Khan Al-Khalili

49

In the days that followed there were a number of significant developments in the war. The Eighth Army withdrew from Jisr al-Fursan, and in the second half of June Tobruk fell into German hands. People kept talking about the danger of invasion. The friends gathered at the Zahra Café discussed the events in their usual way.

“This time,” Sayyid Arif commented gleefully, “Rommel’s march can’t be stopped!”

“All you German-lovers,” Ahmad Rashid commented sarcastically, “do you really imagine that if the Germans invade Egypt they’re going to come in peace? Isn’t it more likely that there’ll be a bloody war that will demolish everything standing?”

“What do we own in this country to worry about?” was Boss Zifta’s flippant comment. “Rich folk who don’t realize that the whole world is transient can worry all they want.”

“All I have,” Boss Nunu said, “is my own soul and those of my children. They’re all in God’s hands, and Rommel will not have them unless God so decrees. That goes back millions of years, before Rommel was even created.”

He let out one of his guffaws. “I’ve made a pact with God,” he went on. “If Rommel enters Egypt and I’m still alive, I’m going to invite him to spend an evening at Sitt Aliyat’s house. Then he’ll see that Egyptian guns are much more effective than German ones.”

Ahmad shared with his parents the opinions that he kept hearing, telling them about the dangers of invasion and people’s fears that the air raids would now become more frequent and severe. It was almost as though he were trying to take their minds off their misery by making them scared instead.

One evening, Ahmad came home some four weeks after Rushdi’s death. He found his mother waiting for him.

“Nawal came to visit me this afternoon!” she said.

The name made his heart leap, and he grabbed hold of his tie.

“Why did she come?” he asked in amazement.

“She was very upset,” his mother went on. “We had barely greeted each other before she burst into tears. Her voice kept breaking as she spoke to me. ‘I know you’re angry with me,’ she said, ‘I know that you’re all angry. I’m sorry, but God knows, it wasn’t my fault, dear lady. They said I couldn’t visit him; they stopped me coming and kept a close eye on me. They refused to listen to me when I begged to see him and totally ignored my tears. I would never have behaved that way if I had had my way. In spite of everything, I never gave up until I forced my mother to bring me over when my father was out. That’s how we came to visit you on that awful day that I can’t forget, that I’ll never forget as long as I live. Oh, dear lady, Rushdi gave me such a look, full of contempt and hatred. It tore my wounded, innocent heart to shreds. I realized, of course, that he was getting his revenge and how much he hated me. How I suffered because of that, and I’m still suffering now. But one day he’ll find out the truth; he’ll know that I didn’t do him wrong and I was never unfaithful to him.’ ”

Ahmad’s heart was pounding as he listened to his mother. “Do you think she’s telling the truth?” he asked.

His mother thought for a moment. “What I heard was her speaking from the heart,” she replied deliberately. “I can’t see why she’d take the trouble to tell lies now that it’s all over. I believe she was telling the truth, although I have to say that it only increases my hatred for her parents.”

Ahmad was deep in thought as he changed his clothes. Like his mother, he was inclined to believe the girl, and that made him happy. How sad that Rushdi had died, despairing of love just as he despaired of a cure. How unlucky they both were, the one who had died and the other who was still alive. Memories came flooding back to stir up his misery yet again.

“I beg Your forgiveness, O God!” he muttered to himself. “Couldn’t you have chosen me instead and left my brother alone? My life has been a failure and doesn’t deserve to continue, whereas Rushdi’s was rich and fulfilling and should have gone on forever. Again I beg Your forgiveness, O God!”

Just at that moment he felt a sudden urge to visit his brother’s locked room; he had wanted to do so several times, but had decided not to. This time, however, he could not resist the temptation, moved as he was by feelings of both love and sorrow. As he left his own room, it was completely quiet; his father was asleep. Approaching the door, he was beset by a wave of depression. He turned the key in the lock, went inside, and turned the light on. He let his gaze wander distractedly around the empty room. A musty smell filled his nostrils; furniture had been piled up, and the desk was covered in a layer of dust that he wiped off. Everything suggested farewell. God, why had he ventured into this room when his tears had yet to dry? As he looked around, his eyes were drawn to the drawer in the middle of the desk and he remembered that Rushdi had kept his diary and photograph album in it. His heart told him to take them both back to his own room since the furniture was going to be sold either today or tomorrow. Opening the drawer, he took out the diary and album and blew the dust off them. Casting one final look around the room, he went out, convincing himself that he had gone there specifically to get the diary and album. He put them down on his own desk and stared at them long and hard. Opening the album at its first page, he discovered a large photograph showing Rushdi standing with his hands in his pockets. How handsome and full of life he looked! Just then he remembered the dead dog that had fouled his life for two whole days, and that made him even more morose.

He was anxious for the album to preserve its secrets, so he did not look any further. He picked up the diary without feeling any need to pry into its secrets, but even so he could not resist the urge to thumb through the final pages. He skimmed some of the headings: “new love,” he read, “mountain road,” “talk of love,” “our hopes,” and then, “the kiss that kills.” That made his heart thump. What could that mean? Hadn’t Rushdi used the same expression sometimes when he was feeling particularly miserable? The heading was dated the 12th of January 1942, in other words when he had first found out that he had tuberculosis. Ahmad could not stop himself reading that section, his entire being throbbing with emotion:

Monday, January

12, 1942

O my God! From today and as long as God so wills, I’m a dangerous person. Inside me is something that is harmful to other people. I am someone whose very breaths threaten God’s servants; a tower about to be demolished by fatal microbes. I’ve played a dangerous game so as not to lose Nawal. It’s no problem for us to meet each other, but I must be careful: Nawal is denied you; you certainly can’t touch her. Kissing her, something that would cure the soul, is totally out of the question. She keeps on chiding me and wondering why I’m behaving this way. Maybe she’s asking herself why I don’t still make good use of the fact that we’re alone on the road and kiss her as I used to do. Does she think that I’ve had enough of her lips? Is my love fading away? No, no, my love, my heart has not tired of kissing your lips nor has my love faded away. But I’m scared for you; I have to protect your lovely mouth from certain destruction. It’s not my fault. My heart still feels the same way toward you, but inside my chest lurks an evil foe. I’m afraid for you and have to protect you from it

.

Ahmad closed the diary and started pacing around the room, staggering as though he had just received a bang on the head. Throwing himself down on the bed, he started banging his forehead.

“O God,” he yelled, “how I wronged him! How often I accused him of being thoughtless!”

It felt like a saw cutting into his heart, and he let out a groan of pain.