Friendly Fire, Alaa Aswany [10 ebook reader .TXT] 📗

hesitation as due to forgetfulness, he said, “You’ll find the letter in the parlor. On the table, as I remember.”

I turned back once more, looked at my father, and said in hollow tones, “I tore it up.”

“What?” shouted my father, his eyes dilating. I felt I was sliding toward the end, so I said, deliberately and slowly, “I tore the letter up.”

It was more than he could take. He leaped up and came toward me. He came so close that I could feel the heat of his panting breath on my face. I was expecting him to slap me but he suddenly turned around and shouted, “You’re insane! Totally insane! You tore up the letter, you madman?”

He seemed to have nothing more to say, and he started moving, turning, and shouting out the same words, while Uncle Anwar went to him and took hold of him to calm him down and I stood and watched what was happening. I didn’t feel fear or regret. My consciousness had been disconnected. I could see my father and Anwar and the people sitting there and they looked to me like undefined, floating shapes. When I came to, I heard my father saying, “Do you hear what I say? Get out of my sight, God damn you!”

Silence reigned for a moment and I heard Uncle Anwar whisper to my father, “That’s not the way, Abduh. You’re making too much of it.”

The voice of my mother, low and insistent, buzzed in my ears as I crossed the hallway: “What a thing to do, Isam! Tear up the letter? Couldn’t you see how happy it made your father? And you go and tear it up?”

I paid no attention to her. I went on to my room and closed the door behind me. Then I sat down calmly at the desk, lit the lamp, took out a book, and started reviewing. I can still remember that the chapter that I read that night was “Osmotic Pressure”: fluids move through the semi-permeable membrane and the exchange of fluids in either direction comes to an end when the pressure around the membrane is equalized. My father, Uncle Anwar, el-Ghamdi, the letter, and Farghal’s beautiful handwriting—all these came into my mind from time to time as I read, like disconnected images that shone and then died out, but they didn’t upset me. When I’m taken by surprise by something, my mind records its details precisely and it takes a little while before my rational faculties put everything in order again; that’s when I react strongly. My reaction may be powerful, but it’s delayed. I stopped reviewing at about three in the morning, and I could hear a distant din coming from the studio—voices, laughter, and music. I had undressed, put on my pajamas, and was ready to go to sleep when I heard heavy footsteps in the corridor, my father’s footsteps. He drummed with his fingers on the door. I didn’t answer. He opened the door slowly, peered in, smiled, and entered. I remained where I was, standing in front of the bed, and he approached and threw himself into the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him; from his face, whose details were illumined by the light of the desk lamp, he appeared to be both completely intoxicated and tired. A moment passed, and I sat down slowly on the bed. Suddenly my father said, “What time do you have lectures tomorrow?”

I replied, “Twelve o’clock.”

Then he said, as though the times of the lectures were what really concerned him, “Excellent. You have a little time to sleep so that tomorrow you can go off refreshed.”

Silence returned and I felt a sudden irritation and wished that my father would go and leave me alone, but he yawned and said, “You know, Isam, I’m very optimistic about your future. I’m sure you’ll be a great scientist. I sense that you love your studies. Don’t you love chemistry?”

There was a tone to his voice that increased my irritation but he continued, “I’m sure you love chemistry. How else could you be doing so well? The important thing, though, champ, is just to see it through. Right! Not just get your baccalaureate and take it easy. You have to get your PhD. In my day, the baccalaureate was a big deal, but now! You have to have at least a PhD before you can say you really did something. And anyway, what else do you have to do? You’re not in a relationship with a girl and you’re not in a hurry to get married. Aren’t I right? Tell me. Tell me and don’t be shy.”

My father let out a laugh, and his playfulness seemed embarrassing and heavy. He resumed, apparently determined to be jolly, “Even if there is a girl on your mind, you can still go on with your studies. In fact, an early marriage might even motivate you to work harder. The important thing is that you shouldn’t have any ambitions in the arts field. Art is the only thing I’m afraid of. You know, Isam, when I abandoned my studies, I didn’t think for a minute. I felt I was doing something very natural. I have no regrets, of course. I’ve never regretted giving my life to art. I was incapable of imagining myself as anything else. True, things were often against me but I did what I had to. Before the Revolution I used to work at three newspapers, and people used to read and understand and compare. Any new artist who came up, people would see him and judge his talent. After nationalization, it became just a matter of earning a living. Sometimes it seems to me that neither people have the desire to laugh nor artists the desire to produce. The whole thing’s turned into just a matter of doing what you have to. You draw a joke and you know it’s stupid and people read it and know it’s stupid, but they read