Then it was Zaghloul’s turn. Zaghloul was a real dancer: slim and lithe as a cat. He undid the grey scarf that he usually kept knotted around his skullcap and tied it tightly around his waist. Someone was beating a difficult rhythm on the disht now, slowly to begin with. The first line of a song rang through the courtyard — dalla’ ya’árís, ya abu lása nylo — and everyone roared their approval, for what better song could there be to sing for Zaghloul with his youth and his fine, bright face than one which told of the joys of bridegrooms?
Zaghloul began slowly, by turning in the centre of the ring with short, quick steps, his arms raised high above his head. Then gradually the pace of the beat increased, and in perfect time Zaghloul’s hips began to move with it. The crowd closed in intently around him, the shuffling of so many feet raising a cloud of dust which hung above the ring, encircling him in a golden halo. The claps came in sharp, quick bursts now, as the whole ring threw itself into his dance. In response, the jerking, twitching movement of Zaghloul’s hips quickened, too, and in exact counterpoint, as his hips moved faster and faster, the upper part of his body became more and more rigid and still, the tense fixity of his torso framing the driving energy of his waist. The disht was ringing deafeningly now, the beats spinning out in a throbbing, vibrant tattoo. And Zaghloul danced still faster, his face perfectly, stonily grave, his arms flexed above him, his torso motionless, his waist pulsating, hammering, in a movement both absolutely erotic and absolutely abstract, both love-making and geometry; faster still, the claps driving him on, and still faster, until with a final explosive ring of the disht the chant died and he collapsed laughing on the ground.
Somewhere the women were ululating as though it were a real wedding building towards its climax.
Then someone spotted Rakesh, sitting by himself in a corner of the courtyard, and a shout went up — Rakesh now! — and he was hauled towards the ring, screaming protests. But Abu Fahl saw that he was close to tears because his carefully ironed terry-cotton trousers were being dragged through the dust, so he wrenched him free and sent him back to his corner with a slap on the back. Instead Hajj Fahmy’s wife pushed her way into the ring and, without feigning a modesty she was too old to feel, she did an odd little dance mimicking Zaghloul. She ended by tweaking his cheeks and kissing her fingers. In the midst of the laughter and the cheers a thought struck Abu Fahl, and he exclaimed: Where’s Isma’il? He’s the one who loves to dance!
None of the men around him had seen Isma’il, so he asked one of Hajj Fahmy’s grand-daughters: Hey, you, girl, where’s your uncle Isma’il?
Covering her face shyly with her sleeve, the girl murmured: He’s inside.
Inside? Why?
He’s sitting on his bed. He won’t get off.
In bed! Abu Fahl exclaimed in surprise. Ya nahar abyad! Why in bed?
He’s like that sometimes, the girl shrugged and turned away, embarrassed for her uncle.
Abu Fahl ran into the house, and found Isma’il sitting perched on a high bed in his mother’s room. Hajj Fahmy was sitting at the other end of the bed. They were watching a wrestling match on television.
What’s the matter, ya Isma’il? Abu Fahl cried in surprise, putting out his hand. What’re you doing sitting here, when we’re all outside?
Smiling cheerfully, Isma’il shook his hand without stirring from the bed. I’m watching television, he said.
Tell Isma’il to come out, we’re all waiting for him, Abu Fahl said, extending his hand to Hajj Fahmy. And what about you, ya Hajj? Why haven’t you come out yet?
Hajj Fahmy smiled: There’s too much noise outside, and Isma’il doesn’t want to go. I’ll come a little later. His eyes narrowed and he sniffed suspiciously: What have you been drinking?
Abu Fahl leapt back. Nothing, nothing at all, he said, trying to smile.
I hope so, said Hajj Fahmy, turning grimly back to the television set.
Come on, Isma’il, Abu Fahl exhorted. You can’t sit here all day. Come out. Aren’t you coming to the Star with us?
No. Isma’il shook his head. I can’t.
Allah! Why not?
The germs are out today. They’re all around the bed. I can’t get off.
Abu Fahl’s mouth fell open: Germs around the bed!
Yes, said Isma’il. All the germs are out today. They’re all over the floor. Can’t you see?
Abu Fahl looked significantly at Hajj Fahmy, but the Hajj was intent on the television programme. Isma’il, Abu Fahl said, gently reasoning, there’s nothing on the floor, absolutely nothing. Can’t you see? I’m standing here. There’s nothing.
They’re all over the floor, Isma’il said stubbornly. They’re just waiting to bite. I’m not getting off. It doesn’t matter to you — your hide’s too thick — they’d break their teeth. I’m not like that.
Ya Hajj Fahmy, Abu Fahl appealed, why don’t you tell him?
Let him be, the Hajj said. Let him sit here if he wants to. How does it matter?
But what about you, then? Abu Fahl said. Aren’t you coming? To the Star and shopping and all that? Everyone’s here.
I’ll come as soon as the noise stops, Hajj Fahmy said. He looked at his watch. You’d better go out and tell them to hurry up. It’ll be time to leave soon.
Be careful, Isma’il called out, gurgling with laughter, as Abu Fahl turned to go. They’re everywhere today; even with your hide you should be careful. They might get you in a soft part.
The first person Abu Fahl saw as he stepped back into the courtyard was Professor Samuel. He was sitting on the platform, beside the loom. His briefcase was open on his knees, and he was worriedly counting through a pile of thick white envelopes. Abu Fahl went straight up to him and gave him a bone-jarring slap on the back. At least you’re here, he said. And now since you’re here we have to see you dance.
Stop that! the Professor snorted, furious. Can’t you see I’m busy? I have things to do. I have to count the people here. I have to distribute the envelopes, all the arrangements have to be made …
You’re always busy, Professor, Abu Fahl said. But today we’re going to see you dance.
Be quiet, Abu Fahl, the Professor said sharply. Go and do some work instead of wasting my time. Have you handed out your tools and ropes and all that yet?
But Abu Fahl only turned and shouted to the others: Come here. The Professor’s going to dance for us. Help me carry him.
A moment later the Professor was hoisted on half a dozen shoulders and carried, kicking and scolding, into the courtyard. They put him down in the middle and imprisoned him in a tight circle. Go on, Professor, dance a little, Zaghloul said, tapping the disht. Just for fun.
But I can’t, he cried. I’ve never done it before.
Go on, go on, just for fun, they urged, and even Chunni joined her voice to theirs: Go on, Samuel, what does it matter? Do anything at all; anything you can.
The Professor looked grimly around him. All right, he said. He kicked off his sandals and, leaping high, he snapped his right arm back, clenched his fist and swung it through the air. He jumped up again, and the first enthusiastic claps wavered and then faded away as everyone looked on in astonishment. He was leaping around the ring now, spinning in the air, flailing his right arm over his head. Zaghloul tried to find the right rhythm on the disht and gave up baffled. The Professor jumped again, faster, and yet again, his face flushed, sweat flying off his forehead. The initial laughter died away and an awestruck silence descended as the Professor flung himself into the air, again and again, swinging his rigid arms over his head in great powerful arcs.