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

even to the affection people bore him, as to his being a strong man well versed in the uses of power and an expert in the arts of command with a commanding look and a reassuringly regal way of moving. He even made an effort to reduce the movements of his hands, while adding to them a decisive slowness. As for his tone of voice, any tremor had disappeared from it years ago. Indeed, Musilhi Bey was a strong man in every way. Even his shoes were shiny and radiant. “Work! Work!” he would repeat, and “In this world, weakness and extinction have the same meaning.” Musilhi Bey had quickly removed himself from the lanes of the Sayeda Zeinab quarter, where he had grown up, to Mohandessin, but, despite his sudden wealth, he was neither thief nor conman. Rather, once he had obtained his secondary school certificate, he had refused to go to university. What was the value of study? He preferred to work in the import-export business—a legitimate profession acknowledged by the laws of the state. Musilhi Bey was a realist. He had grasped from the start that changing the existing order had for centuries been the dream of poets and of the heroes of history books, and should, therefore, be left to them. For the sake of change, heroes had been imprisoned and thrown onto the street. He, however, was not a hero and didn’t want to be one. He had no time to be a hero. How long would he live? At the best estimate, another thirty years. He would, therefore, live to enjoy life, and to work. Better, then, to fight the good fight for Musilhi and leave things as they were, or let them change, or let them be as they would; his intelligence would be employed in the service of his own sacred interests.

This was how Musilhi Bey had succeeded and become rich, and then even richer, and each night he was accustomed to lie down next to his beautiful wife of Swiss manufacture and read a little in the biographies of heroes and leaders—of those tortured by impossible ideas, the history of the idiots. Today, Musilhi Bey was announcing in the newspapers that he needed a woman to teach his son French, and there was great competition, and he sat among them, examining and testing, so that he could select the worthiest among them with confidence. A mocking memory returned him to the dark room in one of the private Qur’an schools for small children in Sayeda Zeinab where he had received his first lessons. “It’s all about money, Musilhi,” he thought to himself. Now this girl with the white dress was sitting in front of him, gentle as a breeze and so modest he almost felt pity for her. But Musilhi Bey hated weakness and emotion.

“Name in full.”

“Nadia Abd el-Salam.”

“Degree.”

“Graduate, Humanities, Cairo University.”

The embarrassing words died on her lips. It was that feeling of mortification. She had to look him in the face. She decided to smile. She failed.

“You graduated from the French Department.” He said the words as though stating a fact.

“No. I did Latin and Greek.”

A few silent seconds, which felt like an eternity, followed.

“But in the advertisement I said a French teacher.” He said the words with a friendliness that underscored his command of the situation.

She had to get her voice out somehow.

“I studied French at a private institute for five years.”

“Your identification, if you please.”

She handed him her ID card. His face took on an expression of indifference. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed one of the girls whispering laughingly to her neighbor.

“My dear Miss Nadia, I’d like to make something quite clear. My son is not in need of someone to teach him the elements of French. He speaks it fluently. He needs someone to go over his lessons from the Lycée Français with him.”

“My French is very good.”

“Well, we’ll see. Kareem!” he called out, looking around him. A blond young boy emerged and went up to his father.

“This is Mademoiselle Nadia. She’s your new teacher. Shake hands with her and say something to her in French.”

“Okay. Are you my new teacher?”

Her French really was very good.

“Papa, she doesn’t say anything.”

Musilhi Bey, who had been listening closely, pretended to be busy reading his papers, and when he raised his head, Nadia was getting up to go.

An Old Blue Dress and A Close-fitting Covering for the Head, Brightly Colored

1

An Old Blue Dress

AS SOON AS I GOT TO KNOW HER, I took her to dinner at a small restaurant in Opera Square and the next week I took her to the cinema. Afterward I drove her home and before she got out of the car, I asked her to come and visit me at my flat. She showed no surprise or shock and she didn’t make a show of being angry the way women do. She just gave me a mysterious look, then asked quietly for the address and enquired about the doorkeeper and the neighbors. She was on time for the appointment.

I’d prepared myself with a couple of drinks and sat next to her in the reception room, paving the way with a long bright conversation. I was expecting all the kinds of resistance and coquetry that normally take place on a woman’s first visit but when the critical moment came, she made no objection and surrendered to my kisses. Then, begging my pardon in a whisper, she started removing her clothes one by one and hanging them carefully on the hanger, as though playing a part or fulfilling an agreement. When we’d finished, she moved her naked body away from me and, lying on her back, joined her hands together beneath her head and stared at the ceiling. At that moment she seemed utterly sad and, being an expert in the melancholy moods that follow the spending of passion, I stretched out my hand and toyed with a lock of her