sorry for Elwan. He’s a good boy and deserves the very best.”

  “He’s also very unlucky,” I muttered as the discussion was coming to a close.

  On her way out, she said:

  “God help us! Remember, I’m counting on you.”

  What a morning! I have been forced to act as the harbinger of ill news to the one person dearest to my heart. I sank back in my seat in a state of profound gloom.

  At lunchtime, I did not refer to the visit but waited until I could be alone with the young man in the living room. He had naturally not fathomed the meaning of my furtive glances.

  “Will you forgive my talking to you about something unpleasant?” I finally asked.

  He threw an apprehensive glance in my direction and sarcastically said:

  “This is basically the way all stories go, Grandpa.”

  “About Randa, Elwan.”

  His handsome face was suddenly transformed as it lit up with feelings of love. I told him what had happened in detail. He clenched his fist and brought it close to his lips as he rested his elbow on an old table.

  “It is as though I were a criminal wanted for murder, Grandpa,” he said.

  “We should think calmly and courageously.”

  “I’d like to have your impressions, Grandpa.”

  “We’ve got to admit that they’ve got a point,” I said, becoming increasingly edgy.

  “Randa’s not under age,” he said sharply.

  “No, but that waiting seems endless.”

  “I’m not to blame.”

  “Nobody’s blaming you.”

  “Is the final word theirs or hers?”

  “Now it’s in your hands.”

  “In mine?”

  “Time is flying. You’re a reasonable young man and you can save her. You could even save yourself. It’s not only bad luck. It’s a long line of calamities: June 1967, the Infitah, Russia, the United States, and the kingdom of the corrupt.”

  “And what if I insist on rejecting the idea?” he asked.

  “Do what you think is right,” I replied.

  “I promise to do just that, Grandpa,” he said somewhat vaguely, shaking his head.

  Fawwaz and Hanaa were told about it that evening.

  Hanaa flew into a temper and said she had never felt comfortable about that engagement and had unwillingly consented to it. As for Fawwaz, he said he had always warned his son that this would be the inevitable outcome.

  “The engagement is an obstacle to both of them,” he said.

  “Try to convince him, Uncle. He always resists us but gives in to you. If he had listened to me from the very start, we wouldn’t have reached this humiliating point,” said Hanaa, addressing me.

  I was suddenly reminded of the glorious Sura: The foolish ones will say they were not turned around from the goal they had set for themselves. Say: To God is the East and the West. He guides whomsoever He wishes on to the right path.

  Elwan Fawwaz Muhtashimi

  Winter has come to an end. It is an amazingly clear day. What evil exists lies buried within me alone. I should have chosen some place other than the Pyramids Resthouse. This place situated on the edge of the plateau holds for us the fondest of memories. That calm look in her eyes makes me feel even guiltier. No one deserves respect; nothing is truly worthwhile; no promise is worth keeping. History is on the decline, what with the dark nightingale on the one hand and the dark crow on the other. Dr. Alyaa should cease spouting slogans for she’s a wife and a mother. She herself has drained the cup of love to the dregs, so kindly allow us now to sip our cup of tea in peace. Rather, you enjoy it, for I myself am unable to relish it.

  “For heaven’s sake, why this silence?”

  I gazed at the tops of the palm trees scattered along the slope.

  “Randa, did you know of your mother’s visit to my grandfather?” I asked.

  “It didn’t go too well but then there’s nothing new under the sun,” she said scornfully.

  “If this were so, we would’ve got married years ago,” I retorted in distress.

  “I notice you’re more upset than I’d imagined.”

  “I’ve been suffocating.”

  “But we’re used to resisting opposition.”

  “For how much longer?”

  “Time isn’t important.”

  “Whether we like it or not, time is important. I’ve also heavy responsibilities.”

  “I too have responsibilities. We’re in exactly the same position,” she said firmly.

  “I’ve got to admit I’m ruining your future.”

  “And what about your future?”

  “It’s different. A man can get married in his fifties.”

  “For the first time, I sense that you feel defeated, Elwan,” she muttered, her face growing pale.

  “Maybe it’s because I’ve been able to overcome my selfishness for the first time,” I said after some hesitation.

  “My God, are you seriously considering …” she cried, bewildered. She had hardly finished her sentence when I interrupted:

  “I now free you from my bondage,” I said digging into my own wound.

  “Elwan, I can’t stand hearing you say that,” she said with great emotion.

  “Reconsider our position away from my insufferable presence.”

  “I’m free and no one has any power over me.”

  “The matter has to be reconsidered.”

  “It’s sound logic but I doubt its soundness where true love is concerned,” she said gloomily.

  “Careful, don’t start doubting me and don’t make matters worse, for love, too, has been sacrificed,” I said hastily and emotionally.

  “You don’t have to make any sacrifice.”

  “I’m only doing what I think is right.”

  “Just say that you now feel I’m an obstacle in your way,” she said bitterly.

  “God forgive you, Randa. I shan’t sit and defend myself.”

  “I won’t have you make any sacrifice.”

  “But I insist
on it,” I said quite plainly.

  We were divided by silence, a silence heavier than the approaching night. We both shrank within our shells. Despair was driving us far apart so that our being together seemed to have lost all meaning.

  “There’s no point in my remaining here,” she grumped, standing up.

  So I too rose, lifeless. We looked like two strangers, each heading for his own country. Only pain is stronger than love. I could just visualize the loneliness lurking there at the end of the road. We did not exchange a single word all the way back. And no farewells as we parted inside the old building.

  My parents were in their room and my grandfather was sitting all alone in front of the television. I sat next to him; he glanced my way furtively and expectantly.

  “A film about a mad woman. I don’t like it,” he said finally, as though he were trying to escape from his own thoughts.

  “Why do you sit and watch something you don’t like?” I asked.

  “There’s a speech on the other channel.”

  “Why don’t you switch it off then?”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “We broke off our engagement!” I said.

  A look of gloom and frustration crept into his eyes.

  “God help you in your predicament,” he muttered.

  “We broke up and that’s it,” I said dryly.

  “I feel guilty,” he added in a sad tone.

  “You’re not responsible, Grandpa,” I answered coldly.

  Randa Sulayman Mubarak

  I could see the image of my face reflected in the look with which my mother greeted me: pity and something very close to fear.

  “Congratulations. Your efforts have succeeded,” I told her within earshot of my father. She sank into a deeper silence as tears began to fill her eyes. Suddenly my father said:

  “I trust the soundness of your judgment.”

  “Papa, please don’t treat me like a child,” I said on a note of protest.