Morning and Evening Talk

Ḥa’

Hazim Surur Aziz

FROM THE VERY BEGINNING he was antisocial and reclusive. He would stand in front of the house, away from his brothers and sisters and cousins, and watch people coming and going from the alleys off the square. He never once entered his uncle Amr’s house. Amr would laugh and say to Surur, “Your son Hazim hates mankind.” He was good looking like his mother, small like Bahiga, and nearsighted to the point of blindness in his left eye. He was never seen laughing or excited. His brilliance became clear in Qur’an school and he was near to repeating the success story of his older brother Labib. He kept to himself and had no goal in life other than to succeed; his relatives from Ata and Dawud’s families did not even know he existed. His outstanding achievements meant his father did not spend a millieme on his education and he entered the faculty of engineering with a remission of fees fully deserved. It was clear to his brother Amir that he did not know the prime minister’s name, read the papers, or connect emotionally with any wave in the sea of events stirring the nation. “Do you think the world is just about study?” Amir asked him. But no one could draw him into a discussion. When Amir was martyred in his jihad, Hazim was perplexed, silent, and dejected. But he did not utter a word or shed a tear and it was not long before he resumed life as usual.

He graduated as an engineer in 1938 but, because of his disability, did not head for the civil service. Instead, he found a better job at the building contractors of Dr. Muhammad Salama, who had been one of his teachers at school. The engineering professor was impressed by him and liked him. He regarded him as a model of intelligence and action, who steered clear of trouble. He would visit his teacher at his villa in Dokki and carry out various tasks, and there got to know Samiha, his daughter. Samiha was acceptable looking, but more importantly she was the daughter of his manager and teacher. He noticed the bey encouraged the acquaintance and this surprised him, given the man knew his humble origins and poverty. Nevertheless, he let vanity get the better of him until they were married and he had taken up residence in one of the apartments in a building the doctor owned and reckoned himself king of the world. The truth then began to emerge and he faced a situation that bespoke trouble: the bride’s nervous side. She soon revealed a personality that was impossible to get along with. She was a hurricane that blew up and spread for the feeblest reasons, sometimes no reason whatsoever. He had a constitution that naturally deflected lightning bolts, inherited from his mother, Sitt Zaynab. He lived by his head, not his heart. Thus, seated in his living room, wrapped in navy blue silk robes and submerged in an armchair, he said to himself: So be it. The marriage is equitable at any rate. It promised him a future free of the need to dream while he possessed the intelligence and ambition to exploit what advantages there might be. If Samiha had been a perfect bride, or even just average, she would have married someone from the upper class to which she belonged, or a diplomat. Her father had given her to him after much thought and deliberation and he must accept the gift with similar thought and deliberation. He also said to himself: If she’s the patient then I’m the doctor. And so he was.

The major deaths in Surur and Amr’s families came in succession shortly before the Second World War: first Amr, then Surur, then Zaynab. Samiha tired of visiting Hazim’s mother, father, and siblings and decided in a moment of madness not to take part in the mourning ceremonies.

He looked at her pleadingly. “But.…”

His tone was loaded with meaning but she shot back vehemently, “I’m not going anywhere near that vermin-infested square. Nor do I want anyone from it coming to me.”

He did not get angry and his face gave nothing away. Relations between him and his family were soon severed and he merged into her family, becoming a shadow of it and forgetting his roots. Yet his blind obedience did not guarantee him peace. Once, when he and his wife were alone after an evening in his apartment with his mother-in-law, her sister, and some of her relatives, she said to him, “I’m not impressed. You were too quiet. What few words escaped you were meaningless.”

“Too much talking gives me a headache and no interesting subjects came up,” he apologized with the utmost decorum and delicacy.

“So if we’re not talking about engineering it’s nonsense?” she bellowed.

He obliged her with a smile but she flew into a rage and roared the cruelest insults. She grabbed an expensive vase and hurled it at the wall. It shattered and the shards showered onto the embroidered sofa cover. He looked at her and smiled apprehensively then said affectionately, “Nothing in the world is worth you getting this angry about.”

But the apartment also witnessed embraces and parenthood, and she gave birth to Husni and Adham. Hazim rose through the company, relying on perseverance and aptitude, and Muhammad Bey Salama relied on him increasingly as the days passed. Then, after the bey’s death, he took his place as Samiha’s proxy. He added to the capital with his own savings and, under him, the company prospered even more than it had previously. He built a villa in Dokki and his family moved there. He digested all Samiha’s outbursts with extraordinary heroism, though some were difficult to stomach. For instance, Muhammad Bey Salama had been a member of the Wafd party whereas Hazim was indifferent to politics but, confronted with Samiha’s zeal, would profess Wafdism in the home at least. His cool announcements were not, however, enough. He returned to the apartment one day to find a picture of al-Nahhas hanging in place of the picture of his father, Surur Effendi. He looked in silence without daring to comment. “I’m superstitious about pictures of the dead. This is a picture of the nation’s leader,” Samiha said. He said nothing, even when Muhammad Bey Salama and al-Nahhas died and their pictures remained in their places. On the day the family moved to the new villa she laughed loudly and said, “Praise be to God, you fool. We’ve raised you from the bottom to the top.”

“Praise God for everything,” he said submissively.

She frowned. “Don’t forget the gratitude you owe me.”

“You are generous and blessed,” he replied with usual cool.

When the July Revolution came he worried his feigned Wafdism had spread beyond the walls of the house, but he was not exposed to any trouble. He assiduously applauded the revolution in the workplace while berating it at home in front of Samiha, his eyes scrutinizing his surroundings and seeking refuge in God. “Have you heard of a country ruled by a group of constables?” she would say in exasperation at every opportunity.

He would interrupt and whisper in her ear, “Be careful of the servants … the walls … the air.…”

How Samiha delighted at the Tripartite Aggression, and how her hopes were dashed. On June 5 she locked herself in her room and began to dance. When news arrived of the leader’s death she trilled until Hazim stood up and, for the first time, shouted, “Have mercy on me!”

The company was nationalized but the rest of his family’s acquisitions were left untouched. During Sadat’s era, Hazim reached his true zenith: he opened an engineering office and became a millionaire. Samiha said of the new leader, “His face may be black but his heart is white.” Yet the defeat she suffered at the hands of her son Husni was probably more savage than her political defeat. From the outset she tried to control her children as she did their father but failed completely. Husni broke all barriers and shackles whereas Adham lived up to her dreams after he created a life for himself away from everyone. Samiha found no one on whom to vent her anger but Hazim. “If it weren’t for your weakness and idiocy things would have been different,” she said with contempt. In old age she fell victim to depression and was forced to convalesce for a month at a sanatorium in Helwan. Hazim remained healthy despite developing diabetes and was indeed rather pleased to be living with a sick wife; indeed he had long wished her dead, especially after the death of his patron. Strange dreams would entice him; he would see her the victim of a car accident or chronic illness, or drowning in the Mediterranean, or … or…

But he stopped having the dreams. The house was deserted when she was in the sanatorium, and he believed he had realized his eternal dream of success and fortune.

Hamid Amr Aziz

From the beginning he was an irregular plant in the family’s soil. Amr Effendi probably did not slave as hard in raising any of his children as he did Hamid. He liked playing and fighting, acquired a wealth of vocabulary from the lexicon of street talk, and was routinely aggressive with his siblings, despite ranking sixth among them. As a result, he stumbled through Qur’an school and primary and secondary school and often returned to the old house with a torn gallabiya or a bloody nose, risking confrontation with his older brother, Amer, who had no qualms about beating him from time to time. Amr Effendi, on the other hand, made do with chastisements, gentle advice, and threats, while Radia endlessly resorted to spells and incantations and scattered vows about saints’ tombs on his account. He harbored wicked intentions toward the girls in the family — like Gamila and Bahiga, his uncle’s daughters, and Dananir, his aunt Rashwana’s daughter — but his bad reputation put their mothers on guard. He also stood out in the family with his heavy build and large distinct features, which granted him manhood early. His greatest dream was to lead a gang like the celebrated strongmen who brought misery to the ancient quarter.

When, after several attempts, he attained the higher certificate, Mahmud Ata al-Murakibi advised his father to cut the path short and enroll him at the police academy: “It’s the solution I’ve found for my son Hasan.”

Amr Effendi welcomed the advice and Mahmud Ata promised to use his unassailable powers of intercession as an important noble to overcome any obstacles. Thus, Hamid entered the college the same year as his cousin Hasan. Mahmud made known his wish that Hamid marry his eldest daughter, Shakira, and Amr was delighted, for it would cement his relationship with the Murakibi family in the same way his son Amer had cemented his relationship with the Dawud family. The marriage paved the way for a grandeur his withered branch of the family had never dreamed of and enforced his position on the towering tree; he was honored and pleased. Hamid was happy too, even though his fiancée’s appearance did not satisfy his hunger for beautiful things. Only Radia was annoyed.

“What a lamentable choice,” she commented.

“Give praise to God, dear woman,” said Amr.

“Praise God, the only one we praise for loathsome things!” she retorted angrily.

“Happy houses are founded on roots and morals,” said the man hopefully.

“And money! How frustrating!” she said with contempt.

Surur Effendi informed his brother of his displeasure and began inwardly interpreting the matter as Amr’s indomitable desire to cling to the coattails of rich relatives; Mahmud Ata had only chosen a groom like Hamid for his daughter because he was conscious deep down of her insipidity and that if he didn’t find someone humble, who would be fettered by the favor, nobody would come forward except a freeloader eager to get hold of her money and take advantage of her and her loot. When Sitt Zaynab accused Radia of not wishing them well, Surur said to her, “It’s not just Radia. On the outside the deal makes it look like Hamid is the beneficiary, but in fact the real beneficiaries are al-Murakibi and his daughter, who couldn’t find a groom to oblige. My brother’s a good man, but gullible.”

One of Amr’s daughters was not pleased. When Sadriya heard the news she commented, “My brother’s marrying a man!”

When the 1919 Revolution came, Hamid was in his final year at the academy. He inclined to the revolution with all his heart and was accused of spurring on the strike, arraigned, and put back to the first year. Everyone was competing to make sacrifices so Amr Effendi was not especially upset, but praised God his son had not been expelled and thrown into the street. By the time he graduated as an officer, Mahmud Bey’s standing had risen, having pledged allegiance to the Crown, and he was able to have Hamid admitted into the interior ministry’s central offices with his son Hasan. Shakira was wedded to him soon after, without any real outlay on his part. He moved from the old house in Bayt al-Qadi to the mansion on Khayrat Square, where he and his wife would occupy a small wing on the private middle floor belonging to Mahmud’s family.

It was without question a revolutionary migration: the boy from the alley and its stagnant corners found himself from one day to the next in a tall mansion surrounded by a lush garden and adorned with objets d’art, statues, and sumptuous furniture, where the sweet, melodious language of hanems rang out, the tables were embellished with the finest food, and the air was scented with piety and culture, without a trace of Radia’s mysteries. Hamid also found himself in a cage guarded by a tyrant, Mahmud Ata al-Murakibi, and a hanem of immense sweetness and beauty, Nazli Hanem. As for his cousin and life partner, she was the image of her father in terms of sturdy build and a replica of her mother in terms of culture and piety. He could not change his nature, however, having dealt with gangsters since youth, and would behave like a police officer with them when they went too far. It was impossible for love to breed in his little world. All his life he knew only transient pleasure. From the first weeks of marriage he revealed his true colors in both word and deed. He did not, of course, forget the cage and its two guards; he was more in awe of Mahmud Bey than of his own father and stood before him as he would the august heads at the interior ministry. He curbed his unruliness as much as he could and tried to teach himself to be content with his situation, but habit compels and the tongue betrays. The bride was alarmed and whispered to her mother, “He is very vulgar — the way he eats, drinks, and talks.” The hanem was mistress of the house in the true sense of the word. She asked for wisdom and patience and told her daughter, “None of this prevents him from being a man of virtue.”

She was a good mediator between the two parties, and no one knew a thing about what went on in the new wing. But the hanem soon encountered a new problem: Radia and Shakira’s mutual loathing. Radia could not conceal her feelings and Shakira did not disguise hers. Nazli Hanem and Radia were genuine friends, but deep down Nazli believed Radia was dangerous. “Be careful,” she said to her daughter. “Your mother-in-law knows all about magic and its secrets and the saints. I believe the stories of her fraternizing with ifrit. Treat her with all due respect and courtesy.”

She would entreat Radia too, saying, “Forgive my daughter. For the sake of our friendship, wipe her mistakes on my face instead.”

Amidst this sea of turmoil Shakira gave birth to Wahida and Salih and gained some comfort in her stressful life, though it remained one devoid of love or peace. Similarly, her ability to cause upset was extremely limited. When the two brothers, Mahmud and Ahmad, fell out and the family unity was torn to shreds, Amr feared his son would be swept along by a current of hostility that had nothing to do with him. He tried to resolve the rift and maintain good relations with both his uncles. He advised Hamid to adopt his — Amr’s — position and not sever relations with Ahmad Bey and he worked on Mahmud Bey until he consented to this. Hamid was pleased, for deep down he was fond of his uncle Ahmad and thought his demand justified.

In the period leading up to the Second World War and the years that followed, Ahmad, Amr, and Mahmud passed away. Hamid sensed he was free of guardians, and his relationship with his wife became worse than ever. This made Wahida and Salih miserable as they were torn between the two parents. Shakira was the greater influence in their upbringing so they grew up cultured, knew application and piety, and never freed their father of blame. They condemned his boorish behavior toward their mother and, though they tried to appear as neutral as possible in front of him, it showed. He could tell what was said in private from the looks in their eyes and felt alienated and angry. He continued to show his mother-in-law the respect and courtesy she deserved, but she was nevertheless compelled to tell him, “It pains me the way you treat Shakira.” He resented Shakira and imagined she had devoured the best years of his life unfairly. One day, as they heaped abuses upon one another and traded the usual cruel insults, she suddenly screamed through her tears, “I hate you more than death.” He risked the dream that had long been tempting him and divorced her, apologizing to her brother Hasan, his cousin, friend, and colleague, “Forgive me but I couldn’t take any more. Everything happens according to God’s will.”

He only returned to the old house in Bayt al-Qadi for a month. Radia stated her view, “The marriage shouldn’t have taken place but you don’t have the right to divorce, in deference to Wahida and Salih.” Back at the mansion they suspected Radia’s magic to be in some way responsible for the divorce and indeed the marriage’s failure from the first day. Hamid moved to an apartment in a new building on al-Manyal Street shown to him by his cousin Halim, Abd al-Azim Pasha’s son, who lived in one of the other apartments. In the 1950s, when he was nearly fifty, he fell in love with a widow called Esmat al-Awurfla, who was in her forties. He married her and brought her to his apartment to begin a new life. Relations with Wahida and Salih weakened, but were not severed. When the July Revolution came he was pensioned off with the other police officers it viewed as enemies of the people; it was known he had always been a Wafdist at heart, but the revolution considered Wafdists the state’s enemies too. He shut himself off at home with Esmat for a while, but when he discovered Samira’s son Hakim was at the heart of things and had influence, he entreated him and was appointed a manager of public relations with Amr Effendi, adding an extra fifty Egyptian pounds a month to his pension.

He was quite happy with his life. His new wife was experienced in the ways of the world. She met his violent moods and vulgarity with excellent cunning and paved the way for a stable existence with no visible cracks. He never stopped visiting the old house nor loving his mother and his brother Qasim; their eccentricity delighted him and he always had fun with them. He would let his mother kiss his brow affectionately and bowed his head for her to perform spells on and recite Surat al-Samad over and some of the daily prayers she knew by heart. He would question his brother about his stars and future, tour his childhood haunts, and read the opening sura of the Qur’an at al-Hussein, which represented the beginning and end of his religious life. He also visited his sisters’ houses and his brother Amer at the Dawud family residence. During this period, his relations with Abd al-Azim’s son Halim grew stronger, for the two suffered an identical fate at the hands of the revolution. So did his relations with his cousin Labib. He smoked hashish with the former and drank with the latter. Their hearts united in criticizing the revolution, contempt for its men, and remembering the good old days. His happiness was only disturbed by a nagging awareness that Wahida and Salih harbored for him only a fraction of the love he had for them and that they much preferred their mother. He was moved by the tragedies of the nation and his family. He lived through the October 1973 attack and in the period that followed began to feel weak. He was initially diagnosed with anemia, but his wife learned from laboratory results that he had leukemia and death was waiting at the door. He did not know what hit him. He was moved to the hospital not knowing what was going on. His wife, Wahida, and Salih were present for his final hours of agony. As the end approached, he asked to see Radia, but circumstances prohibited it for she was over a hundred and did not know her son was sick, nor did she find out before she died. He gave up the ghost after much suffering, seen off by the tears of his wife, Wahida, and Salih. But death did not lighten Shakira’s deep hatred of him.

Habiba Amr Aziz

If Bayt al-Qadi Square, the alleys that emptied into it, and the towering walnut trees left a trace in the hearts of Amr and Surur’s families; if the minarets, dervishes, strongmen, wedding feasts, and funeral ceremonies; or the fairy tales, legends, and ifrit left a trace, it was the life that flowed through the blood and hid beneath the smiles, tears, and dreams in the heart of Amr Effendi’s fifth child, Habiba, who could never bring herself to leave the quarter in spite of dazzling opportunities. No one loved their father and mother, brothers, sisters, cousins, even neighbors and cats, as much as she did. She wept over every death until she became known as “the mourner.” She kept memories and promises and was permanently intoxicated by the past and its happy times. Her beauty nearly matched Samira’s but for a film on her left eye. Her share of education went as far as erasing ignorance, which would soon return due to disuse. She knew nothing of her religion other than her mother’s popular version but was convinced that fervent love for al-Hussein was the best route to the Hereafter. When she was sixteen, one of her brother Amer’s friends, an Arabic language teacher called Shaykh Arif al-Minyawi, proposed and she was married to him in Darb al-Ahmar. After one happy year together she gave birth to Nadir but the next year the man fell into the clutches of cancer and died.

“Oh darling daughter, your luck is dreadful!” Radia cried in anguish.

Habiba lived with her mother-in-law on the proceeds of shops in al-Mugharbilin and dedicated her life to her son — a widow though not yet twenty. She loved Nadir as any mother loves her child, but she loved him too with a heart that seemed created to love. When Nadir came to the end of Qur’an school at the beginning of the 1930s, Mahmud Bey Ata wanted to marry her to a village mayor in Beni Suef. The family welcomed the idea, but she would have to surrender Nadir to her uncle. She categorically refused. She would not give up her son and did not want to leave the quarter.

“You’re mad. You don’t know what you’re doing!” said her brother Hamid.

“On the contrary. I know exactly what I’m doing,” she replied.

Amr tried and Radia tried, but she would not change her mind.

Nadir graduated from business school during the Second World War and was appointed to the tax office. But he was known for his ambition from the start. He began studying English at a private institute. His mother worried about how engrossed he was in work at the office and the institute. “Why do you put yourself to all this trouble?” she asked him. But he had charted his course and nothing could stand in his way. Habiba’s arid life was capped by middle age, then she withered and looked ill. She watched her son’s ascent with pleasure but, though he begrudged her none of his money, she refused to leave Darb al-Ahmar for a new villa of his. When he left and moved to his marital home she plunged into a fearful loneliness from whose grasp she did not escape until death.

“It’s what we raise them to do. You should be glad and praise God,” Radia told her.

“I’ve sacrificed so much for him!” she said broken-hearted.

“It’s like that for every mother. Visit Sidi Yahya ibn Uqab,” Radia replied.

She was the last of Amr’s family to pass away. She wept for everyone with renowned passion until her tears dried up. However, when it was her turn there was no one left to weep.

Hasan Mahmud al-Murakibi

He grew up in comfort in the grand mansion on Khayrat Square and on the farm in Beni Suef. It was as though Nazli Hanem was brought into the Murakibi family to improve its pedigree, which showed in the male descendants, including Hasan, who was known for his height, good looks, and sturdy build. The customs of the day and Cairo’s magnanimity at the time meant not a week went by without exchange visits between Khayrat Square and Bayt al-Qadi Square. Mahmud Bey wanted his first son to study agriculture, which would benefit him later on, but, like his cousin Hamid, his approach to study was lax so the man had them both enrolled at the police academy. The 1919 Revolution flooded Hasan with powerful emotions, but he did not expose himself to the kind of harm Hamid suffered and it did not take long for him to join the rest of his family in its stance with regard to the revolution’s leader and allegiance to the Crown. This also better suited his job at the interior ministry as it meant he was not, like Hamid, divided between Wafdism in private and the government in public. Thanks to his father’s influence he never knew the hardship of working in the provinces. He did not defer to his father’s wish and marry early. Instead, he lived a licentious life, capitalizing on the fascination occasioned by his colorful uniform, the abundant money brought by his rank, and the gifts bestowed on him by his mother. However, he yielded in the end and married a girl called Zubayda from his mother’s family. She was wedded to him in an apartment in Garden City, where he enjoyed a standard of living that even the interior minister himself envied.

During the period of political turmoil he became famous for his violence in dispersing demonstrations. He weathered successive attacks in the Wafdist newspapers, which damaged his public reputation to an extent, but raised his credibility at the mansion and with the English and granted him exceptional promotions.

“You entered the academy in the same year but he’s made the rank of captain and you’re still a second lieutenant,” Amr Effendi remarked to his son Hamid.

“He’s a traitor. The son of a pantofle-seller,” Surur, who was with them at the lunch table, said viciously. But Hasan and Hamid were friends as well as relatives and they became even closer when the latter married Shakira. Hasan was nearly killed during Sidqi’s time when bricks hit his head and neck. He spent an entire month in hospital. He was the most aggressive of his siblings toward his uncle Ahmad’s family when the disagreement divided the two brothers. Indeed, he came to blows with Adnan and beat him up at the mansion — a sad day in the history of the family. Hasan produced three sons, Mahmud, Sharif, and Omar; all of them fine specimens of good looks and intelligence. By the July Revolution he was a general and very rich, owing to his and his wife’s inheritances, but the revolution pensioned him off as part of a police purge. He exited on the same list as Hamid, though their friendship had broken down after Shakira’s divorce.

“We should sell our land. Fortune has turned on landowners,” he said to Zubayda.

The losses he suffered with the revolution did not compare with those of others in his class, including his cousin Adnan, but he still found himself in the opposite camp. He began acting like a supporter of the new revolution. He started selling off his and Zubayda’s land in bursts and used the money to set up a business on Sharif Street. He managed it himself and his wealth flourished. His sons, Mahmud, Sharif, and Omar, were educated in schools of the revolution. They were saturated with its philosophy and filled with the heroism of its leader. Hasan did not mind; rather, his sons and two brothers, Abduh and Mahir, provided a protection against the hurricanes of the day. His brothers were probably the reason his business escaped nationalization in 1961. When the disastrous event of June 5 took place, Mahmud, Sharif, and Omar had graduated as doctors and worked in government hospitals. The Setback that shook Nasser’s generation and dispersed it with the winds of loss and despair overtook them. Thus, the leader had barely died and Sadat taken over before Mahmud and Sharif emigrated to the United States to launch successful careers in medicine while Omar secured a contract to work in Saudi Arabia. Hasan found purpose and consolation for past defeats in Sadat and his infitah policy. He buckled down to work and illusory wealth. He built a mansion in Mohandiseen for himself and his wife and lived the life of a king, dreaming his sons would one day return and inherit the millions he had accumulated for them. His life ended in an accident in the 1980s: he was driving his Mercedes along Pyramids Road when it flipped and caught fire. They extracted his body from it, blackened, stripped of the world and its millions.

Husni Hazim Surur

He was Hazim and Samiha’s first child. He had a sporty build, a handsome face, and a brilliant mind. He grew up in comfort in the villa in Dokki and graduated as an engineer in 1976. Like his brother, he encountered no problems in life and did not know the worry of party affiliations, and, like his father, he proceeded down the path of fortune and success in his father’s office. Samiha tried to control him, as she did his father, but found him insubordinate. Like her, he would get worked up over the smallest things. She perceived a dangerous unruliness in him so was keen to arrange his marriage, but he told her clearly, “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“But you’re just a child,” she said angrily.

He laughed loudly and looked toward his father, who avoided his eyes.

“It’s my life,” he said.

“You don’t know anything about a good marriage.”

“What’s a ‘good marriage’?” he inquired sardonically.

“Roots and money. They’re synonymous!” she shouted back.

“Thanks, then I don’t need a fiancée!” he continued in his sardonic tone.

He fell in love with a dancer called Agiba from one of the Pyramid nightclubs and, as his feelings were more than a passing whim, suggested they get married.

“If it wasn’t love I’d never accept the shackles of marriage,” she said.

He was overjoyed, but she made it a condition that he allow her to continue her art, which he contemplated worriedly before saying, “Let’s remain as we are in that case.”

“No. Then we can both go our own ways,” she snapped back.

He acquiesced in spite of himself and married her. His brother, Adham, was the first to know, his father the second. When the news reached Samiha she raised a storm that brought the servants running and prompted inquiries from the neighbors. Husni moved to an apartment his wife owned on Pyramids Road.

“I haven’t given up my art because the cinema has started to take notice of me,” she said to him.

However, it became clear that the path to recognition was not easy and required him to set up a production company for his wife’s genius. He knew his father no longer had the confidence in him that he used to, so asked for his share of the business capital to dedicate to the new venture. His father granted the wish, saying, “Keep it between you and me.” With this, Husni cut himself off from his mother, and indeed the whole family. He produced two films for Agiba, neither of which brought her fame. Reports of a suspicious relationship between her and a supporting actor called Rashad al-Gamil reached his ears. He watched the two until he caught them in a furnished apartment in Agouza. He beat her to death and was charged and sentenced to fifteen years. Relatives learned his news from the newspapers and, before that, from gossip. More than one of them exclaimed, “Lord have pity! Son of Hazim, the son of Surur Effendi, God have mercy on him.”

Hakim Hussein Qabil

Anyone who looked into his wide brown eyes was dazzled by their beautiful shape and bright shine, and his large head and thick hair lent him dignity. He was the third child of Amr Effendi’s daughter Samira and her husband, Hussein Qabil, the antique dealer in Khan al-Khalili. Ibn Khaldun Street, where his family lived in an apartment block, was the amphitheater of his childhood and youth, al-Zahir Baybars Garden his playground. As well as being intelligent and a high achiever, he was fond of gambling from an early age, starting with dominoes and backgammon and later gravitating to poker and rummy. He was known for his close friendship with one of the neighbors. They were together through primary and secondary school, then Hakim went to the faculty of commerce, the other to the war college. Hakim knew all his mother’s relatives — the families of Amr, Surur, al-Murakibi, and Dawud — just as he did his father’s. His uncles Amer and Hamid were baffled by his political stance, which rejected, or seemed to reject, the situation in its entirety.

“I think the treaty is a great achievement for the Wafd!” Hamid said to him.

“It has several negatives. I don’t believe in political parties,” he replied.

“The Muslim Brothers buy and sell religion and Misr al-Fatah are Fascist agents!”

“Not all of them.”

“So what do you believe in?”

“Nothing.”

Amer gave a light-hearted laugh. “A dissonant chord in the family,” said Hamid.

Hakim graduated during the Second World War, not long after his father died, and was appointed to the tax office. It was not long before he fell in love with a colleague called Saniya Karam, married her, and moved with her to an apartment in West Abbasiya. She gave birth to Hussein and Amr and life looked set to follow the familiar routine from start to finish. Then came the July Revolution and his best friend was one of its star players. The future hatched new dimensions no one would have imagined. At an opportune moment he was appointed manager of the distributions office at one of the major newspapers and his salary leaped from the tens to the hundreds with a stroke of the pen. His position sent ripples through the family tree from bottom to top. Samira’s family cried for joy and Amr’s family were pleased in spite of their shattered Wafdist dreams. As for the antagonists in the Murakibi and Dawud families, they remarked sarcastically, “Corruption used to be humble. Now it’s greedy.”

Because of his connection to his close friend he was revered, even by ministers, and flattered by friends and enemies alike. Within a short time, he moved to a new apartment in East Abbasiya, purchased a car, and became a true man of the times. He was loyal to family and friends and extended a helping hand to his uncle Hamid and cousin Nadir. It was thanks to him that his younger brother, Salim, was dealt with humanely when he was interrogated prior to his incarceration. Likewise, he was the intermediary in the appointment of many of his friends as guards after members of the family were placed under supervision. He remained close to his friend even after the man ranked with the new leaders. Not a week went by without a domestic visit to his mansion, where they would discuss romance and memories in confidence. On one such occasion he asked his friend casually, “Isn’t it about time you nominated me as a minister?”

“What’s the value in being a minister? Your income would be cut in half,” the man said.

“But.…”

The other laughed. “I’m telling you I already tried…,” he said and gazed at Hakim with a meaningful smile.

“I promise I’ll give up gambling,” he said.

“It’s your brother Salim too,” said the friend dejectedly.

Hakim gave up the idea of becoming a minister, but his star continued to soar and he was elected a member of the national assembly. His light went on shining until June 5, when his friend was among those swallowed by darkness. Hakim’s influence thus disappeared in one blow, though he managed to keep his job. The fall was a personal as well as public defeat; he tasted the bitterness of ignominy after the sweetness of glory and found the many snubs he suffered — including from those he had loyally rescued from insignificance — unbearable. His only comforts in the world were his two sons, Hussein and Amr, who had become officers in the cavalry. Around this time, he began to show symptoms of high blood pressure and to suffer the effects. Then came the calamity he had often had nightmares about: Amr was martyred in the War of Attrition. Unlike Saniya, Hakim tried to maintain his self-control and appear brave and accepting of fate, leaving his sorrow to congeal deep inside him like sediment in a vessel. He carried on as one leader died and the next took over. He lived through October 6 and was shaken by a delirium he had not felt since the happy days before June 5. But the blaze was soon extinguished when he received news that his remaining son, Hussein, had been martyred on the battlefield. The tension mounted and exploded without self-control, a show of bravery, or acceptance of fate, and killed him. These events took place as Radia hovered at the summit of her old age. The angels chuckled in the old house.

Halim Abd al-Azim Dawud

He was born and grew up in an elegant villa in East Abbasiya, the third son of Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud. He had a pleasant face and sporty build and from an early age was devoted to fun and amusement, jokes, and riotous behavior. He was never known to utter a single serious word. His two older brothers were excessively serious and industrious, hence he would say, “I was created to restore balance to the family.”

Abd al-Azim Pasha watched bitterly as he stumbled through school and told him, “You’ll bring shame on yourself and the family.” But Halim took no notice of censure. Of the family’s characteristics he retained only pride, conceit, and arrogance — he even held his own family, along with Amr and Surur, in contempt and resented the successful among them. Only Amer, who was married to his sister Iffat, was spared his tongue. The Murakibi family he placed, despite their wealth, on the same level assigned them by the Dawud family because of their lack of education and their descent from a man who sold pantofles. Had it not been for the weight of tradition and the vigilance of his aunts, he would not have hesitated to seduce the pretty female cousins of his age, like Surur Effendi’s daughters, Gamila and Bahiga, or Rashwana’s daughter, Dananir. Hamid was probably the only person he was cautious around, on account of his strength and predisposition to violence. He resented him nevertheless, and they remained adversaries until the final stages of their lives, when all they had in common was misfortune. In childhood and adolescence, amid his mother’s pampering, he gained mastery in swimming, football, gambling, wine, romance, and amusement. He was also distinguished by a sweet voice and would say with characteristic conceit, “Were it not for family tradition, I’d be a popular singer.” After a long struggle with school, he decided to enroll in the police academy. The family, men and women alike, was not impressed. “We’re a family of lawyers and doctors,” his father said.

“I have no patience with studying,” he confessed.

When he enrolled at the academy he found Hasan Mahmud Ata al-Murakibi in his final year and Hamid halfway through. In keeping with academy conventions, he had to execute duties for them humbly and obediently. It would have been easier for him to do this for a soldier. Once, the three were having a meal with Radia, removed from duties and obligations. They got into a discussion of origins, boasting jokingly to one another. He reminded them of their roots and they reviled him for his. “You may be pashas but you come from the soil,” Hamid said to him. Radia was following the conversation, smiling. “At the end of the day we’re all Adam and Eve’s children, and there’s no champion in the family to match my father, Shaykh Mu‘awiya.”

Halim regarded Radia as one of life’s curiosities with her dervish ways, magic, daily prayers, and ifrit. “In a different life she would take her natural place among the madmen at Bab al-Akhdar,” he said to his mother.

“Be careful not to insult the dearest person to me,” Farida Hanem exclaimed.

Farida Hanem believed in Radia and whenever they met would ask her to read her coffee cup. When in her old age she guessed her end was near, she stipulated that Radia, and no one else from either her or her husband’s family, should wash her.

Halim graduated an officer a year after Hamid and, thanks to his father, was appointed to special posts at the interior ministry and spent most of his service guarding amirs and ministers. The 1919 Revolution played out before him like an emotive film in the cinema; never in his life had he associated with anything but amusement, riotous behavior, jokes, and entertainment. His father and brothers were dervishes of constitutional liberalism, but he was a dervish of bars, nightclubs, and casinos. He never contemplated forming a family or sustaining any ties. He chose an apartment for himself in a building on Nile Street — the one he showed Hamid after his divorce — and decorated it with gifts from amirs and ministers. It bore witness to all manner of prostitutes and artistes. He did not hesitate, even when he rose in rank, to spend the evening on the houseboat Monologist, drinking, behaving riotously, and singing, then staggering home at dawn. Relations became strained between him and his father and two brothers, and some futile attempts were made to arrange a marriage. But as the days passed he conquered them with his jovial spirit; he assailed their hearts until they surrendered to him like an unavoidable evil, probably the most gratifying evil in the family.

When the July Revolution came he was transferred to the district inspectorate. True, he was luckier than Hamid and Hasan, but in old age he had to work hard for the first time in his life. Moreover, he let his contempt for the revolution be known from the first day. He wondered how people distinguished by nothing but their possession of weapons could usurp government. Did it mean then that brigands could become kings? What had happened to noble families? How could the rank of pasha be eliminated with a stroke of the pen? How should he address his father and older brother from now on? How could he give the military salute to officers of similar or lower rank? Worst of all, he found in the Murakibi family two officers in the second tier of rulers, and Samira’s son Hakim was part of the ruling body! The world had truly turned upside down — the bottom now at the top, the top now at the bottom. Fires of jealousy and rancor raged in his heart. He glowered angrily at the new world glowering at him.

How great was his delight at the Tripartite Aggression! He believed the curtain would come down on the comedy and the situation would be put right. But the events that followed frustrated his hopes, and the leader turned to meet a new world of chivalry and valor. His father died in the 1960s, followed two years later by his older brother, compounding his exile and sorrow. His amusements and riotous behavior escalated unchecked. One night he was at a luxury apartment for illicit gambling and there was a police raid. He made his identity known to the head of the force, but was ignored and herded with the others to the police station in Qasr al-Nil. The matter did not end well: the interior minister summoned him and demanded he submit his resignation to avert something worse. So he resigned in spite of himself and found himself on a pension. In dark despair, he decided to curb his routine. Hamid suggested that Hakim could intercede to find him a job, as he had done for him, but Halim thanked him and declined. He would rather make do on his pension than debase himself before Hakim. He found a way of living on his pension and replaced whisky with hashish, as it was cheaper and had an adequate effect. With instinctive contemptuousness, he gave himself wholly to detesting and deriding the era and its men. After June 5 he decided to make the pilgrimage to God’s Holy Shrine. Like most of his family, he was not religious, except in name, but he performed the pilgrimage nevertheless, then resumed his life completely unchanged. He calmed down a little but developed diabetes and did not possess the will to confront the demands it made on his diet. It got out of control and he suffered successive complications. One evening he telephoned his neighbor and cousin and said, “Come over and bring Esmat Hanem. I’m dying.…”

He passed away that night with Hamid and his wife at his side.