The day the leader was killed

Muhtashimi Zayed

He loves not the evildoers. What is this decree all about? You declare a revolution on May 5 and then annul it on September 5? You throw all sorts of Egyptians into prison — Muslims, Copts, party men, and intellectuals? Only the opportunists are on the loose. God help you, Egypt!

And whosoever is blind in this world shall be blind in the world to come, and he shall be even further astray from the way.

I remember the day Saad Zaghloul was placed under house arrest in Bayt al-Umma and the opportunists started crawling toward the Palace in a show of affected loyalty. Why are you replaying that old drama that looms large in the repertoire of Egyptian tragedies? I remember the dark days of oppression. Was 1919 then a dream or a myth? (Might does not make right. The mighty are those who can, when incensed, exert self-control.) I wonder what the morrow has in store for us? As for me, I lost my closest and very last friend yesterday. Our friendship tasted seventy-five years, ever since we first set foot in primary school. Were it not for old age and poor means of transport… Oh! I insisted on attending the funeral services, a painful journey like the pilgrimage. I leaned on Elwan. Later, during the condolence services, I recalled old memories: school, the street, the café, the pub, student committees, weddings, birthdays. That face and that smile. Have you heard the latest? Complaints about the hardships of life. We saw eye to eye about everything except football: are you for the Zamalek team or the National team? Drink a glass of water on an empty stomach. Don’t forget the medicine for the memory. I missed your comments on September 5, but I know exactly what you would have said. The Quranic recitation begins: Every soul shall taste of death.

Soon death came along smiling cunningly, and sat beside me. Don’t hurry: only one step left. The death of my old friend is a rehearsal for my own death. I can just see the whole thing: the washing of the corpse, its burial, the pallbearers. I read the obituary: Muhtashimi Zayed, sometime educator and supporter of the Nationalist Movement in his youth. Do you remember him? I thought he had died ages ago. Oblivion shuffles by wearily, but I surrender willingly. Indeed, it has been a long life, but now it seems like only a fleeting moment. Love, violence, anger, hope — so many already gone. There is no difference now between your being in the coffin and my walking behind you or vice versa. His son greeted me warmly and told me that, as he was dying, he said: Please remember me to him.

That evening, my son Fawwaz reprimanded me:

“At your age, you can be excused from these types of obligations.”

On the other hand, Hanaa was saying:

“Today I bought a priceless book entitled How to Repair Your Household Appliances. Let’s hope it will liberate us from the plumber and electrician.” Whereupon Elwan added:

“Is there no book that can liberate us from the rulers?”

“People are speaking of nothing but the imprisonment of those who have been thrown into jail,” continued Fawwaz.

“Professor Alyaa is in prison and so is my friend Mahmud al-Mahruqi!” rejoined Elwan nervously.

“They’ve promised to hold a quick trial so that whoever is innocent would not be harmed,” I added in an attempt to calm them down.

“You still believe those lies, Grandpa?”

Thanks to his state of confusion, he was saved from prison. Woe unto those who are committed!

“I hope you’ll muster enough courage to get over your crisis,” I told him the moment we were alone.

“When calamities accumulate they lose their sharpness and intensity,” he said in an ironic tone.

He switched off the television set and returned to his seat beside me.

“Grandpa, I want to tell you a secret.”

I listened to him anxiously as he went on:

“There are strong indications that I’ll be approached regarding a potential marriage to the sister of Anwar Allam, Randa’s husband.”

“Really! Tell me more about it.”

“She’s a widow, twenty years older than I, and very rich.”

“And looks-wise?”

“Not as you expect. She’s quite acceptable — and respectable.”

When he found that I had kept quiet, he continued:

“What do you say, Grandpa?”

“It’s a very personal kind of decision, and it’s best you make it alone,” I said, trying to overcome my perplexity.

“But I insist on knowing your point of view.”

“Do you love her?”

“No, but I don’t hate her either.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“There must be something you can say.”

“I have no right to decide her fate. I belong to another world and it would not be wise that my world trespass on another.”

“But I’m not used to your being so elusive.” For a while I was silent, and then added:

“There are undeniable advantages to this affair and also undeniable disadvantages. But, in your case, the advantages outweigh the disadvantages!”

“I refuse to sell myself!” he said quickly, with a vague smile.

I immediately felt relieved, but asked him:

“Did you give it enough thought before making up your mind?”

“More thought than necessary.”

“God bless you, then, and may He grant you what your heart desires,” I said in an emotional tone of voice. “Pray, work your miracles Sayyidi al-Hanafi!” I muttered under my breath.