“So when are you going to let me participate in the gihad?” Taha replied boldly, taking advantage of the opportunity to ask a question that had been occupying his mind. Sheikh Bilal was silent for a moment. Then he whispered affectionately, “Don’t rush things, my son. Everything in its own time.”
He left quickly, as though to cut the conversation short, leaving Taha unhappy with the ambiguous answer. He was thirsting for his revenge and felt he was totally ready to go on operations, so why all this delay? He wasn’t any worse than his colleagues who went out to gihad, then returned to the camp full of what they’d done and received the congratulations of their brothers. After that Taha went to Sheikh Bilal more than once to urge him to send him out on an operation, but the latter continued to put him off with ambiguous answers until, on the final occasion, Taha got angry and shouted vehemently, “‘Soon, soon.’ When is this soon going to come? If you think I’m no good for gihad, why don’t you tell me and I’ll leave the camp.”
Sheikh Bilal’s smile spread, as though he was happy at Taha’s enthusiasm, and he said, “Be on your way, Taha, and you’ll hear good news, if God wills.”
And indeed, not a week went by before one of the brothers informed him that Sheikh Bilal was asking for him. As soon as he had finished the noon prayer, he rushed to the sheikh’s office—a cramped room containing an old desk, a number of worn-out chairs, and a rush mat on which the sheikh was sitting reciting the Qur’an. He was deeply absorbed in his chanting and only became aware of Taha’s presence next to him a few moments later. He smiled in welcome and sat him down beside him.
“I have sent for you about an important matter.”
“I’m yours to command.”
“It is for God alone to command. Listen, my son, we’ve decided to give you a bride.”
The sheikh said this suddenly and laughed, but Taha didn’t laugh. His dark face grew stern and he said warily, “I don’t understand.”
“You’re going to get married, my son. Don’t you know what marriage is?”
At this, Taha’s voice rose: “No, Master, I don’t understand. I don’t understand how I can beg you to give me permission for gihad, and you talk to me of marriage! Did I come here to get married? I don’t understand it at all, unless you just brought me here to make fun of me.”
For the first time, the sheikh’s face contracted with anger and he shouted, “It is inappropriate for you, Taha, to talk to me in that fashion, and I would be grateful if you would keep a hold on yourself in the future or I shall lose my temper with you. You are not the only one whom they have tortured at National Security. They have tortured thousands of brothers. I myself bear the traces of torture on my face as you see, but I don’t go out of my mind and scream every day in the faces of my sheikhs. Do you think that I am stopping you from going to gihad? As God knows, my son, the matter is not in my hands. I do not have decision-making power over operations. In fact, I don’t even know about them till the very last minute. I am a camp commander, Taha, and I am not even a member of the Gamaa’s Consultative Council. Please take that in and give us both a rest. I am not the one who will make the decision. All I can do is put your name forward to the brothers on the Gamaa Council. I have been persistent in doing that and I have written a number of reports on your courage and your progress in training, but they have not decided to send you yet. So it’s not my fault as you think, even though on the basis of my experience I believe that they will send you soon, God willing.”
Taha said nothing and bowed his head for a little. Then he said in a low voice, “I apologize, Master, for my excitable manner. God knows how I love and respect you, Sheikh Bilal.”
“Don’t worry about it, my son,” muttered Sheikh Bilal, who went on telling his prayer beads. Taha continued in an affectionate tone, as though he wanted to wipe out the traces of the tiff, “But I really do find the marriage business strange.”
“What’s strange about it? Marriage is one of God’s customs for His creatures. He, Glorious and Almighty, made it lawful for the sake of the righteousness of the individual and of Islam. You are a young man and have natural needs. Your marriage is an act of obedience to God and His Messenger for which you will be rewarded, God willing. The Chosen One—God bless him and give him peace—said in a sound hadith, ‘He among you who is capable of marriage, let him marry.’ And he has commanded us—God bless him and give him peace—to facilitate and expedite marriage in order to protect the Muslims from abomination. Here we live and die according to the path laid down by God and His Messenger and we do not deviate from it one jot, God willing. I propose for you a righteous, virtuous sister—we give precedence over God to none.”
“I have to marry a woman I don’t know?” responded Taha without thinking.
Sheikh Bilal smiled and said, “You’ll get to meet her, God willing. She is Sister Radwa Abu el Alaa, an outstanding example of the Muslim woman. She was married to Brother Hassan Nur el Din from Asyiut. When he achieved martyrdom, God have mercy on him, she was pregnant with her small son and she came to live the life of Islam here with us.”
Taha said nothing and seemed unconvinced, so Sheikh Bilal went on, “God forbid, my son, that I should impose anything on you. You’ll meet Radwa and see her face and talk with her, as the Pure Law requires. Then you may take your decision with complete freedom. I hope, Taha, that you will review the book Marriage in Islam that we distributed to you in class. You should know too, my son, that marriage to the widow of a martyr and taking care of his orphan son will double your reward, with God’s permission.”
Close to midnight, the child’s condition got worse and the indicators on the screens in intensive care started to register disturbances in the breathing and pulse. The doctor on duty was called and she quickly came and prescribed an intravenous injection. The nurse gave this to the child and his condition improved a little, but after less than an hour it deteriorated again and he soon departed this life. The nurse burst into tears, covered his little face with the sheet, and came out of the room.
As soon as Hidiya saw her, she let out an agonized, high-pitched scream that resounded throughout the hospital. Then she squatted on the ground, covered her head with her hands, and started wailing. As for Abd Rabbuh, his dark face crumpled and he ground his teeth so hard that they made an audible sound. He crushed the pack of cigarettes in his hand and ripped it to shreds, so that the tobacco scattered between his fingers like dust. He made a superhuman effort not to cry, but the tears flowed from his eyes in spite of himself; then he surrendered completely and sobbed out loud. Everyone there wept—cleaners and nurses and patients’ families. Even the doctor took off her glasses to wipe away her tears. Abd Rabbuh and his wife Hidiya were obliged to keep the child’s corpse in the hospital’s mortuary till it could be buried in the morning and this created another painful scene, for when the small body was placed in the midst of the adult corpses, the aged mortuary operator (who by virtue of the nature of his work was accustomed to the sight of death) could not contain himself and started repeating in a trembling, agitated voice “There is no god but God” and “We are from Him and to Him we shall return.”
The residents of the Yacoubian Building roof had heard the news somehow and all stayed up. They opened the doors of their rooms and waited in silence with bowed heads as though at a wake. Some of them (those who owned tape recorders) played recordings of the Noble Qur’an at high volume, so that it echoed around the roof.
A little before the dawn prayer, Abd Rabbuh and Hidiya appeared on the roof, worn-out with pain and exhaustion, and all the residents rushed to give them their condolences, the sorrow rekindled. The men embraced Abduh and squeezed his hand (they were all sincere in their reaction, including even the most ferocious and aggressive among them such as Ali the Driver, from whose mouth the smell of cheap alcohol wafted as usual but who cried as hard as a lost child). As soon as El Shazli, the old doorkeeper, with his white mustaches and tall, emaciated figure, approached the grieving father and shook his hand—the
two were bound by a special affection—Abduh embraced him hard, buried his face in his white gallabiya, and said with his Sa’idi accent, “My boy’s gone, Uncle!”
The women knew how to give expression to disaster. Their high-pitched cries broke out, shattering the peace, and many beat their cheeks hard till they fell to the ground. Little by little, the outpouring of grief grew quiet, and as usually happens on these occasions the men insisted to Abduh that he take his wife to rest a little as they had a hard day ahead of them, and in the end the two complied and went into their room. Their light remained lit, however, till the morning, as they did not sleep. In fact, they became wrapped in a long conversation that soon turned angry and eventually became a bitter and violent fight whose echoes could be heard all over the roof. Hidiya’s voice could be heard raised in reproach and challenge, while Abduh’s voice grew lower and lower until it became completely silent. On the following day, once the burial and mourning procedures were over, the roof people were taken aback to find a large truck pull up at night in front of the building. Then they saw Abduh helping the workers to move the furniture from their room. The residents inquired anxiously and Abduh informed them that they were moving to another room, in Imbaba. His face was dejected and his manner so off-putting as to stop them from showing their surprise or even from bidding him farewell with appropriate warmth.
“You’ve got off to a bad start, Azzam.”
“God forbid, Kamal Bey! I stand by my word, but the matter needs time.”
They were sitting in the Sheraton restaurant and the atmosphere was tense. Azzam started by talking about something else, but Kamal el Fouli frowned and said sharply, “Don’t try to distract me with other things! I’m not a child. You made an agreement and you went back on your agreement. I gave you the contract three months ago for you to sign with the Big Man and you’re playing for time.”
“Kamal Bey, shame on you to say so! I have to pass the matter by the Japanese partner and I’m waiting for the right moment.”
“What have the Japanese got to do with it? The contract’s between you and the Big Man for a percentage of the profits.”
“My dear sir, the Japanese have to know everything. If I did anything behind their back, they might cancel the agency agreement.”
Kamal el Fouli took a long draw on the waterpipe, then placed the big mouthpiece on the table and stood up suddenly. His son and the guards at the neighboring table rose too. He said resolutely, as he adjusted his clothes prior to leaving, “You’re playing with fire, Azzam, and I’m surprised, because you’re an intelligent man. You have to understand that the ones who put you into the People’s Council can take you out of it.”
“Are you threatening me, Kamal Bey?”
“Take it any way you like.”
Hagg Azzam rose and held out his arms to grasp El Fouli’s shoulder in an attempted embrace, saying, “My dear sir, please, don’t make a big thing of this.”
“Goodbye.”
El Fouli turned to leave, but Hagg Azzam held on to his shoulder and said, “My dear sir, everything’s give and take. I swear to Almighty God, I’m going to keep my promise.”
El Fouli shook his arm off angrily, but Azzam moved closer and whispered almost pleadingly, “Kamal Bey, listen to me, please. I have a request that will make things easier for both of us.”
El Fouli looked at him questioningly, the anger still on his face. Azzam said, “I want to meet the Big Man.”
“The Big Man doesn’t meet anyone.”
“Kamal Bey, please help me. I’d like to meet His Excellency and explain the situation myself. By the bread and salt we’ve eaten together, old fellow, don’t refuse my request.”
El Fouli stared at him with a deep, searching look, as though probing his depths for the last time. Then he said as he left, “We’ll see.”
It wasn’t easy for Hagg Azzam to just give up a quarter of the agency’s profits, but at the same time it wasn’t in his power to refuse outright. His assessment was that they would not start to attack him as long as they had a hope, even if it was small, that he would pay. He had requested a meeting with the Big Man and insisted, firstly to gain time, and secondly because he had a strange but firm feeling that if he could meet the Big Man face to face, he would succeed in persuading him to lower the percentage. He also had a final, important objective: he wanted to be sure that there really was a Big Man. Wasn’t it a possibility that El Fouli was using the Big Man’s name without his knowledge? Only a slight possibility, of course, but it was there.
It took a few months and a number of telephone calls in which Azzam put pressure on El Fouli to fix an appointment for him with the Big Man and then one morning the telephone rang in Azzam’s office and he heard the secretary’s smooth voice saying, “Hagg Azzam? Greetings. Kamal Bey will speak to you.”
He heard El Fouli’s terse voice saying, “Your appointment with the Big Man is Thursday at ten in the morning. Be ready in your office and we’ll send you a car to take you.”
Dawlat had laid her plan carefully and been able by means of influence and bribes to get all the officers on her side. As a result, they treated Zaki el Dessouki with the utmost boorishness and impertinence. They prevented him from using the telephone and exchanged comments at his expense: “He fancies himself a Valentino!”
“So you must be the famous Drinking Sheikh then!”
“I bet the equipment’s kaput and you have to do it by hand!”
They let out loud laughs, followed by a clearing of throats and bursts of coughing, Dawlat joining in the laughter to flatter and encourage them, and to gloat. Zaki said nothing. He didn’t reply to them. The wall that he had tried to maintain around himself had fallen and it was all over, and he realized that if he resisted, it would only increase their vile behavior. He also felt extremely sorry for Busayna, who never stopped sobbing. The officer who had arrested them said to him spitefully, “What do you say, Mr. La-di-da? Are you going to mend your ways?”
Zaki answered him in a low voice, “Your conduct is unlawful and I shall make a complaint against you.”
The officer shouted, “Still playing the big shot? You’re a real bigmouth. Have some shame, man! One foot in this world and the other in the next! Someone your age ought to be spending all his time at the mosque, not being brought in naked from on top of a prostitute—and still you have the gall to talk back?”
Busayna tried to plead with the officer, but he rebuked her sharply, saying “Shut your mouth, whore, or do you want me to make you out a morals charge right away?”
The two gave up completely and answered the officer’s questions. Zaki affirmed in his statement that the complaint was deceitful and that Dawlat was not living with him in the office. He explained Busayna’s being with him by saying that she was the daughter of a friend of his, that she’d quarreled with her family, and that he’d invited her to his apartment so that he could make peace between them. Then he signed the police report, as did Busayna and Dawlat (the plaintiff), who left after thanking the officers and satisfying herself that things were going properly. After all these insults Zaki swallowed his pride and started pleading with the officer until in the end the latter permitted him, grudgingly, to use the telephone. He called a friend of his who was a former Appeals Court judge and asked for help. The judge came quickly, his face still showing traces of sleep, and went to the office of the station head. The latter summoned Zaki, invited him to sit down, insisted on ordering him a cup of coffee, and gave him a cigarette (he had left his behind in the office during the brouhaha). Then the station head looked at him and said smilingly, in a quiet voice, “Naturally, I apologize for any affronts that my colleagues may have committed, but as you know the incident touches on morality and it’s a tricky thing. The officers here are jealous of our traditions and we’re all religious people, praise God.”
Zaki didn’t say a word. He smoked, staring at the officer, while the judge broke in to say, “I do hope, sir, we can clear all this up. I’d be ver
y grateful.”
“Your Excellency’s requests are my command, but unfortunately the report has been entered already with a serial number and it can’t be deleted. Your Excellency knows the procedures as well as I do. All we can do is let him and the girl go tonight, and when they turn up tomorrow morning to go before the magistrate, I’ll talk to him and have him suspend the investigation, God willing.”
Zaki and Busayna signed an undertaking to appear before the magistrate, and when they left the station Zaki shook his friend the judge’s hand and thanked him. The other said, “Zaki Bey, we’re brothers. You don’t have to thank me. By the way, it’s clear your sister Dawlat has influence and all the officers are in her pocket. The head of the station could have torn up the report in front of us if he’d wanted to.”
Zaki smiled sadly and the judge said to comfort him, “Don’t worry about it. First thing tomorrow I’ll call the District Chief of Police’s office and hopefully everything’ll be okay.”
Zaki thanked him again and walked beside Busayna in the direction of the Yacoubian Building. The light of morning had started to seep into Suleiman Basha, which was empty but for the municipal workers sluggishly sweeping and a few people who either had risen early for some reason or were returning from a long night out. Zaki felt extremely tired, dizzy, and nauseous. He was neither inclined to action nor angry. All he felt was that his stomach hurt, his mind was empty, and his thoughts were scattered. Slowly he became seized by the notion that heavy sorrows were bearing down on him, like the clouds that gather swiftly before a storm. Later he will go over a hundred times the insults and abuse that they directed at him; he will never forgive himself for having meekly submitted to them; he will make a comparison—so as to hurt himself cruelly—between the respect he had known all his life and the bruising contempt with which he had been treated at the police station, where they had treated him as though he were a pickpocket or a pimp. What really wrung his heart was that he had surrendered totally. He wouldn’t have protested if they had beaten him. Why had he given up and turned into a limp rag in their hands? How had it come about that he had lost his willpower, and his self-respect had collapsed to such a degree? He ought to have resisted to the end, come what may, if not in defense of his honor, then in defense of Busayna’s reputation, which they had ruined. What would she think of him now and how would he be able to meet her eyes, after he had failed to protect her or even defend her with a word?