The House of Jasmine (3 page)

“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. . .

3

There is not a single person in Dikhayla who does not know Hajj ‘Abd al-Tawwab. He owns the largest fleet of vehicles trans-porting building stone from the mountain quarries. He is a good man who goes on the pilgrimage every year and never misses the ‘Umra during Ragab and Ramadan. God granted him a son after thirty years. One day, at the break of dawn, the people were startled by the screams of his wife, who was running barefoot down the Mosque Street and jumping in the air. Since God had granted him a son, it was the habit of Hajj ‘Abd al-Tawwab to spend most of his nights in prayer to God and repetitions of His name. That night, he went on chanting, “Ya Latif, Ya Latif,” not listening to the warnings of his wife. “Ya Latif” is one of the names of God which has an immediate universal effect, or so said one of the clergymen who later commented on the incident.

The ceiling of the room was cleft in two, and down came a large radiant white bird, which filled the room with a bluish glow. The bird took the boy to its chest, wrapped its feet around him, and flew through the ceiling and open sky to the seventh heaven, where the throne of God stands.

Today is the eighteenth of June, a bland day without any celebrations, decorations, or speeches. For a long time, the twenty-third of December overshadowed the eighteenth of June. Then came the fifth of June to send them both to hell. Now the sixth of October is supreme. For the hundredth time, I could not keep myself from looking over the four large rooms, the wide living room, the oil-painted walls, the beige tiled floors, and the bathroom with its rose tiles, big bathtub, and movable shower head. . . I am getting taller. . . !

‘Abdu al-Fakahani had finally given me the apartment after taking me to the verge of despair. Less than a week after he had received the two hundred pounds he told me that he needed another hundred. I screamed, and it was a comical scene, with me angrily waving my hands in front of his face, our heads only half a meter apart, as I struggled to restrain myself from hitting him. He walked away and sat down, while I kept pacing back and forth in his store, looking at the fruits and vegetables and thinking that I would like to pile it all on top of him until he died.

“I'm not rushing you. The apartment can wait.”

I wanted to say that my mother would die if she heard this, but he looked as if he knew that. He was smiling like a monkey while I was about to explode. I could not even say a word, but something in the way I looked must have urged him to say: “You can write an IOU for the amount, and I can use it to borrow the money from another merchant.”

I agreed. It was either that or I would kill him. No middle ground. He gave me the keys to the apartment, even before the scheduled date, and was shameless enough to congratulate me and wish me good luck. I thought of asking Magid, Hassanayn, and ‘Abd al-Salam to help me move, but ended up renting a truck, and, in the middle of the night, I piled up all the furniture into it myself.

I heard my mother mumble “Bismillah” as she entered the apartment with her right foot, not forgetting to make sure that I did the same. I thanked God, thinking that she was going to like the apartment. I quickly put the old furniture in two rooms. The apartment looked as if it could accommodate all the furniture that I had seen displayed at stores on the streets of al-‘Attarin, Tawfik, Salah Salim, and Fuad. I had seen these stores many times before, but only recently did I look at them more closely. I spent a whole week looking at furniture I knew I could not afford. But I did it when I was feeling optimistic following a pleasant surprise.

A few days after Labor Day, the chairman of the board of directors had called me to his office, and said, “You have honored us, Shagara.”

He was a big man with a white face and rosy cheeks, and at that moment he had a big smile on his face. I would not have believed my eyes had it not been for al-Dakruri, who was also there, looking absolutely delighted.

“You have indeed honored us,” he went on saying, and produced a thank-you note addressed to him and to all the workers who had participated in the Labor Day celebrations in Hilwan.

“It is a letter from the President's office. You will be famous, Shagara,” he said, looking straight at me, but I was unable to utter a word. He must have thought that I was too happy for words, and decided to give me a raise. Al-Dakruri looked as if his face were going to burst with joy, but I just stood there in shock at how things worked in this country. . .

#

I went to the beach, where there were quite a few people. I was hoping to meet Magid, Hassanayn, and ‘Abd al-Salam, but they didn't show up, so I sat alone at Biso Bistro. Most of the faces there looked familiar, but I didn't really know anyone. It was the early afternoon and I had eaten two Bolti fish, which I had grilled myself for lunch. My mother said that she was not going to eat until late afternoon, and remained sitting on the balcony, looking at the sea. I watched the children playing in the water and on the beach, the little girls walking together with their arms wrapped around each other's waists. I watched a few families who had gathered to eat under the umbrellas. The sun was shining brightly, flooding everything around me in waves of light, while my mother still wore her black mourning clothes. She inspires silence at home and sometimes even scares me. The silver paint on the walls makes her clothes look even darker, especially now that the electric light is brighter. Yesterday she said that she heard a noise in the apartment next door, so she went over and knocked on the door. A young man opened the door and she offered him her congratulations on the new apartment, but he laughed, and said that he was only a painter, and that most of the apartments in the building were empty because the renters worked in the Gulf countries. Then he asked her when we had returned from Saudi Arabia. He also asked if she liked the paint job in our apartment, and she said that she did.