Tarek visited her fitful dreams, too. He was looking at a bullet protruding from Yehya’s stomach, but he didn’t reach over to pluck it out. She saw Yehya entering the Gate and emerging on the other side, his body divided into horizontal strips, but the one with the bullet wasn’t there. Meanwhile, Nagy repeated that the bullet was part of an integral whole that should never be divided, per hallowed philosophical and sociological theories: one must deal with it in its natural state, from which it should not be removed, so as to not disturb the context. In a corner of her dream was a huge and terrifying bulldozer digging a deep grave for Yehya to be buried in, and a man standing beside it; his face was cruel and familiar, but she couldn’t tell exactly who he was.
Then the scene changed and she saw herself somewhere lavish and opulent; there were rich wood paneling, luxurious furniture, and supple carpets soft to the touch, but she didn’t dare tread upon them, her feet looked so wretched against everything else. There was a black sign emblazoned with the words DEPARTMENT OF CONSPIRACIES in brilliant golden letters; she was the only one there. Then she was back in the graveyard, and this time she walking through it in utter darkness, passing others moving around as she was, in silence. The basement: intuitively she knew she was in the basement, as if the word had been suspended in the air the whole time. She didn’t see it, but taking the situation in with all her senses, she had a terrifying moment of realization. And when she knew she was imprisoned there forever she awoke in a panic, the hair on her forearms alert and trembling, her tongue stuck in her parched throat. The nightmares repeated in myriad variations throughout the night, until she no longer knew the difference between dreams and reality.
WINTER
Winter had officially begun. So declared the message broadcast on television after the Gate’s daily announcement, and the sun that had divided Yehya’s body in two each noontime responded by slightly subsiding. There was a mild breeze, and he no longer needed to switch places with Nagy for the shade, but as the temperatures dropped, the throbbing and spasms in his left side grew stronger, until he moaned each time his chest filled and emptied of air. His urine was almost entirely blood now, and he could not bend at his knees or waist, so he spent all his time standing or stretched out on the sidewalk alongside the queue. He was rarely able to visit Um Mabrouk’s gathering place these days, and Nagy never left his side.
Ehab dropped by at the usual time, on his way back from the Booth, where he’d just learned the results of the interview he’d done a while back for the position in the communications department. He passed the middle section of the queue on his way, collecting some news, and discovered that Ines had left for good. Apparently, she’d married the man in the galabeya. Before she departed, she’d given everything she’d carried with her those past few months to the Southern woman’s son, telling him to give his mother her regards. Mabrouk had graduated from elementary school, even though he’d missed several exams while in the queue, and his kidney attacks had returned. Um Mabrouk had expanded her little shop, and on the advice of the woman with the short hair she’d bought a few clay pots and planted fresh mint. Finally he told them that the screening committee had rejected most applicants for the job, claiming that they all lacked practical experience and adequate skills. He had been the first to be turned down.
Yehya was worried about other things and didn’t comment on Ehab’s news until he’d finished. Then he asked if there was any word from Amani, but Ehab said no. Nagy decided to call her, and chose just the right moment, rescuing her from a well of confusion and indecision. Terrified, she told him about the barrage of calls she hadn’t answered, and he gave the phone to Yehya. He spoke to her for less than a minute, but her words faltered while the din of the queue nearly drowned out Yehya’s feeble voice, and they were barely able to hold a conversation.
Tarek’s attempts to reach her caused them unforeseen anxiety, sending them into a discussion of all possible explanations. Maybe he’d decided to give them the X-ray, maybe he was thinking about doing the operation, maybe he, too, had been threatened, or had received an order to do it from deep within the depths of Zephyr Hospital. Whatever his intentions, they had to speak to him.
When Tarek arrived at the queue for a second time, preoccupied and withdrawn, he was easily able to find them because Nagy had described their location to him at length over the phone. He walked with Nagy to where Yehya sat on the ground, reading the newspapers that were scattered around him. Steam ascended from a cup, filled to the brim with hot tea, that he had placed by his left side, and Tarek was filled with shame when he saw it, knowing that Yehya was trying to ease his pain by keeping the area warm. He bent down to shake Yehya’s hand, and sat beside him on the ground. They cordially exchanged a bit of small talk, tacitly agreeing not to delve into the details of the predicament.
Tarek admitted to himself that he had wanted to visit Yehya not only to confirm what he’d read in the file, but also to reassure himself. But seeing Yehya in person was different. His health truly was bad, worse than he’d read and worse than he’d expected. And there was nothing Tarek could do, nothing more than Yehya himself had done with the help of his friends.
THE BOOTH
Torrential rains poured down across the districts, flooding acres of land, including the plot that Shalaby and Mahfouz’s families farmed. Their huts disintegrated, swept away in a downpour that didn’t let up for days. Shalaby hurried home, making sure to take the medallion with him, and saw the ruin with his own eyes. The whole crop was destroyed, and the television and shower were gone, as were all of Mahfouz’s clothes. There was nothing but water, nearly up to his knees. Shaken by the wails of his mother, aunt, and five younger sisters, he realized that the best solution was to visit the Booth again.
He took proof of the damage with him and asked for a new plot of land for the families, far from the crushing rain, but the official sitting in the Booth accused him of trying to swindle him, and having caused the downpour in the first place. Shalaby had deliberately flooded the huts, he said with confidence, to acquire land he could build a house on, instead of the soggy farmland where they could only build these flimsy shacks.
Shalaby froze for a moment, waiting for the official to finish his joke, but the man was completely serious. He’d been through so much in recent weeks; ridiculed and insulted, his honor and dignity dragged through the mud. His commander and unit had abandoned him, as had the Gate; he’d even been forced to lie to people just to save face, and this was the final indignity. Shalaby trembled with rage and grabbed the official by the throat with a roar, so suddenly that the man didn’t have a chance step back. Shalaby sent his rough fist between the iron bars, landing a blow to the official’s face, and then snatched the medallion from his shirt pocket and bashed his head with it before the people waiting behind him dragged him away in horror. Shalaby cursed and screamed that he was the cousin of a martyr, he had rights, the Gate owed it to him, and he would die like his cousin before abandoning his rights.