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

his way of getting out of the situation, as though telling us, “See? I’m so funny I make even myself laugh. What more do you want?”

This approach displeased us somewhat. El-Dawakhli’s artificial laughter diluted the strength of our mockery. Without his pain and anger our joy was incomplete, and our wicked impulse drove us imperiously on to the end, as though we were possessed by demons; we didn’t even pay attention to the teacher calling us from behind to come back. We went up to el-Dawakhli and set about assiduously abusing him, more than one falling on him and slapping him and pulling him. At that instant, we were no longer laughing at his appearance; we were now laughing simply to cause him pain, so that we could break that shell of indifference under which he hid his sorrow. And el-Dawakhli would not give in. He went on faking his laugh and walking doubled over, but we increased the attack further and further until one of us said something about him suckling babies with his breasts and we burst into even greater laughter. It was only at that point that el-Dawakhli stopped walking and started flinging his arms about violently in an attempt to hit us. All his blows went wide, however, and he fastened his eyes on us and opened his mouth to say something. Then his lips quivered and he burst into tears.

Boxer Puppies, All Colors

“FAWWAZ HUSSEIN” IS THE NAME he’ll whisper to you, introducing himself, and when you see him you’re sure to find him lovable, for Fawwaz Hussein is likeable. He is also a bit of a dandy, as witnessed by his Vaseline-slicked hair and his forelock, in the style of Anwar Wagdi, not to mention the broad leather belt that encircles his huge paunch and at whose midpoint is a brass buckle on which “LOVE” is written in English, and, finally, the shiny shoes with the pointed tips and wedge heels that Fawwaz favors above all other kinds. Though all these things went out of fashion twenty years ago, when Fawwaz was a young man, he still takes good care of them and will sometimes be overcome by a sense of how smart they are and you’ll catch him contemplating in an admiring and self-satisfied way, as he talks to you, the buckle on his belt or the tips of his shoes. Fawwaz Hussein is also polite, so polite that he makes one feel embarrassed. He veritably drips politeness. As soon as he sees you, he runs over to shake your hand, bowing so deeply before you that his back forms a bow, as though there’s nothing he’d love more in the world than for his huge body to shrink and dwindle, out of respect for your honorable presence. When he talks to you, he whispers, lowers his eyes, and forms his thick lips into an “O,” puckering them up till they look like the beak of a tiny, innocent bird. Why not then love Fawwaz?

Despite all that politeness and all that submissiveness, the answer is known to the residents of Sugar-and-Lime Alley, where Fawwaz is accustomed to sit, in the café at its top end. These residents have seen Fawwaz fight with switch blades and chairs, on which occasions he pushes his lips forward in preparation, fixes his opponent with a look of fire, and then initiates the battle with a roaring flood of insults most of which turn on the latter’s mother’s private life. They will never forget the day when Fawwaz got into a fight with Sergeant-Major Abd el-Ghani following a game of cards they’d been playing for money. Fawwaz gathered the children of the alley and went and stood with them outside Abd el-Ghani’s house by the railroad tracks and started singing in his deep, cracked voice, the children gleefully repeating after him, “Mrs. Sergeant-Major, you great fat turd, you eat green beans and shit bean curd.” Such is the Fawwaz Hussein known to the people of the alley, but they don’t know everything. No one, for example, knows where Fawwaz works. Sometimes he has money, but more often he’s broke.

On one particular morning, Fawwaz was sitting in the café as usual drinking tea with milk and smoking a waterpipe when a boy passed in front of him carrying a puppy on his shoulder. The boy was barefoot and wearing an old, torn gallabiya. The dog, on the other hand, had sleek black hair and looked beautiful, and there was a red collar with a bow round its neck.

“You boy, come here,” cried Fawwaz, an idea flashing through his mind. The boy approached, looking fearfully at Fawwaz.

“Where did you get that dog?” Fawwaz asked him in threatening tones.

“From el-Maadi.”

“You stole it. I’ll give you hell,” cried Fawwaz, before delivering a hard blow to the boy’s face, causing him to throw the dog down and show Fawwaz his heels.

Fawwaz grabbed the dog and picked it up; it had a strange appearance, with a sagging belly, short legs, and a sloping face. Then he got it a small bone to chew from the kebab seller’s and sat down and smoked his pipe and thought, “What can I do with this dog?”

The dog was from el-Maadi and had to be worth a lot; once he’d heard that boxers could fetch as much as a hundred pounds. After some thought and meditation, Fawwaz arrived at the solution, and two days later an advertisement appeared in al-Ahram stating, “Dogs for sale, pedigree Boxers, all colors available,” followed by the telephone number of the café.

From morning on Fawwaz sat next to the telephone answering enquiries and giving out his address in Sugar-and-Lime Alley, and a little before noon the first “client” showed up when a large black Mercedes entered the alley and a white-haired man of imposing appearance wearing an overcoat of expensive black cloth descended. His face was as red as an Englishman’s and for a moment Fawwaz thought he must be a foreigner. Fawwaz