67
Al-Sayyid Ahmad sat at his desk bent over his ledgers, immersing himself in his daily tasks, which helped him forget, if only temporarily, his personal worries as well as the bloody public ones that were in the news all the time. He had grown to love the store as much as his evenings of fellowship and music, because in both situations he successfully freed himself from the hell of thinking. Although the store’s atmosphere was full of haggling, selling, buying, making money, and similar concerns of ordinary, daily life, it restored his confidence that everything could return to normal, to the original condition of peace and stability. Peace? Where had it gone and when would it be ready to return? Even in his store there were distressing, whispered conversations about bloody events. Customers were no longer content just to bargain and buy. Their tongues kept belaboring the news and bewailing events. Over the bags of rice and coffee beans he had heard about the battle of Bulaq, the massacres at Asyut, the funeral processions with tens of coffins, and the young man who had wrested a machine gun away from the enemy, intending to bring it back into al-Azhar Mosque, only to be killed before he could get there as swarms of bullets sank into his body. News like this, tinged crimson with blood, assaulted his ears from time to time in the very place where he had taken refuge, seeking to forget
How miserable it was to live constantly in the shadow of death. Why did not the revolution achieve its objectives quickly before he or any of his family was harmed?… He was not stingy with money and did not begrudge it his emotional involvement, but sacrificing a life was another matter. What kind of punishment was God inflicting on His flock? Life had become cheap and blood was flowing… The revolution was no longer a thrilling spectacle. It threatened his security whenever he came or went and menaced the life of his rebellious son. His enthusiasm for it, but not for its goal, had dwindled. He still dreamt of independence and the return of Sa'd, but without a revolution, bloodshed, or terror. He chanted slogans with the demonstrators and was zealous with the zealots, but his mind was attached to life and struggled to resist this current, like a tree trunk in a flood, its branches torn off by storms. Nothing, no matter how great, would weaken his love for life. Let him keep his love for life to the end of his days. If only Fahmy felt that way too, so that he would not sacrifice his life; Fahmy, the disobedient son who had thrown himself into the stream without a life preserver.
"Is al-Sayyid Ahmad here?"
He heard the voice and sensed that someone was hurtling into the shop like a human projectile. He looked up from his desk and saw Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad in the middle of the room blinking his inflamed eyes, futilely trying to peer toward the desk. Al-Sayyid Ahmad’s spirits rose. With a smile he shouted at the visitor, "Make yourself at home, Shaykh Mutawalli. We are blessed by your presence".
The shaykh appeared reassured. He advanced, his torso swaying backward and forward as though he were riding on a camel. Al-Sayyid Ahmad leaned over his desk, putting out his hand to take his visitor’s and press it firmly, saying gently, "The chair’s to your right. Please sit down". Shaykh Mutawalli leaned his stick against the desk and took his seat. Putting some of the weight of his shoulders on his hands, which were placed on his knees, he said, "May God preserve you and sustain you".
The proprietor responded wholeheartedly, "How fine your prayer is and how much I've needed it". Turning toward Jamil al-Hamzawi, who was weighing rice for a customer, he advised him, "Don't forget to prepare the parcel for our master the shaykh".
Jamil al-Hamzawi responded, "Who could forget our master the shaykh?"
The shaykh spread out his hands and raised his head, moving his lips in a quiet prayer of which only an intermittent whisper could be heard. Then he returned to his former pose and was silent for a moment. By way of invocation he said, "I begin with a prayer for the Prophet, our guiding light".
Al-Sayyid Ahmad said fervently, "The finest of all blessings and peace on him".
"I ask a double portion of mercy for your father of blessed memory".
"May God have great mercy on him".
"Then I ask God to delight your eyes with your family and offspring for generations to come".
"Amen".
Sighing he continued: "I ask Him to return to us 'Our Effendi' the Khedive Abbas II, Muhammad Farid, and Sa'd Zaghlul".
"May God hear your prayer".
"And devastate the English for their past and present sins".
"Glory to the Omnipotent Avenger".
At that point, the shaykh cleared his throat and wiped his face with his palm before saying, "I saw you in a dream waving your hands. As soon as I opened my eyes I resolved to visit you".
The proprietor smiled somewhat sadly and replied, "That’s not surprising, because I'm in desperate need of your blessings, may God multiply them".
The shaykh leaned his face toward al-Sayyid Ahmad affectionately and asked, "Is what I heard about the incident at Bab al-Futuh correct?"
Al-Sayyid Ahmad smiled and answered him: "Yes… I wonder who told you".
"I was passing by the oil-pressing establishment of Ghunaym Hamidu when he stopped me and said, 'Haven't you heard what the English did to me and your dear friend al-Sayyid Ahmad?' In alarm I asked him to explain. So he told me, wonder of wonders".
Al-Sayyid Ahmad recounted the whole story with every detail. He never tired of repeating it, even though he had told it tens of times over the past few days.
As the shaykh listened, he recited the Throne Verse about God under his breath (Qur'an, 2:255). "Were you frightened, my son?" he asked. "Describe your fear to me. Tell me about it. There is no power or might save from God. Were you convinced you would be saved? Have you forgotten that fright doesn't just go away? You prayed for a long time and asked God for salvation. That’s excellent, but you'll need an amulet".
"Why not!.. It will bring us added blessings, Shaykh Mutawalli. And the children and their mother-weren't they frightened too?"
"Of course… their hearts are weak, inexperienced with brutality or terror… An amulet… An amulet’s the remedy".
"You are goodness and blessing, Shaykh Mutawalli. God rescued me from a grave evil, but there’s another evil still threatening me that keeps me awake nights".
Once again the shaykh’s face leaned toward al-Sayyid Ahmad affectionately. He asked, "May God forgive you. What’s troubling you, son?"
The proprietor looked at him despondently and muttered angrily, "My son Fahmy".
The shaykh raised his white eyebrows inquisitively or in alarm and commented hopefully, "He’s safe, with the permission of God the Merciful…"
Al-Sayyid Ahmad shook his head sorrowfully and said, "He disobeyed me for the first time. The matter’s in God’s hands".
The shaykh spread his arms out in front of him as though to ward off affliction and shouted, "I take refuge in God. Fahmy’s my boy. I'm certain he’s dutiful by nature".
Al-Sayyid Ahmad said with annoyance, "His honor insists on doing just what the other boys are doing at this bloody time".
The shaykh was astonished and incredulous. He protested, "You're a resolute father. There’s no doubt about that. I would never have imagined that one of your sons would dare oppose you in anything".
These words cut him to the quick and drew blood. He felt upset and inclined to downplay his son’s rebellion in order to defend himself, both to the shaykh and to himself, against the accusation of weakness. He said, "Of course he did not dare do so directly, but I asked him to swear on a copy of the Qur'an that he would not participate in any revolutionary activity. He wept instead of having the courage to say no. What can I do? I can't lock him up in the house. I can't keep him under surveillance at school. I'm afraid that the current of events at this time will be too strong for a boy like him to resist. What should I do? Threaten to beat him? Beat him? But what good is a threat when he doesn't mind risking death?"