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

and is making fun of me, thought el-Zahhar, furious as he emerged from the door of the villa, and when he had seated himself in the taxi, he said, “I am not mad. I have never in my life been saner than I am today. Mustafa el-Nahhas touched my hand and spoke to me. That is a certain truth, and tomorrow el-Nahhas Pasha will come back to me. I will take him with me everywhere. We will go together to the press, to the Lower House, and we will request a meeting with the President of the Republic himself. We—the Leader and I—will be headlines in Tuesday’s newspapers and then we shall see what Muhammad Bassiouni says.”

The taxi stopped in front of the house of Sheikh Ali Sahhab on Murad Street just as Sheikh Ali completed the midmorning prayer, and the sheikh sat down, passing his prayer beads through his fingers, and welcomed his friend Kamil el-Zahhar. The latter wasted no time in recounting to him what had happened, in detail. Silence reigned for a moment, and then Sheikh Ali rumbled in his deep voice, “A strange story indeed!”

At which el-Zahhar cried out, “Listen, Sheikh Ali! If you don’t believe me, tell me and I’ll go.”

Sheikh Ali answered, soothingly, “Of course I believe you, Kamil. We’ve known each other all our lives. And spirits do exist: They will question thee concerning the Spirit. Say, ‘The Spirit is of the bidding of my Lord’ (the Almighty has spoken truly). Only…are you sure it was el-Nahhas Pasha?”

El-Zahhar jumped up, for emphasis, and said, “I saw el-Nahhas Pasha as clearly as I see you now, and he spoke to me. Listen. Tomorrow I’m going to meet His Excellency the Pasha. Will you come with me or not?”

Deep thought appeared on the sheikh’s face, and after a second he stood up, took el-Zahhar’s hand to shake it, and said, “I’ll come with you.”

Could Mr. el-Zahhar sleep that night? He lay next to his wife, Dawlat, in the dark and started smoking and thinking about the coming day. Of course, it would be a surprise for everyone, but what after? He would organize with the Leader vast campaigns. They would tour the whole of Egypt. Every Egyptian must see the Leader and hear him, in the cities, in the hamlets, and in the Bedouin encampments. And at the first elections the Wafd would sweep the field, as usual, and Mustafa el-Nahhas would form a Wafdist cabinet, in which el-Zahhar would be a minister. He would choose either the Treasury or the Economy. That was his field. Foreign Affairs was sensitive and dangerous and the Interior was not his type of thing at all. Dawlat woke up, turned on the light, and looked at him anxiously.

“Why aren’t you asleep, Kamil?”

“It’s nothing.”

If the partner of his life only knew what tomorrow held! My darling Dawlat, in less than a year you will be the minister’s wife. Didn’t you put up with Kamil el-Zahhar the insurance department employee for a quarter of a century without grumbling or complaining? Pluck then, my high-born rose, the fruits of your long and patient wait! You will make the pilgrimage to God’s Holy House as you have always wanted, and then it’ll be summers in Europe for you, me, and my dear Mustafa and Zeinab. El-Zahhar drew close to his wife, planted a kiss on her brow, and whispered tenderly, “Goodnight” and pretended to sleep. At precisely seven o’clock the next morning, he leaped out of bed and a quarter of an hour later was running down the empty street making for the House of the Nation. He had to arrive before the Leader. He might wait for the Leader, but certainly not the other way round!

The House of the Nation was closed and on the door there was a brass plate announcing “House of the Nation Museum. Open 10–3 except Fridays.”

The building was old and covered with thick layers of dust, the garden neglected and bleak. El-Zahhar felt sad and determined privately that the first task of the new cabinet would be to restore the House of the Nation. It was now a quarter to eight. Sheikh Ali Sahhab had arrived a minute ago, shaken el-Zahhar’s hand, and stood next to him on the sidewalk. Then a black Cadillac appeared gliding along at the end of the street. It drew closer until it stopped in front of the two friends and Muhammad Bey Bassiouni got out. When el-Zahhar rushed over to him, Bassiouni shook his hand and got the first word in by saying excitedly, “El-Nahhas will come, Kamil. El-Nahhas never breaks an appointment.”

It was exactly eight o’clock. The street was crowded with cars and pedestrians, on the sidewalk opposite people had gathered around a stall selling bean sandwiches, everywhere troops of employees from the nearby ministry buildings were running to get to work on time, and in front of the House of the Nation the three—Mr. Kamil el-Zahhar, Sheikh Ali Sahhab, and Muhammad Bey Bassiouni—continued to stand, gazing eagerly toward the end of the street where, in a few moments, the August Leader, His Most Lofty Excellency Mustafa el-Nahhas Pasha would arrive.

A Look into Nagi’s Face

MY SCHOOL. The old building with its windows, rounded balconies, and huge pillars appears in the early morning mist like an abandoned castle. The wooden gate opens slowly to reveal the spacious courtyard with its huge bare trees whose dry yellow leaves are spread over the ground and we crush them underfoot as we play in the playground so that they make a soft crackling sound and break into little pieces. We are sitting in the classroom in our blue smocks, sewn with the venerable school’s motto, listening to the Frère, our teacher. I remember his aged face and bald patch, his glasses, blue eyes, dull-colored military boots and billowing white robe. On his chest was the imposing image of a cross and in his hand his cane. Ah, that long thin cane, painful