The day the leader was killed

Randa Sulayman Mubarak

I could see the image of my face reflected in the look with which my mother greeted me: pity and something very close to fear.

“Congratulations. Your efforts have succeeded,” I told her within earshot of my father. She sank into a deeper silence as tears began to fill her eyes. Suddenly my father said:

“I trust the soundness of your judgment.”

“Papa, please don’t treat me like a child,” I said on a note of protest.

“You won’t regret it, and I’ll be soon reminding you of this,” he said calmly.

My mother finally spoke out and said:

“You’re a true believer and one therefore doesn’t have to worry about you.”

“Your mother wasn’t wrong, Randa,” said my father.

This is, however, a brand-new life I shall have to be lacing from now on, a life in which there is no trace of Elwan, one which I will have to patiently endure until I die. I was suddenly struck by the bitter sense that I was growing old, haunted by bleak visions of spinsterhood. My bedroom seemed old and shabby with its two ancient beds, its peeling cupboard and faded carpet with only traces of a design still visible. Even my sister Sanaa had become exasperating and nasty.

“You deserve to be congratulated,” she said coldly.

I was angry with Elwan. He proved to be weaker than I had imagined. He deserves to remain confused and aimless forever and ever. I can even see him getting into bad ways or selling himself to a woman like Gulstan. The fact is he’s tired of having to bear responsibilities. He’s trying to escape from this sense of inadequacy and imagines that no one will ever accuse him any longer of not being able to get married. I told myself that I should he congratulating myself on my freedom. I am lighter than I have ever been in the past. He has abandoned me; he has betrayed me. Who but him is ever to care about my excruciating unhappiness? I should be congratulating myself on my freedom. From now on, I can weigh matters rationally with a mind unfettered by the whims of the heart. I am free… I am free! Enough of that! But what did Anwar Allam mean when he spoke to me? What endless unhappiness is that! Does time really cure one from the pangs of love? When and how, damn it! The more I am humiliated, the more contempt I have for him. My parents are being deliberately elusive and will probably remain so until they are once again able to handle matters. First comes defeat in victory, then the sense of victory. He fled and I have been freed. Nurse your pain courageously until it disappears.

I braced myself to meet him on his arrival at the office in the morning, bent on greeting him like any other colleague as though nothing had happened, determined to appear indifferent. But I could not. I was unable to look his way, thus revealing my unhappiness. I wonder how he spent the night? Had he shared my torment or did he sink deep in sleep, a restful sleep, the sleep of freedom? Our secret was going to have to be disclosed, it became known at the office and, on the face of it at least, a sense of gloom seemed to prevail. No one made any comment. The bankrupt must have rejoiced, for unhappy people find solace in like company.

When my turn came to appear before Anwar Allam, he seemed unusually serious at first. However, before I was allowed to go, he said:

“I’ve been told and am sorry!”

I kept quiet.

“But this was the inevitable end. I even believe it has come rather late in the day,” he continued. “A person like you should not have her future depend on a vague promise as though you had no idea of your real worth,” he added in a stronger tone.

I did not utter a single word, so he went on:

“When I once said that every problem had a solution, I had this end in mind. And, seeing that everything eventually disappears, sorrow will certainly not be the exception to the rule!”

Returning to his files, he added:

“My advice to you, Miss Randa, is that you should always remember that we are living in the age of reason. You should trust it blindly, for anything that goes counter to reason is false, false, false!”

Throughout our conversation he was eyeing me boldly. The barriers erected earlier were no longer there. I did not feel that he was more repulsive than before or less so; it was just that I no longer considered it a strange thing.

“I’d like to clarify something, Randa. If he were really and truly sincere, he wouldn’t have ever given you up,” said my father that evening.

Father is sarcastic and suspicious of people. He digs behind every good deed until he finds a nasty interpretation for it.

“He had to make a painful sacrifice because he could no longer bear to be blamed. I know him better than you, Papa,” I said, although I was half inclined to believe him.

“I predict that yours will be a happy end,” he said, smiling. When I failed to comment, he added, “Since we have freed ourselves from love, let us place our faith in reason. And then, there’s no escaping people’s opinion.”

“It’s a matter that concerns me alone,” I retorted, annoyed.

“No. It concerns us all.”

Too bad; Elwan recedes far, far away and here we are talking about a new life.

Muhtashimi Zayed

Praise be to God! All is fine were it not for Elwan’s sorrow. This year spring is pleasant: the khamasin winds are rare. But when will Elwan cheer up and get over it? Praised be the Lord! The day goes by in worship, the recitation of the Quran, food, songs, and films. When one is eighty, one can expect the arrival of the inevitable guest at any time. O God, may it all end well! O God, spare us the anguish and pain of old age, and sprinkle the dewdrops of Thy mercy upon this old house!

God’s world is beautiful, worthy of all one’s love. What is this evil spell that has been cast upon it? The sky, the River Nile, the trees, the pigeons, and this wondrous voice:

Surely in the creation of the heavens and the earth and the alternation of night and day and the ship that runs in the sea with profit to men, and the water God sends down from heaven therewith reviving the earth after it is dead and His scattering abroad in all manner of crawling things, and the turning about of the winds and the clouds compelled between heaven and earth — surely these are signs for a people having understanding.

If only I could be left to myself in my old age, I would be truly happy. But I am not left in peace. Cheers, then, to the days of naive faith as they filter through the memory, to the days of skepticism fraught with conflict! Here’s to the days of heresy involving bold and daring challenges and the days of reason with their interminable discussions! And, finally, cheers to the days of faith and hope! Death is now the last of the promised adventures. Its imminence helps alleviate one’s burdens. It will reveal itself at some point and I shall gently say:

Pluck the fruit now that it is at its ripest.

One day as I was talking to Elwan about the new television series, he remarked:

“Grandpa, I congratulate you on your peace of mind.”

His words disturbed me.

“There is protest in your voice, Elwan,” I replied.

He laughed politely but said nothing, so I continued:

“There’s a last stage called old age. I stretch out my hand to grip the ring of the eighties at the peak of the mountain. I am now entitled to brood on my last days, leaving the woes of my country to its sons. In my days, I fulfilled my obligations to the best of my abilities. I tried my best to inculcate in you a sense of commitment. But I shall continue to warn you of the perils involved in premature aging. Your glossary consists of only one hero: a martyr. You spend days totally infatuated and spellbound; you are now wasting more time feeling confused and sorry for yourself. The least I can say about myself is that I have lived to see three of my pupils become ministers!”

“Do you consider this one of your achievements, Grandpa?” he asked, laughing.

I could not help laughing out loud myself.

“It may not be, but let history judge. You are faced with challenges fit to create heroes, not a lost generation!” I said. I patted his arm affectionately and went on, “Do your duty as opportunity arises so that you may ultimately be able to devote yourself to God with a clear conscience.”

Had only God endowed me with the power of working miracles, I would have found him a flat and made provisions for a dowry, but man proposes and God disposes. All he does now is struggle with his pain and wounds, and I can only pray for him. I recall the cynicism of Sulayman Mubarak, Randa’s father, years back.

“Has the wily dervish forgotten the bad old dissolute, happy-go-lucky days?”

“Love has replaced fear between God Almighty and myself,” I replied with a smile.

“You compete wholeheartedly with Satan and then aspire to forgiveness.”

“Even the dissolute old days I cherish among the fondest of life’s memories.”

“Hear, hear! Marvel at that modern dervish,” cried the man sarcastically.

“You fool! I have reached a point at which I can detect a Sufi strain in the song: ‘I am loved by many a one but it is you who are on my mind.”

He let out a loud burst of laughter and then inquired:

“And how would you interpret the song: ‘The day I was bitten .

“Mock to your heart’s content. The whims of the venerable teacher discreetly concealed behind a sedate front were but a naive thanksgiving prayer.”

“Muhtashimi, I testify that you are the rightful patron of the brothels on the Pyramid Road and the dens of the Infitah smugglers,” he then cried out.

The real problem is Elwan. I wonder if he considers me responsible for his unhappiness?

“Elwan, I would like to know how you feel about things.”

“The fact is I don’t quite know what to do with my life,” he said, irritated.

“The country will, one day, reach the shore safely.”

“I will have become an old man before that happens.”

“And he creates what you know not,” I sighed.

“Grandpa, you so easily seem to find solutions in beautiful words.”

“Elwan, when I was in my thirties, I was fired from my job on the charge of instigating students to go on a strike. I was, at the time, responsible for a family and children and exceedingly poor. I taught at the National Secondary School for a mere pittance. I also held the accounts of a grocer, a friend of mine. We spent a whole year eating nothing but lentils. Ask your father, he can tell you.”

He was only half listening to me.

“I have come to hate myself,” he then said angrily.

“This may be the sign of a new birth,” I said jokingly.

“Or a new death,” he replied sarcastically.

“Let our conversation center on life not death!” I cried.

“Death is also life!” he retorted sharply.

And I could hear the echoing of the glorious Sura:

Whosoever is guided is guided only to his own gain, and whosoever goes astray, it is only to his own loss.