The Day the Leader Was Killed (8 page)

“Thanks again. And that’s enough now,” she said calmly.

There were a great many rumors going around in Randa’s absence. I heard all sorts of amazing things. It was obvious that he had failed, as often happens with men who get married late in life. No, no, he’s queer.… Look at the way he gesticulates with his hands. No, but the problem is her frigidity: apparent beauty is not everything. There are also rumors that he’s having an affair with his sister. I listened and was hurt. I love you, Randa, as much as I used to, if not more. It hurts me to see you defeated so. My heart goes out to you in your wounded pride.

I thought I might get closer to the truth by resorting to Anwar Allam.

“Thanks!” he muttered sarcastically when I expressed my regret.

“I’m sorry for both of you,” I said as soon as I felt that he was doubting my sincerity.

“There’s nothing that warrants regret,” he said coldly. With not a word more, he returned to the paperwork on his desk.

Gulstan Hanem invited me over. I accepted without hesitation, almost sure that she would tell me the truth. She was all bedecked like a bride.

“You only visit me when I invite you?” she said reprimandingly.

“I don’t want to cause you any embarrassment.”

“A nonsensical excuse, and you’re the first to know that.”

She offered me ice cream filled with nuts.

“It just occurred to me,” she then said.

I looked at her with interest, and she continued:

“My brother now seems far too busy for me, so how about your handling my affairs?”

The suggestion seemed like a bottomless pit opening up beneath me.

“This may upset him,” I said.

“It’s his idea!”

“Give me time to think about it, for I have been toying with the idea of enrolling for a master’s degree,” I said, embarrassed.

“The work is simple but requires someone honest.”

“Just give me a little while to think about it.”

She suddenly offered to reveal an important aspect of her past.

“My marriage has always made me the object of greed. Actually, it was my father who married me off to a man who was thirty years my senior. In spite of that, I continued to lead an impeccably honest and respectable life. My reputation has remained as good as gold.”

“You are the epitome of respect,” I said in a tone of despair which passed her unawares. “Anwar Bey is also respectable, yet see how unlucky he is,” I added cunningly.

“Are you feeling sorry for him or for his wife?” she asked, looking at me suspiciously.

“What’s done cannot be undone!” I said defiantly.

“Really?!”

“That’s the truth, plain and simple.”

“Then forget about other people’s problems and let’s concentrate on ours!”

I crouched in a corner, not knowing what to say. Then, with a bluntness that reminded me of her brother, she added:

“You understand and so do I. I’ve a right to seek my own happiness as long as my dignity remains untouched,” she added somewhat excitedly.

Then, in order to break that unbearable silence, I said, “I respect so sound a logic.”

“You won’t have any regrets. And I’ll be waiting,” she said sweetly.

S
ix pairs of eyes whirling in a cesspool of confusion: my eyes in my mother’s eyes, my eyes in my father’s, and my mother’s in my father’s—all drawing away from each other furtively. My mother was shocked to see me walk in at that time of night. Her face grew pale, reflecting the color of my own face. My father was asleep, covered with a sheet.

“Randa, what happened?” she whispered.

We stood in the center of the hall, and all my pent-up emotions suddenly gushed out at one go:

“I’m getting a divorce!”

I told her the whole story in detail. My father was told about it in bits and pieces after breakfast.

“We can’t possibly see things eye to eye,” I told him.

My mother then started telling him about the guests and the drinking. His face was flushed with anger.

“Take it easy on your health,” I said.

“I now understand everything. If only I had the strength, I would’ve shown him.”

“How come you didn’t see through him?”

“Everyone has secrets which he conceals. I shan’t deny that I was fooled.”

“We’d better consult a lawyer.”

“That’s the best way to spread the scandal. Actually, he’s conceded to all my rights without the least objection,” I said.

“This quick divorce may tempt evil tongues to gossip about you.”

“I can take that, and pretty soon it will all be forgotten.”

Although none of my colleagues said anything, I could sense that the place was fraught with questions, particularly on Elwan’s part. I was exceedingly angry with him.

“I’m very unhappy,” he whispered one day when we were alone.

“Why?” I inquired coldly.

“Maybe it’s a feeling of guilt.”

“You’ve nothing to do with what happened.”

“I still love you,” he said, averting his eyes from me.

“I don’t want to hear this word, please!” I said sharply.

As time went by, everything seemed to aggravate me, even my own anger. I began to feel as sorry for him as I was for myself. I even began to wonder how things were going between him and Gulstan. Would he marry her one day? What’s wrong with that? The woman may be better than her brother. There didn’t seem to be anything
wrong with her. And she obviously wants him. Damn it, she loves him! Who would’ve thought that one day we would have parted? Who would’ve thought that our big hopes would have frittered away like a handful of dust? One day, as we were getting ready to leave, he whispered:

“I’m dying to have a few words with you.”

My immense desire to talk to him made me as silent as the grave. So we went to the Pyramids Resthouse, where we had some sandwiches with our tea, and kept staring at each other foolishly.

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“I’m living without plans or dreams, which gives me peace of mind,” I said quite simply.

“Me too, but Grandpa says that suddenly—”

I interrupted him. “Forget about your grandfather and his quotable quotes. They’re of no use to us. When will you marry Gulstan?”

“Who said that?” he inquired, glowering.

“Just a question.”

“I don’t sell myself.”

“You therefore think I sold myself?”

“No, it’s a different matter. It’s not unusual for a girl to marry a man older than herself, but the opposite …” he replied hurriedly.

He scrutinized me carefully.

“Why did your marriage break up?” he then asked.

I had a genuine desire to confess the truth to him, to him in particular, rather than to anyone else.

“Promise not to whisper a word to a single soul?”

“On my word of honor.”

So I let out all the feelings bottled up within me.

“The bastard!” he suddenly cried out.

“The time for anger is over. But please don’t forget your promise.”

“It’s beyond one’s wildest imagination.”

“More amazing things have been heard though.”

I
dream of my father, my mother, and my sister Mahasin. I even once beheld them in a parachute floating above my head. Has perchance the time to depart drawn close? Is it time that the old man spared the country the cost of his pension? I’m in good health in spite of Sulayman Mubarak’s evil eye! Health is ailment enough. So said the Messenger of God. O Lord! Thy worshipper is waiting. At any moment he expects to hear the knell of parting day, and he shall welcome the caller with all due respect. O Lord, may everything end well! Protect me from pain and infirmity. I thank Thee for a long and happy life. Suffice it that I have not harmed a single soul in the world of ours replete with harm. I have spent my old days strolling amid Thy words, Thy prophets, and Thy saints. Earlier I braved the vicissitudes of Thy world. Worship is now my form of exercise, songs my entertainment, and lawful food my enjoyment. The feast
comes along adorned with autumnal dewdrops. White clouds gather over the somber River Nile and the towering evergreen trees. These kinds of days are few and far between in the life of this shattered family. Fawwaz relaxes in his
gallabiya
, Hanaa combs her white hair whilst Elwan is busy shaving, getting ready to go out.

“Children, we’re finally gathered together as one happy family!” I cried joyfully, looking at them one by one.

“A drop of rest in a sea of fatigue,” said Fawwaz in his loud voice.

“Had things been different, we would’ve gone off to the Qanater Gardens.”

“An idea quite out of keeping with the times. Actually, it’s a crazy idea.”

“We eat and sleep. That’s what’s left of the feast.”

“And you, Elwan?”

“I’ll walk over to the Café.”

“Gossip as usual!” said Fawwaz with a smile.

“Once again, the feast coincides with another festive occasion—Victory Day,” I added.

“Victory and prison,” added Elwan ironically.

“Nothing ever remains the same. There’s always something new under the sun,” I said good-humoredly.

“Really! Long live patience and let’s just keep waiting!”

“A new oil dig or the discovery of an unknown river in the desert,” mused Fawwaz.

“Or the outbreak of a revolution,” said Elwan.

“Does revolution mean more than just added destruction?” surmised Fawwaz.

“To make matters even worse than they are!” cried Elwan sarcastically.

They know nothing of revolutions. They haven’t even heard of them. The hired storyteller has told them a false, untrue story. The poor teacher begins his lesson with the treacherous question: What were the causes of the failure of the 1919 revolution?

Goddamn bastards! Have you no drop of decency left? Prison guards … worshipers of Nero … There goes Elwan waving to us as he goes by. Off he goes, burdened by his own disappointment and that of his generation.

“Let’s watch the celebrations,” said Hanaa, switching on the television set.

The general atmosphere is one of immense joy. The President walks by, surrounded by a luminous halo like that of the Night of Fate, clad in his commander’s uniform and the king’s scepter in his hand. Hordes of dignitaries follow.

“He’s ever so pleased with himself,” said Hanaa innocently.

“Today’s his day,” I said.

“He’s happy and deserves to be so,” said Fawwaz. “He’s lost so much since September fifth,” he added sorrowfully.

A ground and air parade all at once: a rare sight, not likely to happen again.

“We would see the army only on Mahmal Day,” I said in a voice echoing from the past.

“Look, Father, that’s a whole other world.”

“His face is all pink as though he’s smeared it with rouge,” said Hanaa with a laugh.

The army units go by and so does time. I start to feel lethargic and sleepy. Then suddenly I wake up at a strange point in time. History and time corner me, saying: That is how the events you skimmed through in history books took place. And now it’s happening right here in the living room. The television screen becomes blurred and an unusual commotion follows: voices are heard and then a blackout.

“Fawwaz, is there anything wrong with the television set?”

“Nothing wrong with the set. I don’t know what happened.”

“Something odd. I don’t feel comfortable,” said Hanaa in a worried tone.

“Me too,” added Fawwaz.

“Is …?” I asked.

“God only knows, Father. Pretty soon we’ll know everything.”

“God protect us!” I said from the bottom of my heart.

L
et this be a festive occasion and let’s forget our worries for an hour or so. But how when there are a hundred chinks in the door? What is the River Nile trying to intimate? And the trees? Listen carefully. They’re saying, Elwan, you poor fellow, trapped within four walls, Randa is coming back to you in the guise of friendship and small talk, in the guise of undeclared love resting on twin pillars of steel and despair, and shrouded in vague dreams. No persecution from family, no hope, and no despair! March at a brisk military pace, for today is soldiers’ day. The café is packed with wordmongers. Here there’s no satisfaction and no action. A transistor radio, brought along for the occasion, is placed on one of the tables between us. Just like on the day the late President broadcast his defeat in June 1967. The late President was greater in his defeat than this one in his glory was the first thing I heard. This reminds me of what my
grandfather once said: We are a people more given to defeat than to victory. The strain that spells out despair has become deeply ingrained in us because of the countless defeats we have had to endure. We have thus learned to love sad songs, tragedies, and heroes who are martyrs. All our leaders have been martyrs: Mustafa Kamel, martyr to struggle and sickness; Muhammad Farid and Saad Zaghloul, both martyrs to exile; Mustafa al-Nahhas, martyr to persecution; Gamal Abd al-Nasser, martyr to June 5. As for this victorious, smug one, he has broken the rule: his victory constituted a challenge which gave rise to new feelings, emotions for which we were quite unprepared. He exacted a change of tune, one which had long been familiar to us. For this, we cursed him, our hearts full of rancor. And, ultimately, he was to keep for himself the fruits of victory, leaving us his
Infitah
, which only spelled out poverty and corruption. This is the crux of the matter.

We were caught up in the heat of arguments as the loudspeaker and transistor radio broadcast the details of Victory Day celebrations to whoever cared to listen. And, as usual, time got the better of us until, suddenly, strange voices could be heard.

“The traitors … the traitors,” cried the broadcaster’s voice.

Tongues grew paralyzed and eyes were averted as heads crowded around the transistor radio. The broadcasting of the celebrations came to a sudden halt, and then some songs started to be broadcast.

“What happened?”

“Something unusual.”

“He said: ‘The traitors, the traitors, the traitors!’ ”

“An invasion!”

“Of whom?”

“Honestly, what a stupid question!”