Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (13 page)

“Where are you?” asked her husband.

“In Palermo,” she replied calmly.

“Was the fashion show in Palermo?”

Equally calm, she said, “I told you it was in Milan.”

“I forgot. How was the show?”

“I didn’t go.”

He said quickly, “Why didn’t you go back to Rome then?”

“There was nothing to go back for.”

“Do you have news of the prime minister?”

“The prime minister and the cabinet can go to hell.” And for the first time since she had known Medhat she hung up on him and burst into tears. Medhat had reminded her of real life. All that had happened to her in Italy seemed a dream, and when it ended she would return to her real life in Egypt.

People, when they traveled, seemed to lose their grounding and act according to different rules. She could not believe that she had come to Palermo and attended the international NGO conference with Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni, only to end up going back to her life in Egypt. The dream would lead nowhere. She cried more passionately than she had for years.

The phone rang again. She could not face hearing Medhat’s voice, and picked up the phone to turn it off. Mervat’s name
was on the screen. She quickly answered before the ringing stopped. Mervat noticed the distress in her voice and asked her what was wrong. Doha was sobbing in spite of herself as she said, “I’m tired, Mervat.”

“Of what?” Mervat asked.

“Of my life. Of myself. Of the whole world. Just a few days ago I thought I’d found everything I was looking for. But now I’m certain I’m not destined to be happy in this world.”

Mervat sounded shocked as she asked, “Why, Doha? What happened at Fashion Week? Didn’t they like your clothes?”

“I didn’t show my clothes. I canceled the show.”

“Oh no, that’s terrible!” exclaimed Mervat. “But why?”

“There was nothing terrible about the show. It’s my life. My life is terrible. I have no control over anything.” Doha ended with a deep groan, like the pain of an animal fighting for survival. She did not realize that the call had ended until the phone started ringing again. Mervat’s name was displayed. Doha pulled herself together a little and answered the phone. It was Talaat. “What’s wrong, Doha? Mervat has made me worried for you.”

Doha could no longer bear it all on her own. She said, “Are you strong enough to hear what I’m going to tell you? Are you brave enough to deal with your sister’s woes?”

“What are you saying, Doha?” asked Talaat. “I’m your brother. I can’t abandon you or let you down.” For the first time, Doha felt that her brother was worried about her. His desire to help was obvious, so she told him everything. Each time she said that she would go into detail when she came back, he said, “I won’t leave you in such a state until you come back.”

She tried to keep personal details about Medhat under wraps. She just told him that they had not been sexually compatible since the start of their marriage. But she did tell him her
feelings toward him and what she had found in Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni; the circumstances that had led her to cancel the fashion show; her attendance at the Palermo conference. At the end of the conversation she said, “Now do you understand why your sister has been so unhappy all these years, why she’s suffering now, and how helpless she is?”

Talaat listened to her until she had finished, then said, “Listen, Doha, there are a lot of things I want to say to you when I see you. This is the first time you’ve turned to me for help. You’ve dropped me from your considerations for a long time, but I’ve always been your brother. Mama and Baba are both dead, and we only have each other left.”

Doha felt relieved by her brother’s words and replied, “I’m so happy at what you’ve said, Talaat. Even though I know that there is no solution to my problem, it’s enough that there is someone I can share my troubles with.”

Talaat interrupted her: “We only live once, so we have to enjoy it. There’s no reason to put up with unhappiness as long as we can still change it. This might seem strange, but in all honesty I tell you that you must ask for a divorce. I promise you I’ll back you up all the way.”

Doha replied in a voice cracking with emotion: “God bless you, my brother.” She hung up without hearing his reply and was overwhelmed by a hysterical mix of crying and laughter.

19 Kikhya Mosque Does Not Exist

W
hen Abdel Samad woke up, there was no sign of Ayman. He quickly got up and half an hour later was in the street. He took a taxi to avoid being late and to keep the money he had with him safe. The money that would open the door to the future of his dreams. He was heading for Qasr al-Nil Street downtown, and the taxi took him through Tahrir Square. Talaat Harb was closed off by Central Security vans because of demonstrations. The driver nipped through Abdel Moneim Riyad Square into Ramsis Street. But when it turned into Abdel Khaliq Tharwat, there were Central Security vehicles lined up on both sides of the street in front of the Lawyers’ Syndicate. The road was not closed, but traffic was crawling. The driver said he would go no farther, as the demonstrations were surrounding the Lawyers’ Syndicate and the Journalists’ Syndicate a little farther on. Central Security forces were surrounding the demonstrators and the situation did not bode well. The driver asked Abdel Samad to get out of the cab because he would not continue downtown even if he paid him a thousand pounds. The address Abdel Mu‛ti had given him was at the end of Qasr al-Nil,
near the Kikhya Mosque. Abdel Samad told the driver that he had not agreed to be dropped off where they were. The driver replied that if he did not want to pay the fare it was okay, but the cab was going no farther. Abdel Samad got out of the car without paying. No way would he pay a driver who had not taken him where he wanted to go. He was also angry because he knew he would never find another taxi in the middle of the crowds.

He took the envelope with the money out of his jacket pocket and put it under his vest. That way he could feel it pressing against his bare stomach and be sure it was there and had not gotten lost in the crush. He steeled himself and walked through the demonstrations.

“O my country where are you? We need to feed our children too!”

“Let the government tell the truth: has the party cut us loose?”

“Palestine’s lost and so too Iraq, Duwaiqa’s gone and so too Warraq!”

He forced his way through the crush with difficulty by folding his arms on his chest and elbowing people aside. If the demonstrators had known he had five thousand pounds tucked in his shirt, they would have jumped him straightaway. What did Palestine and Iraq have to do with us? Everyone should look to themselves. If people focused on their own interests, the country would not have gone down the drain. Anyway, in a few days he would depart the country for good, leaving it to these lost young men to look for as they pleased.

“O my country, where are you? O my country, where are you?”

He walked quickly through the crowds until he left the masses of demonstrators behind him. Their voices faded, and the Central Security vehicles disappeared. The dark vehicles were a depressing sight: mobile prisons on the hunt for inmates.

He went from Abdel Khaliq Tharwat on to Talaat Harb and then Qasr al-Nil. When he reached the end of that street,
he found himself in front of the historic Kikhya Mosque. He asked for directions to Bustan Street, as instructed by Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti. “Go right.” “Left.” “Right then left.” He followed all these directions but could not find the street. Wouldn’t it be better to say “I don’t know” than making people run around in circles? He retraced his steps to the mosque and saw a parking attendant. He would have to know the area like the back of his hand. “Bustan Street isn’t around here,” said the man. “It’s in Bab al-Luq.”

“But isn’t this the Kikhya Mosque?” asked Abdel Samad.

“I’ve been working here for forty years, and I’m telling you that there’s no Bustan Street near here.”

What a difficult day. Could Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti have made a mistake in the address? But how? Didn’t he want to take the money? After a few more failed attempts to find the place, he decided to call Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti. “I’m in front of the Kikhya Mosque,” he said, “and there’s no street by the name you gave me in the area.”

“Well, stay where you are, and I’ll be right with you.”

In front of the entrance to the mosque, a group of visitors was hovering around a tour guide. He pointed at the mosque and said, “This is the mosque of Emir Uthman Katkhuda al-Qazudughli, built in 1734. His Mamluk name, Katkhuda, came to be pronounced Kikhya, but there isn’t really a Kikhya Mosque.”

As if Abdel Samad had summoned a genie, Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti suddenly appeared before him. He was a plump man whose potbelly hung over his belt and whose jacket did not button up. “Hello, my son,” he said. “I would have liked to meet you in my office and welcome you properly, but I didn’t want to tire you out looking any more. Come with me to the mosque
and we’ll pray together for God to bless you and make things go smoothly. Have you brought the money?”

Abdel Samad answered at once, “Yes, I have it.”

“So let me have it.”

Abdel Samad undid his shirt and stuck his hand inside his vest. He pulled out the envelope and gave it to him. He blushed in embarrassment and said, “I’m sorry. I had to make my way through the demonstrators, and I was afraid someone in the crowd might pinch it.”

“Never mind. I won’t count the money here in the mosque. We’ll go up to my office in a minute to sign the contract. Have you washed?”

Feeling embarrassed again, Abdel Samad said, “No.”

“So let’s wash and then pray for God’s blessings.”

Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti took Abdel Samad by the hand and they went into the bathroom. The Hagg opened the door to one of the cubicles. Abdel Samad went in and, for the first time in years, performed his ablutions. He was not accustomed to praying, but he was particularly in need of blessings on that day.

He quickly finished washing and came out of the bathroom. He did not see Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti and thought he had gone to the prayer area. It was still early for the noon prayer, and there were only a few people: two men over on one side of the mosque and an old sheikh sitting in front of the prayer niche. Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti, however, was not there.

Abdel Samad headed to the entrance where he had left his shoes. He looked for Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti’s shoes. Abdel Samad had seen him placing them to the right of the other shoes, but now they were gone.

Like a man possessed, Abdel Samad left the mosque to look for Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti. He asked the parking assistant and some
passersby, but no one had seen him. The demonstrators coming from the direction of the Lawyers’ and Journalists’ Syndicates were approaching the mosque. From the other direction, students from al-Azhar University were advancing across Attaba Square toward the corner where the mosque stood.

Abdel Samad went back into the mosque. He went back to the bathroom and looked inside the cubicles. Only one of them was occupied. Without thinking, he pushed the door open. He apologized in embarrassment to the man inside and hurried out to the prayer space. A few worshipers had begun to assemble for the noon prayer. The old sheikh was still sitting in front of the prayer niche. Abdel Samad looked at the faces of those present one by one. Hagg Abdel Mu‛ti was not among them.

He quickly put his shoes on and left the mosque, not knowing where to go. In the distance he heard the echoing and intersecting shouts of the demonstrators mixing with the horns of the cars coming from every direction:

“O my country where are you!” “Where are you?” “Palestine’s lost and so too Iraq …” “The country’s lost … lost …”

20 Al-Bedawi Set Them Free

A
yman reached Tanta in the middle of the day. He located the Mosque of Sayyid al-Bedawi without difficulty. The sight of the large dome made him pause on his walk toward it. He went into the mosque and walked over to Sayyid al-Bedawi’s tomb.

A woman came over to implore the saint for the child she had longed for since her miscarriage years before. She told all this to Sayyid al-Bedawi as her hands gripped the bronze screen-like railings around the tomb. The green cloth covering the tomb could be seen behind them. Its color was like the fertile Egyptian countryside in the bloom of summer.

The noon call to prayer went up, filling every corner of the mosque. Ayman headed spontaneously to the open area and performed his prayers in a state of calm, as though he had come from Cairo especially for that purpose. He had felt serene since entering the mosque. The anxieties of the past two days had gone, replaced by a relaxed confidence.

Ayman remembered the miracles of Sayyid Ahmad al-Bedawi he had heard about in his childhood. The Sufi master
who had come from Fes in Morocco, also known as al-Sutuhi, and founder of the Ahmadiya Order, had rescued prisoners from the dungeons of the Crusaders. People still said, “Allah, Allah, may al-Bedawi set them free.” Would he now redeem Ayman’s mother as he had the prisoners?

His thoughts suddenly turned to his brother Abdel Samad. He wished he was with him on his mission in Cairo. He wished Abdel Samad could be with him here in Tanta. But fate had conspired so that each one’s quest took him in a different direction.

He recited the Fatiha and calmly stepped out of the mosque into the open square. There was a man drumming up passengers for the microbuses, and Ayman asked him if he knew where Sayyid al-Bedawi Street was. The old man smiled, revealing silver teeth, and said, “Is there anyone in Tanta who doesn’t know Sayyid al-Bedawi Street? It’s the street in front of you.”

The smile transmitted itself to Ayman, and he headed in the direction the man had indicated. As he walked, he kept his eyes open for Saqa Lane. About halfway along the street he came to a café on the corner of a cul-de-sac. The sign, which dangled from one nail—the other having fallen out—said “Saqa Lane.” He just had to find number nine, but the houses had no numbers. He asked in the café, and the waiter said, “Who do you want?” Ayman did not say the name of his mother’s husband. Nor, in this provincial backwater, did he want to ask for the way to a woman’s house. He repeated his original question: “I’m looking for number nine.”