The next day, while Busayna was in the bathroom removing the unwanted hair from her body, polishing her heels with pumice, and putting moisturizer on her hands and face, she thought about what had happened and it occurred to her that bodily contact with an old man like Zaki el Dessouki would be a bit strange and peculiar. She recalled that sometimes, when she came close to him, she would smell, along with the penetrating smell of cigarettes that his clothes gave off, another smell, coarse and ancient, that reminded her of the one that used to fill her nostrils when she was small and would hide in her mother’s old wooden clothes chest. She thought too that she felt some affection for him because he was well mannered and treated her with a certain délicatesse, and that he was indeed to be pitied, living alone at his age without wife or children.
In the evening, she went to him in the office and found that he had sent Abaskharon away early and had sat down on his own to wait for her. In front of him, there were a bottle of whisky, a glass, and a container of ice. His eyes were a little red and the smell of alcohol filled the room. He rose to greet her, then sat down and emptied what was left in the glass into his mouth and said sadly, “Have you heard what happened?”
“No, what?”
“Dawlat is bringing a case to have me declared legally incompetent.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that she’s asked the court to prevent me from disposing of my property.”
“Oh no! Why?”
“So that she can inherit from me while I’m still alive.”
Zaki said this bitterly, pouring himself another glass. Busayna felt sorry for him.
“Brothers and sisters often get angry with one another, but they never stop caring for one another,” she said.
“That’s what you think. All Dawlat can think of is money.”
“Perhaps if you spoke to her, sir?”
Zaki shook his head, meaning “There’s no point” and to change the subject asked her, “What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“You’ve never had a drink?”
“Never.”
“Just try one glass. It tastes bitter at first and then you feel good.”
“No thanks.”
“A pity. Drinking is very nice. Foreigners understand the importance of drinking more than we do.”
“I’ve noticed that you live just like a foreigner, sir.”
He smiled and gazed at her with love and tenderness, as though she were a precocious little girl. “Please, don’t call me ‘sir.’ I know I’m old, but you don’t have to keep reminding me. It’s true, I’ve spent my whole life with foreigners. I was educated in French schools and most of my friends were foreigners. I studied in France and lived there for years. I know Paris as well as I do Cairo.”
“They say Paris is beautiful.”
“Beautiful? The whole world’s to be found in Paris!”
“So why didn’t you go on living there?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Tell me. It’s not as though we’ve got any appointments to keep.”
She laughed to lighten his mood and he laughed too, for the first time. Then she moved closer and asked him affectionately, “Go on. Why didn’t you live in France?”
“There are lots of things I should have done with my life that I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. When I was your age, I used to think that I could do whatever I wanted. I used to make plans for my life and I was sure about everything. When I got older, I discovered that man controls almost nothing. Everything is fate.”
He felt himself getting melancholy so he sighed and asked her with a smile, “Would you like to travel?”
“Of course.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“Any place far away from this hole!”
“You hate Egypt?”
“Of course.”
“How can that be? Is there anyone who hates his own country?”
“I never got anything good from it to make me love it.”
She averted her face as she said this sentence. Zaki responded excitedly, “A person has to love his country because his country is his mother. Does anyone hate his mother?”
“That’s all songs and movies. Zaki Bey, people are suffering.”
“Being poor doesn’t mean you can’t be patriotic. Most of Egypt’s nationalist leaders were poor.”
“All that was in your day. Now people are really fed up.”
“Which people?”
“Everyone. For example, all the girls who were with me at commercial school wanted to get out of the country any way they could.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Of course.”
“If you can’t find good in your own country, you won’t find it anywhere else.”
The words slipped out from Zaki Bey, but he felt that they were ungracious so he smiled to lessen their impact on Busayna, who had stood up and was saying bitterly, “You don’t understand because you’re well-off. When you’ve stood for two hours at the bus stop or taken three different buses and had to go through hell every day just to get home, when your house has collapsed and the government has left you sitting with your children in a tent on the street, when the police officer has insulted you and beaten you just because you’re on a minibus at night, when you’ve spent the whole day going around the shops looking for work and there isn’t any, when you’re a fine sturdy young man with an education and all you have in your pockets is a pound, or sometimes nothing at all, then you’ll know why we hate Egypt.”
A heavy silence reigned between them and Zaki decided to change the subject, so he rose from his seat, went over to the tape recorder, and said gaily, “I’m going to play you the most beautiful voice in the world. A French singer called Edith Piaf, the most important singer in the history of France. Have you heard of her?”
“I don’t know French to start with.”
Zaki made a gesture with his hand indicating that that didn’t matter and pressed the button of the recorder. Lilting piano music emerged and Piaf’s voice, warm, powerful, and pure, rose up as Zaki nodded his head to the rhythm and said, “This song reminds me of beautiful times.”
“What do the words say?”
“They speak of a girl standing in the midst of a crowd and then the people push her against her will in the direction of a man she doesn’t know, and as soon as she sees him she feels a beautiful feeling for him and wishes she could stay with him all her life, but suddenly the people push her far away from him. In the end she finds herself on her own and the person she loved is lost forever.”
“How sad!”
“Of course it’s got another meaning, which is that one can spend his whole life looking for the right person and, when he finds them, lose them.”
They were standing next to the desk, and as he spoke he moved toward her and placed his hands on her cheeks. Her nose filled with his coarse, ancient smell and he said, gazing into her eyes, “Did you like the song?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You know, Busayna, I really needed to meet a woman like you.”
Busayna said nothing.
“You have very beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you.”
She whispered this, her face burning, and she let him come close enough to feel his lips on her face. Then he folded her in his arms and very soon she felt the acrid taste of the whisky in her mouth.
“Where are you off to, doll?” Malak asked her impertinently as he crossed her path in the morning in front of the elevator. Avoiding his eyes, she answered, “I’m going to work.”
Malak let out a loud laugh and said, “It looks like the work agrees with you.”
“Zaki Bey is a good man.”
“We’re all good people. What have you done about that other thing?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t had a chance yet.”
Malak knitted his brow, looked at her with something like anger, grabbed her hand hard, and said, “Listen, princess. This isn’t a game. He has to sign the contract this week. Got it?”
“All right.”
Freeing her hand from his grip, she got into the elevator.
The student protests had been going on in most faculties since early morning. They interrupted studies, closed the lecture halls, and then started moving around in large numbers shouting and carrying banners condemning the war in the Gulf. When the call to the noon prayer sounded, about five thousand male and female students lined up to perform the prayer in the forecourt in front of the auditorium (boys in front, girls behind), led by Brother Tahir, emir of the Gamaa Islamiya. Then the congregation said the prayer for the dead for the souls of the Muslim martyrs in Iraq. Shortly afterward Tahir climbed to the top of the stairs facing the auditorium and stood there in his white gallabiya and impressive black beard, his voice emerging loud from the PA system.
“Brothers and sisters, we have come today to stop the killing of Muslims in our sister country Iraq. Our Islamic nation is not yet dead, as its enemies would wish. The Messenger of God—God bless him and give him peace—has said in a sound hadith, ‘Good fortune will remain with my nation till the Day of Resurrection.’ So, brothers and sisters, let us say our word, loud and clear, so that those who have placed their hands in the filthy hands of our enemies, polluted with the blood of Muslims, may hear. Youth of Islam, as we speak, the rockets of the unbelievers are pounding our sister Iraq. They pride themselves that they have devastated Baghdad and turned it into ruins, saying that they have sent Baghdad back to the Stone Age by destroying the generating stations and water plants. Now, brothers and sisters, at this very moment, Iraqi Muslims are being martyred, their skins shredded by American bombs. The tragedy was made complete when our rulers submitted to the orders of America and Israel and instead of the armies of the Muslims turning their weapons on the Zionists who have usurped Palestine and befouled the el Aqsa Mosque, our rulers have issued orders to Egyptian troops to kill their Muslim brothers and sisters in Iraq. My brothers and sisters in Islam, raise high your voices with the word of Truth. Speak it loud and clear, so that those who have sold the blood of the Muslims and piled up their looted wealth in the banks of Switzerland may hear it.”
The slogans rang out from all sides, chanted by students carried on others’ shoulders and taken up with huge enthusiasm by thousands of throats: “Islamic, Islamic! Not socialist and not democratic!”
“Khaybar, Khaybar, all you Jews! Muhammad’s army will return!”
“Rulers, traitors, men of straw! How much did you sell the Muslims’ blood for?”
Tahir made a sign and they fell silent, his voice rising, thundering with anger, “Yesterday television screens around the world showed an American soldier as he was preparing to fire a rocket to kill our people in Iraq. Do you know what the American pig wrote on the rocket before he fired it? He wrote ‘Greetings to Allah’! Muslims, they mock your God. What then will you do? They murder you and violate your women. They ridicule your Lord, Almighty and Glorious. Do your self-respect and your manhood count for so little with you? Gihad! Gihad! Gihad! Let everyone hear what we say! No to this dirty war! No to the killing of Muslims by Muslims! By God, we shall die before we let the nation of Islam become a tasty morsel in the mouths of its enemies! We will not be shoes that the Americans can put on and off as they please!”
Then in a voice choking with emotion Tahir chanted, “God is Most Great! God is Most Great! Down with Zionism! Death to America! Down with the traitors! Islamic, Islamic….”
The students raised Tahir onto their shoulders and the huge throng turned toward the main gate of the university. It was the demonstrators’ goal to get out onto the street so that other people could join the demonstration, but the Central Security forces were waiting for them in front of the university and the moment the students went out into the square, the soldiers, armed with huge sticks, helmets, and metal shields, attacked them and started beating them savagely. The screams of the female students rose and many students fell and were beaten, their blood flowing over the asphalt, but the masses of students kept pouring in huge numbers through the gate and many got away, bursting out and running far from the soldiers, who chased after them. These students managed to get past the square in front of the university and reformed at the bridge. Additional platoons of Central Security soldiers fell on them, but they charged in their hundreds toward the Israeli embassy and there large numbers of Special Forces troops started firing tear gas grenades at the students, the pall of gas rising till it covered the whole scene. Then the sound of heavy gunfire rang out.
Taha el Shazli took part in the demonstrations throughout the day and at the last minute was able to escape as the Security forces at the Israeli embassy started seizing students. Following the plan Taha went to the Auberge Café in Sayeda Zeinab Square where he met up with some of the brothers, among them Emir Tahir, who presented a review and evaluation of the day’s events. Then he said in a sad voice, “The criminals used tear gas grenades as camouflage and then fired live ammunition at the students. Your brother Khalid Harbi from the Law Faculty achieved martyrdom. We resign ourselves to God’s will for him and ask Him to forgive him all his sins, enfold him in His mercy, and reward him generously in Paradise, God willing.”
Those present recited the Fatiha for the martyr’s soul, all feeling fearful and oppressed. Brother Tahir then explained the tasks required of them for the following day—contacting the foreign news agencies to confirm the martyrdom of Khalid Harbi, tracking down the families of the detainees, and organizing new demonstrations, to start from a place the Security forces did not expect. Taha was charged with the task of writing wall posters and putting them up early in the morning on the walls of the faculty. He had bought for this purpose a number of colored pens and sheets of sturdy paper, and he shut himself into his room on the roof and devoted himself to his work, not coming down to the prayer area to pray the sunset or evening prayers, which he performed on his own. He designed ten posters, wrote them out, and did the drawings for them, finishing after midnight, at which point he felt extremely tired. He told himself that he had a few hours ahead of him in which to sleep, since he was supposed to go to the faculty before seven in the morning. He prayed the two superrogatory prostrations then turned off the light, lay down on his right side, and recited his customary prayer before sleeping: “O God, I have raised my face to You, placed my back under Your protection, and entrusted my affairs to You, in desire for You and in awe of You. There is no refuge from You or escape from You but through submission to You. O God, I believe in Your Book that You sent down and in Your Prophet that You sent.” Then he fell into a deep sleep.
After a little, thinking he was dreaming, he awoke to confused noises, and, opening his eyes, could distinguish shapes moving in the darkness of the room. Suddenly the light was turned on and he saw three huge men standing by the bed. One of them approached and hit him hard across the face. Then the man seized his head and turned it violently to the right and Taha saw for the first time a young officer, who asked him jeeringly, “Are you Taha el Shazli?”
He didn’t respond, so the goon struck him hard on his head and face. The officer repeated his question and Taha said to him in a low voice, “Yes.”
The officer smiled challengingly and said, “Playing at being the big leader are you, you son of a bitch?”
This was a signal and the blows rained down on Taha. The strange thing was that he didn’t protest or scream or even protect his face with his hands. His face remained expressionless under the impact of all these surprises, and he submitted totally to the blows of the goons, who took a firm grip on him and pulled him out of the room.
Of the dozens of customers who fill the Oriental Restaurant of the Gezira Sheraton, you will find very few who are ordinary citizens such as might accompany their fiancées or wives and children on their day off
to eat some delicious kebab. Most of the patrons are well-known faces—leading businessmen, ministers, and present and former governors who come to the restaurant to eat and meet, far from the eyes of the press and the curious. As a result, police details were everywhere, as well as the private guards who come along with any important personage.
The kebab restaurant at the Sheraton has come to play the same role in Egyptian politics as that played by the Royal Automobile Club before the Revolution. How many policies, deals, and laws that have left their mark on the life of millions of Egyptians have been prepared and agreed to here, in the Sheraton’s kebab restaurant, at the tables groaning beneath the weight of grilled meats! The difference between the Automobile Club and the Sheraton’s kebab restaurant accurately embodies the change that the Egyptian ruling elites underwent between, before, and after the Revolution. Thus, the Automobile Club perfectly suited the aristocratic ministers of the bygone epoch with their pure Western education and manners, and there they would spend the evenings accompanied by their wives in revealing evening gowns, sipping whisky and playing poker and bridge. The great men of the present era, however, with their largely plebeian origins, their stern adherence to the outward forms of religion, and their voracious appetite for good food, find the Sheraton’s kebab restaurant suits them, since they can eat the best kinds of kebab, kofta, and stuffed vegetables and then drink cups of tea and smoke molasses-soaked tobacco in the waterpipes that the restaurant’s management has introduced in response to their requests. And during all the eating, drinking, and smoking, the talk of money and business never ceases.
Kamal el Fouli had asked for a meeting with Hagg Azzam at the Sheraton kebab restaurant. The latter came a little early with his son Fawzi and they sat and smoked waterpipes and drank tea until Kamal el Fouli arrived with his son Yasser and three bodyguards, who looked the place over. One of them then said something urgently to El Fouli, who nodded his head in agreement and said to Hagg Azzam, after embracing him in a warm welcoming hug, “Excuse me, Hagg. We have to move. The guards object because the place is too exposed.”