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

all the rest—cost me ten thousand riyals and not a penny less, praise be to God for all things. And then, as soon as I’d got over the operation I had a problem with my sponsor, who’s the owner of the school where Batta and I work.* He’s one of the important sheikhs and very well connected and he could have us thrown out of the country in twenty-four hours if he wanted. The problem is that my sponsor discovered that I frequently visit the villa of Sheikh Fahd al-Rubay‘i and sometimes give his children help with their lessons, so he thinks I’m giving them private tutoring for money even though I assured him that Sheikh Fahd and I are just friends in God and basically we meet to study the Qur’an together. But the sponsor wasn’t convinced and he doesn’t miss a chance to hint to me that I’m giving private lessons. I got so mad that two days ago I yelled in his face, “Fear God, Sheikh! The burden of proof is on the accuser, Sheikh! Shame on you for accusing me with no proof!” But it made no difference, my dear sister, and he has docked me two months’ incentives, God forgive him.

What can I say, my dear Makarim? I swear to God that Batta and I are thinking seriously about coming back to Egypt once and for all. Ten years away from home and every penny we make we spend as soon as it comes to us—in other words we’re “as poor as the day you made us, O Lord!” praise be to God. And what makes us really angry is that people in Egypt think we’re living in the lap of luxury and laying aside a fortune.

To end with, my dear sister, I want you to put our minds at rest with all the latest news concerning our dear mother the moment it happens, and to tell her, my dear Makarim, that if it weren’t for our present very difficult circumstances, I would have given up everything and come with Batta and the children to stay by her side, for all our bounties and blessings are from her. I would also like you, my dear sister, to read over her the Prayer of the Distressed, in emulation of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him (please try to make a ritual ablution first). The Prayer goes, “O God, I beg of Your mercy that You leave me not to the devices of my own soul, even for the blinking of an eye, but ameliorate my state in all things, for there is no god but You.”

If you say this often enough, my dear Makarim, you will discover great bounty, God willing. Concerning the amount you requested to move my mother to a private hospital, were I to spend all the money in the world and sell the clothes from off my back for the sake of my mother, I could not repay that wonderful woman the half of what she has done for us. Most unfortunately, however, my financial circumstances are extremely difficult and do not permit me to comply—so much so that I have had to borrow money from one of my good friends here to get through the month.

Anyway, I consulted Dr. Husni Abid about private hospitals and he said that the treatment in the government hospitals is just the same that they give in the private hospitals and the only difference is that the private hospitals demand extortionate fees, medicine in Egypt having become an entirely commercial affair, God forbid. This is the opinion of Dr. Husni, who is a well-known doctor here and a good man who fears the Lord (over Whom we give precedence to none), and all thanks to you, my beloved sister.

My dear Makarim, please—with this, you’ll find another small envelope addressed to the real estate broker Hagg Gharib. Go find him at the Amana Café and give it to him immediately and tell him to contact me by telephone urgently. If he can’t get hold of me, he should call Sheikh Fahd al-Rubay‘i, telephone no. (06) 582–1465. The matter is most important and urgent, my dear Makarim. May God reward you well, my beloved sister.

Peace be upon you, and the mercy of God and His blessings.

Your brother,

Hasan Muhammad Nagati

Al-Qasim, Muharram 5, 1413

[True copy]

The Sorrows of Hagg Ahmad

HAGG AHMAD RETURNED HOME after praying the extra Ramadan prayers in the mosque and sat and watched television until his wife, Hagga Dawlat, called him to have his predawn meal. Hagg Ahmad got up slowly, sat down at the table, rolled up the sleeves of his gallabiya, pronounced the formula “In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate,” and started. First of all he drank a glass of warm lime juice, designed to act both as a disinfectant for the digestive system and as wake-up call for the stomach so that the food did not catch it offguard. At the same moment, the Filipina maid was going down the corridor carrying a tray of food to the room of Hagg Azzam, Hagg Ahmad’s aged father, who had been living with them for two years.

Hagg Ahmad stretched out his hand and tore off a large mouthful of the hot, mud-oven-baked, flaky pastry swimming in butter and dipped it into the dish of beans that sat right next to it on the table. The beans had passed through many stages of preparation, including being slowly stewed, then released from their skins, then mashed and mixed with slices of tomato, and, finally, being garnished with just the right amount of corn oil, lime, pepper, and cumin, turning them into a thing of delight for those who ate them and a fortification for them against the long day’s fasting ahead. Hagg Ahmad half closed his eyes in relish and started chewing slowly, like a virtuoso warming up his instrument with a few simple melodies before launching it into the world of