Um Mabrouk arrived at the queue with a big cloth sack containing a threadbare sheet, a small plastic mat, a round of flatbread with an egg inside, still in its shell, and the stack of papers the official at the Booth had given her without telling her what to do with them. She’d begun to set up camp when she was suddenly struck with the sense that she would be here for a long time, though how long she didn’t know. Meanwhile, Nagy hurried to meet Yehya in his new place in the queue. Nagy had just submitted an application to the Translation Office, after seeing the same job advertisement published in a small box in The Truth for several weeks on end. The advertisement didn’t request any specific skills; it just called for all humanities graduates to apply, regardless of their language abilities.
But a soldier stopped the Upper Line microbus that Nagy was riding toward the Gate, and forced the driver to turn around at the next street. The area was off-limits now, so Nagy got off and was forced to go the rest of the way on foot. When he arrived, Ehab told him that the road to the queue and even all the sidewalks were closed to cars in both directions, and that the Gate had issued a decree on the matter, recently broadcast in one of its frequent and confusing messages. In a low voice the others couldn’t hear, Ehab added that the decision would soon apply to pedestrians, too — you’d only be allowed to walk toward the Gate, not away from it. And as soon as the Gate began to receive people, you would only be able to exit on the far side, which wasn’t visible from where they were standing, nor from anywhere in the queue. This way, no citizen who completed his paperwork would be able to disobey instructions, turn around with his papers, and walk in the opposite direction.
Over the weeks that followed, Um Mabrouk gradually moved up the queue by providing all sorts of key services. She cleaned people’s things, played with their children, did their grocery shopping, and sometimes even washed their clothes. She finally settled near Ines in a place to her liking and had no problems mixing with everyone else. She resumed her normal activities, but soon became more interested in the rumors and scattered bits of news she heard now and then. One day, she declared that the insect infestation people were discussing was just “nifs” and had nothing to do with how clean the place was. Ines asked her what she meant, and she explained that the insects were a result of the evil eye: other people outside the queue clearly had ill will toward everyone gathered in front of the Gate. People kept arriving at the queue, and the numbers continued to rise, so much so that they would soon block out the sun. But despite how crowded it was, the people in the queue lived their lives and solved their own problems without help from anyone. This was exactly what made people outside the queue fear and envy them, and what set their schemes in motion. They didn’t want the people in the queue to be a united collective or “one hand.” Um Mabrouk added that such things often happened in the alley where she lived; people everywhere needed to keep jealousy and the evil eye at bay. Ines said nothing, but Shalaby — whose arrogance had not diminished since his arrival — confidently agreed with her.
SHALABY
It didn’t take long for Shalaby to creep into their conversation, gradually at first, with a few well-placed comments. Then, when neither Um Mabrouk nor Ines objected, he picked up the thread of the discussion and refused to let go. He seemed to have been waiting for an opportunity to enter the tight cliques that had formed among veterans of the queue. These were difficult to penetrate, so newcomers created their own circles of camaraderie. Shalaby hadn’t been able to join a single one of those, either, though not for lack of effort.
With Um Mabrouk and Ines he found a new beginning, a way to announce his presence and loosen his tongue, which had nearly stuck to the roof of his mouth because of how long he’d gone without talking. His mother used incense to ward off the evil eye, he began, though he himself preferred to read the incantations he’d memorized as a five-year-old, when his father sat him and his cousin Mahfouz down to teach them everything they needed to know about life. He eagerly preempted any questions: no, he personally had no need for the Gate; it was Mahfouz, God rest his soul, who was the reason he’d come here from his village, though he’d sworn to himself he would never leave it again. He’d finished his service a couple of months back, and gone home to his village to settle down and raise a family in his father’s house, and to begin to deal with the land issues that had multiplied in his absence.
He and Mahfouz were around the same age; they’d been raised together, had fallen sick with measles together, and had left elementary school together to work in the fields. That was until all the farmable land around their village dried up and the landowner began to quarrel with their families over the few meager acres they leased and lived off. So he and Mahfouz started shift work at Fino Bakery instead, then worked as plumbers, installing shower pipes, and finally were conscripted when they both came of age. Shalaby was selected to be a guard in the Servant Force, assigned to protect the wife and children of a Middle Sector Commander, and thus relieved from more difficult duties, while Mahfouz was chosen for the Quell Force. It was Mahfouz’s sworn duty to protect and defend the country from Godless infidels, unscrupulous rebels, and other filth who were bent on destruction and had an insatiable appetite for dirty money.
Mahfouz never dawdled when given an order, and because of his massive frame, the Commander positioned him in the advance guard. In every clash and battle, he stood there, an impregnable fortress, and not once did anyone break through the wall that was Mahfouz’s solid body. These were the stories his fellow guards told, but they also said he was dutiful and kind; he never quarreled or complained, he sang the Commander’s praises day and night, and his only response to orders was “Yessir.” He cleaned the army vehicles, cooked meals in the mess hall, and fixed the electricity: he knew why it cut out and how to repair it, thanks to his early years in the village. He advanced when given the command, struck as soon as he heard the signal, and never paid heed to rumors. He was a model member of the security forces and thoroughly dependable.
Shalaby carried on boasting about his cousin, extolling his merits and telling tales of his heroism, unaware of Ines’s growing restlessness and Um Mabrouk’s expression, which swung between envious admiration and cautious disbelief. Finally, Shalaby’s eyes filled with sadness as he gazed at the ground and said: But Mahfouz died. His truncheon crashed down on a filthy rioter’s damn head, but the stubborn scum kept trying to get up so Mahfouz shot him. His blood gushed out and stained the square, and his soul left his body right there. The man’s friends chased Mahfouz for ages and none of his fellow guards could help him, because the battle had gotten so chaotic. They surrounded him on the bridge, there were so many of them and he was all alone, so he jumped into the water, afraid they would catch him, and drowned.
Mahfouz’s name didn’t appear on the list of Righteous Guards released by the Gate; but he must have been omitted accidentally, because his superiors and Commander certainly recognized him as a hero. Shalaby proudly announced that he’d come to request honorable recognition for Mahfouz, and a Special Pension Permit for the grieving family who should be appropriately compensated, with, for example, a contract giving them the land the owner was threatening to evict them from. Shalaby fell silent for a moment, then declared that his cousin deserved to be named a war hero — no, a martyr! — which was also what the man he’d killed deserved to be called.