The same father, the same mother — it's just a matter of luck. It would have been perfectly possible for luck to have taken my side, and then I would have been him. I haven't seen him for years and I've never seen his wife and children. His features have faded in my memory. He cut all his ties to the past and built a new life far from us, and I don't blame him for it. He never failed to fulfil his obligations, and during his mother's life he used to send her money, even though he was just starting his business and needed every piastre. Still, it hurt me deeply that he didn't come when I sent him the telegram announcing her death. He responded with a message of condolence in which he said there was no point in his turning up after the funeral and burial were over and it made better sense for him to distribute what he would have spent on the journey in charity, for the rest of the departed's soul. I had hoped at the time that he'd come and we could weep for her together. I was the one that needed him, though perhaps what he did was the more correct. If I had been
Suleiman, I wouldn't have lived this life of uncertainty. If I'd been Suleiman… If I'd been…
The marquee is large and I'm standing receiving condolences for Mahmoud Abd el Zahir, but all the chairs are empty and no one comes. A sheikh is sitting reciting the Koran on a high wooden bench but he opens his mouth and closes it without making a sound and no one comes. Then the marquee is a large garden crowded with people where lots of children are playing and I walk on my own, bearing on my outstretched hands the folded white cloth. I have stopped an old man and I ask him where the burial area is and he gestures without stopping and says, 'Straight on,' so I follow his directions and I find myself on the shore of a river that is edged with willow trees, whose branches dangle in the water, and I take hold of the hands of a beautiful young girl and we laugh together and I say to her, 'Can you imagine? I was dead but I came alive again!' and she says proudly, 'That's because of me.' We get into a boat on the river and I discover that she's Ni'ma and I laugh and ask her, 'When did you change the colour of your hair?' and she answers, 'When you left me.' Suddenly, though, she screams and points behind me and lots of people appear on the riverbank pointing where she did and I turn and find a huge crocodile, its mouth wide open, descending on the boat.
I take hold of Ni'ma's hand and we jump out of the boat together. We run quickly over the water and once again we're in the middle of the marquee amid the empty chairs and the voice of the reciter, which doesn't come out even though his mouth is opening and closing.
Ni'ma says in annoyance, 'Why doesn't that sheikh at least recite?' I go up to him angrily and find that he's not reciting but laughing. I know who he is from his eyes so I take hold of the front of his robe and say furiously, 'You, Sheikh…'
Then I shouted, 'Come in!'
Ibraheem's knocks on the door woke me with a start from my doze.
His words mixed with the remnants of the dream so I couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. I understood from his sorrowful tone that he was reproaching me because I hadn't allowed them to wake him. Was he no longer of any use in the station? I mollified him and asked him to bring me a large mug of tea. Then I fell fast asleep and didn't even notice the bustle of the start of work at the station or the morning light that entered the room though the shutters were closed. Eventually I got up and opened the shutters and started walking rapidly about the room to restore some warmth and energy.
When Ibraheem returned he remained standing in front of me as I sipped my tea from the mug, my hand trembling and causing a few drops to fall on the desk in spite of myself. I put the mug on the desk and asked him, 'Do you want something, Sergeant Ibraheem?'
He looked hesitant for a few instants, then told me that Sheikh Sabir had come that day before dawn and met the captain.
'I know,' I said. 'I met Sabir and he said he was checking the tax accounts with the captain,'
'Accounts? And why would they check them in secret, Excellency? It's not the first time. The sheikh often comes in the middle of the night and they go into the office on their own where no one can hear them, and he leaves before anybody in the station is awake. Is that "checking accounts"?'
'You're dismissed now, Sergeant, and stop spying on the captain or anyone else. If there's something going on, we'll find out about it in due course.'
'How can that be, sir?' he protested. 'When will the due course be? We have to take steps before it's too late.'
'We shall, God willing, take steps. Dismiss now, Ibraheem.'
He left, grumbling. How can I tell him, 'These things are of no importance to me. Anything that might befall me has already happened'?
* * *
I spent the day working at the station, inventing things to do. I inspected the storerooms and started writing letters to the ministry about the supplies and the ammunition they needed to send with the next caravan to make up for what had been used. Captain Wasfi came to review the accounts concerning the amount of taxes collected. He said that he'd gone over them with Sheikh Sabir that morning and that they were in conformity with the ministry's requests. I deduced that he'd heard about my encounter with Sabir and come to review the accounts, which he should have done long before. He sat in front of me following me with his eyes, which never stop moving and get on my nerves, so I cast a glance at the lists and thanked him, setting them aside. He also had other papers in his hand, however, which he presented to me, saying, 'These came to me with the last caravan. Your Excellency might care to take a look at them.' They were old issues of the newspaper el Muqattam, which I hate. I read a few headlines quickly and then handed them back to him, saying, 'It seems the young Khedive is not like his father. It seems he doesn't like the British a great deal.'
'He will!'said Wasfi.
He spoke with great confidence, so I asked him, 'How so?'
'Our government cannot do without the British. We need them.'
I said, smiling, 'But the other night you were extolling the greatness of our ancestors the Ancient Egyptians and praising their remains. Cannot the descendants be as worthy of ruling the country as their grandsires?'
'Not at present. First we have to learn many things from the British. See, Your Excellency, how it is the British who reveal to us the Ancient Egyptian antiquities and their greatness, while we know nothing about them. Mrs Catherine almost sacrificed her life in pursuit of knowledge, and what did the ignoramuses whom she was trying to serve do to her?'
I said nothing, so he continued heatedly, his eyes jumping around even faster than usual, 'I wasn't able to explain my point of view to Your Excellency the other night because Miss Fiona interrupted me. I wanted to say that the strife caused by the mutineers prevented us from progressing. Your Excellency must have seen with your own eyes the chaos that the country lived through during those days and which my father told me about.'
'What exactly did your father see and tell you about? What was his position at the time?'
'He was a brigadier general in the army.'
'And did he preside over a commission of inquiry with the Urabists?'
He said in surprise, 'No. No, I don't think so. Anyway, he's now on reserve, but he remembers every detail of the riots and the strife. He told me that one of those traitors, I think his name was Mohamed Ebeid, went so far as to contemplate murdering Our Master the Khedive! Imagine, Your Excellency, the ruination that could have overtaken the country!'
With a quiet laugh, I said, 'I do, Captain!'