Fatima puts her hand on her chest and stretches her legs out: “A person would be right to never go abroad and stay at home his whole life.”
“Do you think staying here was that safe?”
He tells us about the draft and how people were trying to escape being put in the army. The poor were maiming themselves to get out of it. Cutting an arm or leg or even gouging an eye. The rich were all bribing their way out of it, paying what they called “a replacement charge.” Thieves and robbers started to target the people who took the payoffs.
He fans his face with his cap. “I was sleeping with a revolver under my pillow. That and an envelope full of money. At night I woke up once to the sound of steps on the roof. I took the revolver out and got up really slowly. I stood in the dark and then yelled out strong and bold: ‘Who’s there?’ No one answered. Fifteen minutes passed and no sound. After a while, I heard the dawn call to prayer and went back to sleep.”
Fatima looks at him amazed: “Oh my. You have a heart of steel, Sidi.” He goes on, saying that being on the road wasn’t safe either. Especially in the south. At night, gangs would gather along the side of the road, coming back from a soirée at the house of some police chief or local official. The night would be black like kohl. His hand held his money belt real tight and his eyes darted around in the dark. “My eyesight was 20/20 back then. Once I was hit by a bullet.” He points to a scar on his forehead, just between his eyes. “Once I was stabbed with a switchblade.” He turns his head so we can see another scar on the nape of his neck.
I ask: “Do you still have the revolver?”
“No. The English were collecting all firearms, so I hid it in the garden of the villa. Probably, Nabila’s uncle who was living with us stole it and sold it.”
Silence echoes around us. After a little while, he says: “The important thing is that one’s got to know how to act. Once I was riding the tram. Two guys got on. One stood on the stairs to the right and the other jumped off to the left. He asked me what time it was. I suspected they were pickpockets. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a closed hand. I pretended to look at it and told him it’s about such and such. The guy on the right burst out laughing and said: ‘Leave him alone, champ. It’s clear he’s just like us.’ ”
Fatima laughs and slaps her hand on her bare thighs. I ask him to tell us about Hafiz Naguib. He says that he was a sly thief and an international crook. He became famous for his ability to disguise himself and escape from the police. “Once they caught him in the disguise of an Italian baron, another time as the Turkish ambassador. A third time he was dressed like a priest. Another time he was standing in a cage in the courtroom. He stood up to hear his sentence. The judge turned for a second, then he couldn’t find him. Up until today, still no one knows how he escaped from the cage.”
She says: “By the prophet, Sidi, please please tell us one of Juha’s tales.” He says that once upon a time Juha was living in a house. After a couple days, he started complaining to the landlord about a rumbling sound coming from the ceiling that made him afraid it was going to come crashing down. The landlord reassured him by saying that by the grace of God the ceiling was sound, so Juha says: “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” “Why?” he asks. He answers back: “I don’t want God’s grace to rain down upon us.” Father bursts out laughing until tears flow down his cheeks and he starts to wipe them away, saying: “May our Lord keep us safe.” I ask him why he says this and he tells me that happy times are always followed by bad ones. We have our breakfast on a boat off Rod el Farag Isle in the Nile. Ful beans and heavy cream with honey. The wooden table is painted blue. Mother is humming a tune. We get off the boat and we walk through a farm. We go into a fruit orchard. My father buys bananas and dates. The owner of the fruit stand invites me to eat guava. I eat until I’m stuffed. We leave the fruit stand. I trip on a drain cover. I fall down and hit my head on it. I throw up all that I’ve eaten.
Abdel Wahab’s voice wafts in from Um Zakiya’s radio. He sings: “In the sea I did not desert you/ On land, you abandoned me/ For gold I could never sell you/ You sold me for straw.” Father sings along: “I was a flower in a garden/ You plucked me/I was a candle burning in a hearth/ You smothered me.” He shakes his head sadly and says: “Once you were ‘Mr. Khalil,’ like a flower in people’s hands that they’d sniff, then you turned into something else, like the old rotten leftovers to be tossed out.” Fatima says: “Please don’t talk that way, Sidi. Look at you, fresh as a rose.”
He gets up and walks across the room. His eyes are on her bare thighs. Abbas’s voice is calling her. She covers her legs quickly and jumps up. She says: “Good night, all.” He goes with me to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He turns off the light. He lies down beside me. He leaves the door to the balcony open. I say to him: “Aren’t you scared a robber will come in?” He says: “Whosoever depends on God, He protects.” He recites the verse of the throne. I think about the angels protecting us, flapping their wings around us. I fall asleep.
Suddenly, I am awakened by moving around next to me. Father’s scratching between his legs. I sleep. I wake up again. He’s still scratching. His hand’s moving faster. He’s panting. He turns toward me. I close my eyes and fall deep into sleep.
Chapter Four
~ ~ ~
The strike starts right after the first class. We repeat the chant of a student, wearing a fez, from fifth grade. “Long live Egypt, Free and Independent!” We call for more armed opposition to Zionism and for the English to quit Egypt and for the unification of Egypt and Sudan. We leave the school grounds. Some suggest that we go to the university to join up with the students there, others that we go the other way towards Fuad the First School and Al-Husseiniya School. I remember father’s instructions. I pull myself out of the group and steal away, across the side streets that lead towards our house.
He opens the door for me wearing his flannel gallabiya. His white skull cap covers his head. A frown. The leftovers from breakfast are on the table in the hall. I tell him the story of what happened. He says: “Put down your satchel, sit down, and study.” Our room is all gloomy and the bed has not been made. I ask: “Did Fatima not show up or something?” He gives a short answer: “No. Put the satchel down on the desk.” I take out the history textbook. I open to the chapter about the Islamic Empire in the age of Othman. I read the story of his dispute with Ali Ibn Abi Talib and the way it ended in tragedy for both.
The doorbell rings. I run to open it. Fatima is carrying a bundle of clothes. She is wearing flimsy plastic sandals. Tears stream down her cheeks. She says Abbas beat her and kicked her out, and that she is heading back to her village. Father says to her: “Calm down. Have a seat.” She says she cannot spend another night with Abbas. Father says our house is her house and that she can stay on with us until Hajj Abdel ’Alim gets out of jail. “Come on, don’t cry so much. Get up and get to work.”
She cleans the table, the room, and the kitchen. He tells her to get a bath ready for herself. She brings the stove into the living room. She lights it and puts a pot of water over the flame. She fills the zinc basin about half way up with water. She puts it in the middle of the room. We follow her in. He tells her to wash her hair well and asks: “Do you have a comb?”