The day the leader was killed

Muhtashimi Zayed

In my solitude, I wait. I tighten the robe around my frail body and rearrange the bonnet on my bald head. I stroke my mustache and, in my solitude, I wait. God does not ask a person more than he can give. The doorbell rings. I open the door and in walks Umm Ali in a gray coat and a white veil wrapped around her plump, tanned face.

“How are you, sir?”

“Fine, Umm Ali, praised he the Lord.”

“Winter doesn’t seem to want to spare us.”

Typical of one for whom time is money, she takes off her coat, hangs it on the hanger near the door, and marches into Fawwaz and Hanaa’s bedroom. I follow her as I have been told to do. I sit on a chair and watch her as she sweeps, dusts, cleans, polishes, and puts things in order. Energetic and light in spite of her corpulence. They’re afraid she might steal something. Unjustified suspicions, a vestige of the past. Umm Ali’s hour is worth one pound. She buzzes around from house to house like a bee. Her income exceeds our combined salaries. But I enjoy being alone with her: a weekly diversion which brings back reminiscences of a bygone dream. Being alone with her disrupts the daily routine.

Thus, divided by the time factor, the old “I” comes face-to-face with the present “I” as they attempt — but fail — to communicate in two very different languages. Then, from its old reserves, the heart steals a fleeting heartbeat whose lifespan lasts but thirty seconds. When she bends forward to unroll the carpet, I imagine that I have gently pinched her. just a figment of my imagination, for I am completely in control of myself, and she has no qualms whatsoever about me. In fact, she is very much like a man as far as energy, strength, and tenacity go. O God, forgive us should we forget or err.

Enjoying the fact that I am alone with her, I ask, “How is the Master?”

“God help him!”

“And the children?”

“They’ve all emigrated; only the idiot remains. What’s the latest with your landlord?” she asks with a laugh.

“He gave up and is now keeping quiet.”

“Who would’ve thought land would one day go mad the way human beings do!”

“Madness is the origin of all things, Umm Au.”

How I love to be alone with you. God forbid! It reminds me of the days of tree-lined Khayrat Street, under the spell of liberal, imported ideas: the mischief of hooligans, and then Fikriya and Ratiba, the two nurses. Life is made up of seasons, and to each its special flavor. Bless those who have loved life for what it is: God’s world.

“I envy you for being so fit, Muhtashimi,” Sulayman Mubarak, Randa’s father, told me one day when I was visiting him.

“Heredity and faith, my dear Mr. Sulayman,” I retorted confidently.

Looking in my direction, he inquired slyly:

“Am I to understand that the likes of you believes in fairy tales?”

“God guides whomsoever He wishes.”

“Does that imply that, at some point in the past, you were not an atheist?”

“Inherited faith, doubt, atheism, rationalism, skepticism, then faith!”

“An open buffet?” he inquired ironically.

“Rather a life that is complete.”

I am proud of being the steadfast sort, happy with next to nothing, and a worshiper of truth. I have implored Zeinab that, when the time comes, there should he no obituary, no funeral, no funeral services, and no mourning.

“The point is that you have grown old and death is now in sight.”

A sterile dialogue. Say, truth has come and falsity has vanished. The false was hound to vanish. My friend is living in an empty world whilst I am living in a world peopled by loved ones. God forbid! What a visit, that visit of Umm Ali’s. What is to become of poor Elwan? Lost amid a circus of crooks.

I talk to him about the good old days in the hope that he would eventually give up on a buffoon who used to let out ten sterile slogans every time he as much as opened his mouth.

Umm Ali is through with her work. She washes her hands and face, puts on her gray coat, and glances at her wristwatch to calculate her due. I give her the money.

“Keep well, sir,” she says as she leaves.

“Good-bye, Umm Ali. Don’t forget our next appointment.”

Back to loneliness. I walk about in the apartment now that it has become difficult for me to walk in the street. The Quran and songs. Bless you who have invented the radio and television. Okra and macaroni for lunch. God has enabled me to derive joy from the act of worship. He has also made me fond of food.

What solitude am I talking about with the world around me packed with millions of people? I love life but will also welcome death when the time comes. So many of my ex-pupils have now become ministers! No monasticism in Islam. Life’s but a walking shadow on a summer’s day, seeking shelter under the shade of a tree for an hour or so and then is heard no more. I often tell my beloved grandson stories about the past in the hope that he will, for a moment, set aside his woes. I try to encourage him to read hut he reads very little. He listens to me in amazement as one who would want to believe what he hears. Forget about Alyaa Samih and Mahmoud al-Mahruqi! Haven’t circumstances dampened your faith in your country and in democracy? And why this incomprehensible attachment to a hero long since dead and vanquished?

“So that the world appears not empty, Grandpa.” I have drawn your attention to things of utmost beauty.

“All I want now is an apartment and a decent dowry,” he says with a laugh.

How can I forget the woes of the world when I think of my beloved grandson? The miracles of holy men are verily a wondrous thing!