Читать книгу The House of Jasmine - Ibrahim Abdel Meguid - Страница 6

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After the 1967 defeat, there appeared a man with bare feet, ragged clothes, and a thick beard and mustache, who roamed the streets of Qabbari. He often stopped to yell: “Fuck the Empire where the sun never sets!” And he would beat a dog he kept and called Johnson. A year later another dog appeared with him, which he called Jacqueline, and a third, which he called U Thant. Then there were more dogs, whom he called Brent, Mobutu, Indira, Lord Caradon, Golda, Elizabeth, Pompidou, and so on. This parade became quite a sight, and people always opened their windows to watch it. The children ran after him yelling: “Fuck the Empire where the sun never sets!”

There were, however, two unforgettable days. The first was the day his dog Johnson died, and he got drunk and lay down on the sidewalk crying bitterly, the dog’s body on his lap. The other dogs, which he had also gotten drunk, were swaying from side to side, and barking sadly, interrupted by hiccups, which no one had thought dogs could get. And then there was the day last week when the man himself died, and his dogs roamed the streets alone yelling: “Fuck the Empire where the sun never sets!”

The next day was the coldest and most depressing day of my life. Every minute, I thought that someone must have reported what I had done, and that the word had spread as quickly as the shipyard’s machinery turned. I remained in my office all day, alone with my fears. But at the end of the day I saw the driver Usta Zinhum at the door of the administration building looking at me. I shook hands with him, and felt that I really loved this old man with his big potbelly.

#

The days passed as usual. In the mornings I worked in a room crowded with dusty files that piled ever higher and gradually crept toward me. In the evenings I played backgammon with my only friends, Hassanayn, Magid, and ‘Abd al-Salam. We preferred to meet at Masikh Café because it was on the main road between Dikhayla al-Bahariyya, the old neighborhood on the shore, and the newer South Dikhayla, which crept into the hills. The residents of both areas preferred their local cafés, and only passersby sat at Masikh Café. There were also a few young students who came to avoid the crowds, but because they saw that we were older, they never mixed with us.

I had met Hassanayn about a year earlier, after we both helped to save a girl from drowning. He said that he lived at Qabbari and had been coming to Dikhayla beach since his childhood, and that he used to have many friends in the area, but none of them were left except Magid, the pharmacist to whom he introduced me on the same day. They both talked a lot about their friend ‘Abd al-Salam, who was in his tenth year in the army.

“You have been in Dikhayla for six years, and you don’t know anybody?” Hassanayn asked me.

“I go to work and return home in silence. I don’t meet anybody, and only rarely do I come to the beach,” I replied.

He smiled and said, “There was a man like you on our street, who people thought worked for the intelligence.”

Two months after we met, the war started. Magid was recruited into the reserve army. We later learned that he was behind the lines with the medical corps. I found myself worrying, together with Hassanayn, about ‘Abd al-Salam, whom I had never met. We became even more worried when Magid returned at the end of the war, and we learned that ‘Abd al-Salam was surrounded with the forces of the third army. When he returned, after the siege was over, I hugged him as though I really knew him. I told him that, since the beginning of the war, I had been having sexual dreams, and that one of them involved Golda Meir. He chuckled, but I swear I wasn’t lying.

#

Decorations filled the streets of Alexandria, so I knew that it was New Year’s, but I didn’t care. I buried both my marriage plans and my thoughts of selling the house. I didn’t want to look out my windows because if I opened them I could be seen. There was no way out except committing a big robbery, and that was something I could not bring myself to do, or going to work in an oil country, which, because of my mother, I could not do either. But al-Dakruri, the thin pale representative of the workers’ union, told me: “There will be two hundred workers this time, a large number, and you should know how to keep them under control. A pound and a half for each worker.”

It was decided that on the twenty-sixth of July I should take them to Gamal ‘Abd al-Nassir Avenue, near Sidi Gabir train station, where President Sadat was going to get off the special train on his way to Ma’mura. I stopped the two buses at the intersection of Saba’ Banat Street and Haqqaniyya marketplace. I gave every worker one pound. It took a while for them to get off the buses, so the street filled with honking vehicles, and Manshiyya Square became a living hell. But everything ended well, and I gave fifteen pounds to Usta Zinhum, who had also been the driver on the previous trip, and another fifteen to the other driver, who was on his first trip with me. He laughed when he realized what we had done.

“No ratting,” I said.

“No ratting.”

“No ratting,” they said, one after the other, and left happily.

My hopes were revived, but there was no news of any important visitor to Egypt this summer. I hid the seventy pounds in the mattress on which I slept, and they became a hundred when the shipyard gave us a bonus on the occasion of inaugurating a new ship. The summer passed quietly. On Fridays I met with Hassanayn and ‘Abd al-Salam on the beach, but Magid had to work on Fridays. He always said that he dreamed of having his own pharmacy so he could take Friday off, and not Sundays, and that he was working hard to realize that dream.

We used to sit at Biso Bistro and watch the people around us. ‘Abd al-Salam often talked of Dikhayla beach in the old days when it was clean and not crowded. There used to be foreigners living in the villas behind the courthouse, and they would hold musical and theatrical performances, as well as sports matches that were open to the public. Now the beach was neglected, and its visitors came from Qabbari and Mitras, bringing noise and arguments as well as cooking utensils and numerous children.

Hassanayn never stopped smiling and waving at the girls and women who passed by. Whenever he got a response, he blushed and said with embarrassment: “That’s it for me. I can’t go any further.” We usually laughed at him, and only minutes later he’d resume his smiles and waves.

I often thought about the one hundred pounds, and, in moments of despair, repeatedly thought of wasting them. At the end of summer, winter arrived. One night at the café, Hassanayn asked me, “Why do you look so distracted these days?”

“On the contrary. I’m not distracted at all,” I replied.

Magid said that many of his customers at the pharmacy forgot to pick up the medicine they’d bought, and then returned the next day to ask if they had forgotten anything. ‘Abd al-Salam said that when he took the train to and from Rashid to go to work every day, he always saw people fighting as they got on and off the train, but once they were on the train, they remained as silent as deaf-mutes. I made up my mind to go to Holy Yahya, who sold carpets and straw mats as a street vender, for it was known that he was also a broker.

#

“I will sell the house,” I said to my mother one night, while I was wrapped in a rough blanket, reading the evening paper, whose headline was “Beirut Burning.” We could hear the wind roaring and the rain beating on the houses and streets outside.

“Sell it, son,” she replied, without looking at me. She was sitting in front of the kerosene stove warming up her hands as well as the small room where we sat. She had been awakened by the chickens screaming in the coop, which she had recently said she wanted to repair.

“I will rent a big apartment in the Bahari neighborhhood.”

“Sell it, son,” she repeated in the same tone. I could not tell whether it meant satisfaction or despair.

A few days later, Holy Yahya, who had decided to buy the house himself, came by. He brought along the fruit seller, ‘Abdu al-Fakahani, who was building an apartment building by the sea, near the airport. Holy Yahya was the one who told me about ‘Abdu, and said that he would put in a good word for me, so that I could rent an apartment in his building.

I made my mother put her fingerprint on a sales contract for a thousand pounds, which Holy Yahya paid in cash. It was the first time I had ever seen a thousand pounds. We were required to leave the house in six months. ‘Abdu al-Fakahani wrote me a rent contract for an apartment that I was entitled to get in six months and took the thousand pounds. My mother remained silent and didn’t stir the whole time. I felt my heart sink. Who is the winner here? I do have a contract, but it is no more than a piece of paper that, for any reason, may become useless. Holy Yahya has secured a house for himself, and al-Fakahani has received a thousand pounds! I could not retreat. If you had been as naive as I was, you wouldn’t have retreated either. Besides, there is a kind of happiness that can suddenly swell up inside a person and make him very shortsighted indeed.

During the next four months, Holy Yahya visited us frequently, and I also went to see the apartment building and became less worried about my prospects.

“Why doesn’t your mother sit with us?” Holy Yahya asked me on one of his visits. I couldn’t find an answer. She hadn’t been talking to me much. Every time a chick died, she brought it for me to see. If I was outside, she would wait for me to get home and see it, and I would hold it by its soft legs and throw it as far as I could out of the windows over the jam-packed rooftops.

“Her spirits will rise when you move to the new apartment,” Holy Yahya said.

On my next visit to ‘Abdu al-Fakahani, he said, “Mr. Shagara, I still have your thousand pounds if you want them back. The construction costs have gone up, and I need another two hundred pounds.”

“. . . ”

“Mr. Shagara, you are an employee in the big shipyard, and you can apply for a loan.”

I left him, and didn’t stop at the café. I had bought a kilo of oranges from him. I gave them to a beggar on my way home. It was only six o’clock when I got home, and my mother was already asleep. I heard the chickens clucking and thought of giving them some food. I had never done that before. Why do I dislike this peaceful house? What had gotten into me that I wanted to change something that has always been the way it is?

Lying on my bed, I felt weary, but I found myself thinking about my old Arabic teacher at the Ras al-Tin High School. He had a sad face and calm features. He always said that life was too short to be spent in sadness and worry. If you feel that way, all you had to do was get a sheet of paper and write a letter to whomever you had offended, or had offended you. Write to ask for forgiveness or to explain that you are hurt. You won’t even need to mail this letter because you will feel better already, and will tear it up. My teacher said that this was his only successful method of getting rid of his worries and sadness. He disappeared suddenly from our school, and no one knew where he went, but many of the teachers became sulky and quiet after his disappearance.

In my utterly miserable state, I thought of writing a letter to my illiterate mother, who slept in the next room, asking for her forgiveness. I got out a sheet of paper, placed it on top of a newspaper, and laid it on my knee. I wrote:

Dear Mr. President, champion of the crossing and the victory: Please accept my sincerest greetings.

We would like to inform Your Excellency that the workers of the Marine Vessels Shipyard have shown an enthusiastic desire to travel to Cairo to join you in the Labor Day celebrations. However, the Chairman of the Board objected, saying that this will slow down production. What production could be so important as to prevent us from expressing our love and support to Your Excellency?

Sincerely yours,

A faithful worker in the shipyard

#

At sunrise on the first of May, I was standing in front of two big buses at Masr Station. I felt the cool breeze on my face while I watched the rows of Peugeot taxis, their drivers smoking in silence. Usta Zinhum, who was on his third trip with me, was sleeping on the steering wheel, and so was Usta ‘Abbas, who was on his second trip with me. The big broken station clock showed twelve o’clock, and there was little movement in the place. The station square had a large garden whose benches were occupied by sleepers covered in rags. I was smoking nervously, thinking about the week before and how I’d been overcome by hysterical laughter while playing backgammon with Hassanayn, Magid, and ‘Abd al-Salam. I didn’t want to tell them anything about this. Al-Dakruri had come into my office, looking even paler than usual.

“Prepare yourself for the Labor Day celebrations. I have recommended you because you know Cairo and Hilwan well.”

It took a tremendous effort to keep my surprise from rising to my face. I had never visited either Cairo or Hilwan, and I was also trying to hide my anxiety long enough to find out the whole story. Al-Dakruri said that some cowardly worker had sent a letter to the president, claiming that the shipyard’s chairman of the board was preventing the workers from traveling to join the President in celebrating their day. Al-Dakruri also mentioned that he was upset that the letter was written in terrible handwriting—I had used my left hand to write it, then mailed it from the main post office in Manshiyya.

The president’s office had mailed the letter back to the shipyard with “We received this letter” written on it.

“So they haven’t asked for anyone to travel to Cairo?”

He gave me a sarcastic smile, wished me a good trip, and left. I could hardly believe it.

#

I stood for a while watching the workers arrive, each carrying a small lunch bag even though the administration had promised to give them lunch and a bottle of the rare Spatis soda. The square bustled with movement as sunlight spread over the place and the ground glistened, still wet with dew. I was excited. The drivers of the Peugeot taxis were yelling: “Cairo, Cairo!” I was thinking of the two hundred workers. Each one was supposed to receive four pounds for the trip, but I was going to give them two. Out of the four-hundred-pound profit, I was going to give a hundred to each of the drivers and keep two hundred, which I could throw in the sly, pock-marked face of ‘Abdu al-Fakahani.

A pleasant feeling of security came over me. I love this city, which drifts from winter into summer as if it were floating in an enchanted universe. There was not a single dark cloud in the sky. Only a few white clouds, like children strolling in the open space. Thank you, Lord, for not forsaking your son, Shagara Muhammad ‘Ali, whose strange name has given him trouble during his childhood and youth, and is still distasteful to some of your impatient worshippers. Oh, Lord, please finish my act well, and don’t disappoint me by killing my mother.

The two buses started down the road, which was shining with dew. The fog had lifted off the road but lingered in the fields to its sides. In a few spots, green trees appeared to be floating in a wide sea of white. There were many pigeons lazily hopping on the side of the road, but I was gazing at the tops of the casuarina and camphor trees looking for crows, ibix, or hoopoes. I could see that Usta Zinhum was looking at me and chuckling. We had decided to spend the day in Tanta. . .