Taha quickly opened the door, got out onto the street, and headed toward him. It was his job to detain him however he could till the others could fire at him. Then Taha would run and jump into the truck and throw a hand grenade to cover their flight. Taha approached the officer and asked him in a voice that he strove to make seem ordinary, “Please, sir, which way is No. Ten, Akif Street?”
The officer didn’t stop but pointed haughtily and muttered, “Over there,” as he continued toward his car.
It was he. He was the one who had supervised his torture, who had so often ordered the soldiers to beat him and shred his skin with their whips and force the stick into his body. It was he without the slightest doubt — the same husky voice, the same dispassionate intonation, and the familiar slight rasp due to his smoking. Taha lost all awareness of what he was doing and leaped toward him, letting out an inarticulate, high-pitched cry like an angry roar. The officer turned toward him with frightened eyes, his face pinched in terror as though he realized what was happening, and he opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t because successive bursts of fire suddenly erupted from the automatic rifles, all of them striking the officer’s body, and causing him to fall to the ground, the blood gushing out of him. Taha disobeyed the plan and remained where he was so that he could watch the officer as he died; then he shouted, “God is great! God is great!” and leaped to return to the truck. Something unexpected occurred, however. Sounds of glass being violently broken were heard on the first floor and two men appeared who started shooting in the direction of the truck.
Taha realized what was happening and tried to get his head down and run in a zigzag course as they had taught him during training so as to get out of the line of fire. He was getting close to the truck, the bullets flying around him like rain, but when he got to within two meters he felt a coldness in his shoulder and chest, a coldness that burned like ice and took him by surprise. He looked at his body and saw the blood spurting from his wounds and the coldness was transformed into a sharp pain that seized him in its teeth. He fell to the ground next to the rear wheel of the truck and screamed. Then it seemed to him as though the agony was diminishing little by little and he felt a strange restfulness engulfing him and taking him up into itself. A babble of distant sounds came to his ears — bells and sounds of recitation and melodious murmurs — repeating themselves and drawing close to him, as though welcoming him into a new world.
Starting in the late afternoon, Maxim’s had been turned upside down.
In addition to the restaurant’s own employees, ten other workers had been called in to help, and everyone was busy cleaning the floor, the walls, and the bathroom with soap and water and disinfectants. Then they moved the tables and chairs to the sides of the room so as to leave a broad corridor from the entrance to the bar and a wide space in the middle that could serve as a dance floor. They continued working tirelessly under the supervision of Christine, who had put on a baggy training suit and was helping them to move things herself (which was her way of encouraging them to work with a will), her voice ringing out from time to time in its broken Arabic that used feminine forms of Arabic words even when she was speaking to a man, saying, “You, move all that here! Clean it well! What’s the matter? Are you tired or what?”
At seven o’clock the place was sparkling, with new gleaming white cloths, brought out especially for the occasion, spread on the tables. Then the flower baskets arrived and Christine oversaw their correct placement, the small bouquets untied and the flowers distributed among the vases, while she ordered the workers to place the large baskets at the entrance to the place outside, the length of the passageway. Next she took out from the drawer of her desk an elegant old sign on which was written in French and Arabic “The restaurant is reserved tonight for a private party” and hung it on the outer door. She poked her head inside for a last look and, satisfied with the restaurant’s appearance, hurried to her house nearby to change her clothes.
By the time she returned an hour later in her smart blue gown, wearing restrained and expertly applied makeup and with her hair put up in a chignon after the fashion of the fifties, the band had arrived and its members were bent over tuning their instruments — mizmar, saxophone, violin, and rhythm section — the confused snatches of melody rising like the murmuring of some giant musical being.
The guests had started to arrive. A few old people who were Zaki el Dessouki’s friends came, some of whom were known to Christine and with all of whom she shook hands, inviting them to visit the bar, where beer and whisky were offered free. The numbers of the guests continued to swell. Friends of Busayna’s from Commercial College came, bringing their families. Ali the Driver came (and forced his way straight through to the bar) and Sabir the laundryman with his wife and children and many others from the roof. The women were wearing shiny gowns embroidered with gold thread and sequins, and the girls of marriageable age came in their best and smartest clothes, conscious of the opportunity for marriage that was implicit in the wedding. The roof people were awestruck at the poshness of the restaurant and its old European style, but little by little the women started to break through this by means of mirthful conversations on the side and loud bursts of laughter that were closer to bawdiness than the spirit of the occasion demanded.
At around nine the door opened and some people entered quickly, followed unhurriedly by Zaki el Dessouki in his smart black suit and a white shirt, a large red bowtie at his neck and his dyed hair swept back in a new cut that the hairdresser had suggested and which had secured its object, in that he appeared ten years younger than his real age. His steps were a little halting and his eyes bloodshot as a result of the two double whiskies that he had decided to start the evening with, and no sooner did he appear at the party than shouts, whistles, and applause — “Congratulations! A thousand congratulations!” — rang out on every side, with a few shy ululations. While everyone was shaking his hand and wishing him the best, Christine darted up to him, embraced him, and kissed him in her warmly affectionate way.
“You look like a movie star!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. Then she sighed, looked at him for a moment, and said, “How happy I am for you, Zaki! You’ve done what you should have done long ago.”
This was the wedding party of Zaki Bey el Dessouki to Busayna el Sayed — who was a little late in coming from the coiffeur, as brides usually are, but who soon arrived in a white wedding dress the ends of whose long train were borne by her sisters and her little brother Mustafa. The moment the bride appeared, the sight of her touched all present and a clear and uninhibited storm of melodious, repeated ululations burst forth. Everyone was happy and as soon as the band had finished with the wedding march and the buffet had opened, Christine made a bid to preserve the European style of the occasion by playing Edith Piaf ’s song “La Vie en Rose” on the piano, singing in her mellifluous voice,