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

mountain behind which lay a sheer cliff. We would shut our eyes and wait for the sound of the terrible crash, but it didn’t happen. On the contrary, the Frère humored Nagi and was patient with him, and we were delighted. We never asked ourselves, “Why does the Frère prefer Nagi to us?”

We never asked because we loved Nagi and when we loved someone it was as though they were us, as though it were us that were standing tall before the Frère. We were all Nagi. We weren’t afraid and we weren’t beaten (even though in fact we were beaten, daily) and we would crowd around him in the playground, begging him to play with us and competing at explaining the game to him—and how proud the one who made him smile! Nagi was happy and we were happy with him, until that day.

The Frère was collecting the assignment books as usual and Nagi stood up in front of him and said in his confident voice, “I’m sorry, I forgot mine at home.” The Frère’s face twitched. Then he moved his lips as though making his mind up about something and said, “Put your hand out!”

But Nagi didn’t put his hand out and didn’t budge and the Frère’s voice rose terrifyingly as he shouted, “Put your hand out!”

Nagi remains as unmoving as a rock, and we rush up to him to support him from behind with our little trembling hands, but the Frère is bellowing and raises his hand high in the air and brings it down on Nagi’s face, at which we all scream, but we don’t make any noise and it’s clear that everything we think we’ve done didn’t happen because Nagi’s face reddens and he shouts, “Hitting is not allowed!”—at which the Frère’s voice roars out like thunder as he cries, “Out, you wretch! I’ll show you how to behave!”

Short, hurried, shaky footsteps are followed by long, resolute, merciless footsteps, and as soon as they have left classroom we go crazy, jumping up from our places and running and screaming a hundred times, as though to make the Frère hear, “Hitting is not allowed!” while a multitude of scenarios jostle before our eyes, all of which end with the Frère lying on the ground, the blood running from his face and Nagi next to him, his chest swollen with pride and his hands on hips, like the triumphant hero of an adventure movie.

The Frère returned alone and set about collecting the books again, but in vain. What had happened had happened and something had changed and student after student turned out to have forgotten his assignment book, but the Frère didn’t strike any of them; he made an angry gesture with his hand, averted his face, and then moved on as though he could have struck the boy but was fed up with everything. But you were lying, Teacher; you had been broken, and we saw you then with new eyes and we found you to be ordinary, and if we’d stripped you of your friar’s robe, you would have been just like anybody else on the street.

The day passed and anxiety over Nagi gnawed at us. At home in the evening, we told what had happened. Our mothers didn’t give us their full attention and our fathers were disturbed by the idea of rebellion so they sought to divert us. Next morning, Nagi was back. He stood with us in the lineup and we crowded round him with a thousand questions, but he didn’t answer, he just smiled and kept silent. His face was neither pale nor miserable. Nor was it, however, his face of yesterday. The period started, Nagi sat down, and the Frère started explaining the lesson as usual. After a little while, as though by agreement, the Frère called Nagi from his place and the two of them stood facing us. In threatening tones, the Frère said, “I’m going to the principal’s office for a few minutes and Nagi will be in charge. Anyone whose name Nagi writes down gets ten strokes of the cane!”

Nagi stands over us, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes widening as he scans us slowly, searching for any infraction. All the boys play it safe, arms folded in front of them and heads lowered in submission as they read, and they dart warning glances at me, as if to say, “Everything’s changed. Play it safe,” but I don’t play it safe. Why would I need to be safe from Nagi when I’m his friend?

I suddenly find myself calling out, “Nagi!” as though I were trying to keep him with me, to cling on to him. But he pushes me violently away and then turns to the blackboard and writes my name, and the Frère comes and he gives me ten strokes with the cane in front of the class.

Here I am. Tears wet my face, my hand stings, and I turn to Nagi, who stands forever next to the Frère. I keep looking at him. Maybe he will cover his gaze just once.

Why, Sayed? (A Question)

WHY, MY DEAR, GOOD SAYED ABD EL-TAWWAB? It wasn’t the first time, and what happened was no surprise to you. Not to mention that the young man was polite and pleasant and you were the one who made a play for him. When you saw him get off the bus in front of the museum, his camera over his shoulder, his quiet demeanor appealed to you. He wasn’t trying to attract attention like the others. You, Sayed, were the one who approached him and started a conversation by saying hello and telling him you were an Egyptian boy who would like to make his acquaintance. His blue eyes widened in surprise. Then his lips parted in a welcoming smile that was not without a certain suspicion, which you quickly dispelled with your warm, fluent speech. Weren’t you happy with him in the restaurant? You had a long, sentimental talk,