The House of Jasmine

First published in 2012 by

INTERLINK BOOKS
An imprint of Interlink Publishing Group, Inc.
46 Crosby Street, Northampton, Massachusetts 01060
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Original Arabic copyright © Ibrahim Abdel Meguid, 1986, 2012
English translation copyright © Noha Radwan, 2012
Afterword copyright © Noha Radwan, 2012
Cover image copyright © Andesign101

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
'Abd al-Majid, Ibrahim.
[Bayt al-yasamin. English]
The house of jasmine / by Ibrahim Abdel Meguid; translated by Noha Radwan.
—1st American ed.
      p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56656-882-1 (pbk.)
1. Egypt—History—1970–1981—Fiction. I. Radwan, Noha M. II. Title.
PJ7804.M323B3913 2012
892.7'36—dc23

2011049566

Printed and bound in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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1

The people hauled a corpse in a sack out of Mahmudiyya Canal and no sooner had they opened the sack, than they saw an amazingly beautiful woman slowly coming back to life. Horrified, they stepped away from her, and she turned into a column of fire. They were shocked, and dropped unconscious or dead, while she began running naked in the streets, her blond hair flying behind her, and everyone who looked at her was charmed, began running after her, and was lost without a trace. . .

I had not thought about this ahead of time or planned for it. I had been wondering, ever since the bus filled up with the sixty workers and left the shipyard gate, why they had chosen me. There was no reason for me to be afraid, but at the same time I didn't feel particularly encouraged.

The bus went down Maks Street, through Qabbari, then Kafr ‘Ashri and Basal Port, and entered Saba
'
Banat Street, and all the while I neither spoke to anybody nor did anybody speak to me.

How did I fail to note the journey? It's only a short distance, but it's quite distinctive, for at the intersection at the end of Maks Street there is always a traffic jam, the intersection is always crowded with carts, trucks, trailers, the bus and the tram, and you can always hear a woman shouting. Suddenly the tranquility of the rest of Maks Street and the serenity of the buildings on both sides of it disappear. This serenity always makes you feel that you are walking alone and at night, but after that damned intersection, the noise never ceases to plague you. As soon as you reach al-Tarikh Bridge, the smell of stored cotton and jute assails you—a musty smell mixed with that of the grains stored in the ancient granaries of the credit bank. You see a man urinating against the wall of the granaries and another defecating by the wall with his face to the street. The road becomes rough, and the bus goes bumping over it, while the tram, which is usually running alongside the bus, rattles on. When you reach the intersection of Basal Port, where Khedive and Saba' Banat streets meet, the air becomes refreshingly cooler, because of the height of the buildings and the width of Khedive Street, which ends at the port. There you can sleep in peace. But we have passed all this. . .

My head almost hit the roof when I stood up. I bent a little and surveyed their faces. I felt like shouting insults at them for their eerie silence. I smiled. Alexandria is usually filled with bright light at this time of the year, her sea stretching leisurely into the distance, while the windows of her houses open like a woman drying her hair in the sunlight, and the girls stroll cheerfully in the streets.

I knew that the sudden traffic jam from Sidi Gabir Station to the white palace of Ras al-Tin would not disturb the city, would not mar her appearance. And here she was: indifferent to it all. Now I was out of that traffic jam, but Saba' Banat Street seemed to be at peace with the vehicles driving on it, with the stores on its sides open but quiet. Later I heard one of the people who had been in the traffic jam say that it didn't last long, and I can testify to that account, for how could you otherwise explain the relaxed atmosphere of Saba' Banat Street, as if what happened in the city didn't concern it?

This little city is enchanted; she can rid herself of her garbage even when the garbage collectors and street sweepers don't appear on her streets. It's as if she had an agreement with secret ghosts to keep her beautiful.

“Of course you know that you will each get half a pound after the reception. . . ” I said.

“. . . ”

“What do you say you each take a quarter of a pound now, and then just leave?” I said, and I must have frowned, because I felt my eyes getting wider.

“You mean we don't get to see Nixon?” one of them asked.

“It's up to you if you see him or not,” another answered.

The driver stopped the bus when I told him to, and the workers got off, laughing. I don't think that the traffic policeman at the end of the street cared about the bus blocking the intersection of Haqqaniyya marketplace, obstructing the tram and the pedestrian crossing.

As for my mother, who must have been in the small courtyard of the house, throwing wet bread crumbs to the chickens, I don't think that her heart fluttered, or her chest felt tight, at the moment when her son, who had the strange name, committed a crime. . .

#

It was not yet past one o'clock when I found myself on the sidewalk in front of Crystal Café, where I had been sitting to watch. The motorcade had passed, and the crowds had slipped down the side alleys leading to Manshiyya and Raml Station. The space around me appeared white and clear, with the endless blue sea, the immense sky, and me standing alone as if I had showed up after the end of the world. I almost laughed at the thought of a new world beginning with me. Then I shivered. It would be difficult to be Adam, and more difficult to have a world empty of everybody except me.

I hadn't noticed that the people who had lined the sidewalk along the seashore had crossed the street. Maybe they all retreated and fell into the sea. I saw a single man in the distance, where the shore curves and disappears and the pier to the castle of Qaitbay seems to extend from the tall buildings that occupy the view. Maybe the people followed the motorcade to the palace, and this man was their tail end. But enough time hasn't passed for that. And I wouldn't have missed it.

I pictured the president's wide, radiant smile, and Nixon's astonished smile, his red face and prominent cheeks, his right arm waving as if painting an endless wall. On both sides of the convertible, which was as wide as some mythical duck, there were two Americans, whose eyes were fixed on the high windows overlooking the street. Each had his hand resting on a gun at his side. Why was the one on the water's edge looking up, when there was nothing over the sea but the open sky?

I stuck my hands in my pockets, spat the cigarette butt out of my mouth in the skillful manner that I had now mastered, and walked on, thinking about my mind and the strange ways in which it was working.

#

Sixty times a quarter of a pound equals fifteen. I made twelve. I thought of giving the driver five pounds, because I figured that any money that he got would implacate him in the act, but then I gave him three, and smiled at the slyness with which I was suddenly acting.

I crossed Chamber of Commerce Street, and entered Sa'ad Zaghlul Street. I glanced to my left and saw people sitting outside the Brazilian coffee store drinking coffee. The girls' skirts were so tight that they revealed the elastic of their panties digging into their firm flesh, and their bras showed through their light shirts.

“Cappuccino,” I said to the man behind the espresso machine, who then looked up at me. Is there anything wrong? Is it because I am tall? Because I have come into the store alone? There were young couples sitting and whispering in every corner of the store. Standing alone among them, I discovered that I could not look around. It would be an invasion of their privacy, and would oblige people to raise their eyes quite high to look back at me.

“Pardon!” said a girl who almost bumped into me as she hurried into the store. Then she took a step backward, and nearly fell down the steps at the entrance. I held her arm, and felt my fingers press into her soft flesh. The smell of her perfume invaded and shattered me. It seemed as if my clothes fluttered and my nose widened at the invasion. I bought a news-paper from a nearby newsstand, and walked away with the sensation of her cool skin still on my fingers. I didn't care what the man behind the espresso machine said when I left before he had finished fixing my coffee.

#

On Safiyya Zaghlul Street, I realized that my feet alone were deciding my route. I love this street, and no one has ever liked the Alhambra Cinema as much as I used to. It used to open early in the day, so students always slipped in. It's probably the same now. We used to wait for a full hour before the movie started. The washed floors had a familiar smell, the faint lamps were spread far apart on both sides of the theater, and there was the distinct light of the bathroom. There was a spontaneous seating arrangement, as if whole schools had come into the theater and not just individual students. And there were the exchanges of insults:

“The School of Commerce at Muharram Bey salutes the Crafts School. May God provide! May God provide! Seven crafts in hand, but it's luck we demand. Tra la la la.” “Alexandria School of Crafts salutes Abbasiah High. Rain falls from the sky, out of water fish die!” “Abbasiah High salutes the School of Commerce. Spiro Spatis betrayed the nation. Spiro Spatis betrayed the nation. . . ” Meanwhile, the light of the bathroom remained distinctly visible.

It was quite a while before the show started. Then came the famous song: “My beloved nation, my grand nation, day after day its glories increase and its life fills with victories. My nation is growing and becoming liberated. My nation. My nation.” Everyone sang along. Then came the cheer: “Long live the good-for-nothing generation!”

As the movie started, so did the whistling, while the light of the bathroom remained distinctively visible. The steam engine runs between Marilyn Monroe's thighs, Jack Lemmon lets his boss use his apartment so that he can bring Shirley

MacLaine to it. Raf Vallone rapes Sophia Loren at the coal store. Gina Lollobrigida jumps into the circus ring with Tony Curtis. Burt Lancaster smiles idiotically at Gary Cooper. Kirk Douglas sadly touches the belly of Jean Simmons, who is pregnant with his son, the son of Spartacus. Jacques Sernas kidnaps Rossana Podesta, and starts the Trojan War. Steve Reeves plucks out a tree and throws it in front of the cart whose horses have bolted. A strange man sitting next to me says that he knew this Hercules personally before he got into the movies. The door to the bathroom opens every minute, and while my face remains turned towards the screen, my animal calls for that door. When I feel its heat on my thighs, I spread my legs a little, and then I get up. I am not the only one spilling himself on the bathroom floor. It's very crowded, and each person is looking intently at the floor to hide the well-known secret. All I see are bushy heads of hair. . . .

Why do I remember all these useless details now? It's all over, and it wasn't even a conscious decision on my part. I don't go to the movies or think about my animal anymore. Is it possible that I have forgotten about it? Well, it shouldn't distract me now. I should only look ahead.