Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (14 page)

The waiter said, “And I’m asking who you want there, so I can tell you if you’ve got the address right.”

Ayman gave in to the waiter and said, “I want Hagga Amna Abdel Rahim al-Saadi.”

“The wife of Hagg Gharib?” asked the waiter.

Ayman hated this inquisitive waiter who had said the name of his mother’s husband. But the waiter motioned with his head toward the house opposite and said, “That’s it.”

Ayman flopped onto the chair next to him as if about to collapse. He felt the anxiousness flood back and his heart started racing. As soon as he was sitting, the waiter asked him, “What can I get you?”

“Yansoun,” Ayman snapped. The waiter left and Ayman calmed down a little.

He looked at the house opposite the café. It had three floors; which one, he wondered, did his mother live on? How did he know she was even at home and not out on some errand? Questions rushed into his mind. Hadn’t he imagined that reaching his mother’s house would finally mean the end of his bewilderment and sense of being lost? But now, sitting in the café opposite it, he felt more bewildered and lost than he had been in Cairo.

Was the woman who lived in that house, now only a few meters away, really his mother? Or was it simply a coincidence of names? How would he know? What would he say to her when he saw her? Would he ask her if she had been married before and had had two children? Would he ask if she had children she did not know?

The waiter came over and put the glass of yansoun down in front of Ayman, saying, “If it’s Hagg Gharib you’re after, he won’t be back till after sunset. If it’s the Hagga, she’s at home.” Ayman pretended to drink the yansoun so as not to have to reply. The waiter was making him even more anxious, but a customer called him over and he left Ayman.

He looked at the windows of the house. Which floor was she on? he wondered. Freshly washed laundry was hanging
from the window on the second floor. He watched the water dripping on to the unpaved ground of the cul-de-sac, drop after drop. He sensed that his mother lived behind that window, and that the woman who had done the laundry was still at home. He tried to make out the clothes hanging on the line, but they looked baggy, like sheets or linen.

The waiter came back again. This time, he leaned in close to Ayman and whispered, “If you’re another one who’s come to ask for the girl’s hand, best wait till the Hagg gets back, so what happened to the one before doesn’t happen to you.”

The waiter had really gone too far this time. Ayman asked to pay without making any reference to this piece of useless advice. He decided he would head straight up to the second floor as soon as he had paid for his drink. He would knock on the door, ask for Hagga Amna Abdel Rahim Ahmad al-Saadi, and see how events unfolded. He had to start somewhere; he couldn’t sit bewildered in the café forever.

Although he did not know where he was going, he went quickly and purposefully into the house so as not to attract the interest of anyone sitting in the café. As soon as he entered the house he started to climb slowly up the stairs, pondering his situation. Was he doing the right thing? What if she wasn’t his mother? How would he justify intruding on her at home like that? Would anyone believe his fantastic story that his friends at college said was an old Arab movie? Wouldn’t people out here in the country be suspicious if he told them that story?

He reached the second floor. There was only one door. Without thinking, as if compelled by a hidden power, he knocked loudly.
Rap, rap, rap!
Was it the door or his heart making the noise? Nobody opened it. He waited a little and was about to knock again when the door suddenly opened. A woman
wearing a pink gallabiya and a white headscarf appeared. He only had to see her face to understand everything. His confusion vanished. He was no longer lost. He felt he was looking in the mirror. The woman was in her late forties, but she resembled the young face that he was used to seeing every morning in the mirror. He wanted to throw himself into her arms, but was afraid that might alarm her. He looked at her and from deep inside arose an involuntary cry: “Mama!”

Like a panicked creature, the woman exclaimed, “Who!?”

“Mama, I’m Ayman.”

The woman collapsed in a faint. Ayman rushed over to help her. His whole body was trembling and the tears in his eyes blurred his vision. A girl of no more than twenty appeared. She saw her mother on the floor and cried, “Mama, what’s wrong?” Then she turned to the young stranger and said in alarm, “Who are you?”

21 The Demonstration

D
oha did not return to Medhat al-Safti’s house. She went straight from the airport to her brother Talaat’s. Medhat did not know when she was due back, so it was quite a surprise when she called from her brother’s house in Cairo asking for a divorce and waiving her financial rights.

Medhat was evasive. He said that if those were her wishes, he would not stand in her way, but he did ask to meet with her brother to sort out the details. Doha wanted to tell Talaat that she would rather matters be sorted out between her and her husband, without anyone else’s involvement. She agreed that he go, however, and not give Medhat any chance to backtrack. Thus, Talaat went to see Medhat at his office, and Doha went with Mervat to the marital home to collect her belongings.

Mervat inspected the spacious villa close to Pyramids Road in Giza. “All the furniture belongs to you, Doha,” she said. “Don’t leave it behind.” She looked at the gilt rococo console table, which dated to the French Baroque. “Your dowry was hefty and you’re certainly going to need the money.” She remembered her late mother-in-law would say that she had
bought the table for Doha when, after the revolution, they auctioned off the contents of the royal palace.

Doha was busy grabbing her personal things when she replied, “Let him keep everything. I don’t want any reminders of this house.”

The visit to the villa did not last long: in less than an hour they were back home. Doha was dying to know what had transpired between her brother and Medhat. But any hopes she had were dashed when he came home. Medhat had told him that he was quite willing to go through with the divorce, despite not knowing the reason for Doha’s mysterious decision. His dignity would simply not allow him to cling to a wife who did not want him. He was also quite willing to fulfill all his obligations. He had just one request: that the divorce wait until after the general elections. He was one of the ruling party’s leading candidates, and the divorce would be ammunition for the opposition press to use against him, making up whatever lies they pleased.

“He’s being sly, Talaat,” Doha cried at her brother. “I know him.”

“He gave me his word that the divorce would go through as soon as the elections are over.”

“I won’t allow my personal life to be held hostage to his political considerations. Let the party go to hell, and its members with it. I can’t bear to be attached to that man for one day more.”

Talaat suggested she calm down a bit. He promised her he would try again with Medhat and avert a direct confrontation between them. But Doha had made up her mind and that was that. For a while now she had felt like a new person. Her behavior was more decisive than before. She knew exactly what she wanted and, no matter what happened, she was going to get it.

She thanked Talaat and went to her room to think. She had not called Dr. Ashraf since they had parted in Italy. She did not want to cause him any embarrassment and preferred that their next meeting take place once she was divorced from Medhat al-Safti and unattached. She did meet him, however. But it was an impromptu date, at the mass protest before the High Court, and they did not exchange a word….

Dr. Mushira, Doha’s friend, let her know that she was going on a march from the university to the High Court to demand the amendment of the constitution. Jokingly, Mushira said to Doha, “Naturally, Madame Medhat Bey al-Safti has nothing to do with such acts of public disorder.”

Doha interrupted her. “Who says so? I’m an Egyptian like you and, like all Egyptians, I feel the crisis the country is in. Anyway, I’m not a member of the ruling party and have nothing to do with its policies, which I hate like all of you do.”

Dr. Mushira was quite taken aback by what her old friend was saying, and even more so when Doha said she wanted to go to the demonstration with her.

“Change the constitution now, before the people work out how!”

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

The slogans grew louder as Doha and Mushira headed toward the High Court. Mushira had parked her car a few hundred yards away and they covered the rest on foot. When they arrived, the chants were coming from all sides.

Demonstrators pushed between the two of them, and Doha found herself being carried away from Mushira. She had never imagined that one day she would find herself in the middle of a sea of people and not feel trapped or scared. On the contrary, she felt powerful, and that the demonstrators were one aspect of the power inside her. She felt she was
being carried aloft on the shoulders of the young people, like a butterfly soaring through the air.

“No to fear and giving up, we’re all done with shutting up!”

The chanted slogan echoed all around her, as if the demonstrators wanted her to learn it. A young woman took Doha’s hand and lifted it up high as she shouted,
“No to fear and giving up, we’re all done with shutting up!”
Doha found herself shouting along with the mixed crowd of demonstrators:
“No to fear and giving up, we’re all done with shutting up!”
She said it a few times and felt strangely elated. It must have been the elation a newborn feels the moment it enters the world.

Doha turned to the girl who had held her hand aloft and repeated the slogan with her. The girl had a typically Egyptian face that reminded Doha of a portrait on an Orthodox icon. She asked her, “What’s your name, my dear?”

The girl answered, “Hala Girgis Abdel Shahid.” Doha kissed her, and Hala smiled shyly and asked, “And you?”

“Doha al-Kenani.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the loudening slogans:

“O my country where are you, we need to feed our children too!”

Voices around Doha were shouting “Dr. Ashraf … Dr. Ashraf!” The slogans died down and all faces turned toward the main steps of the High Court. This old building had once been the venue of the mixed courts for foreigners, until it returned to the people. Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni was standing with a small group of people, including Mushira. Behind him stood the towering columns of the building; he seemed like a priest ministering at some awesome temple. He spoke through a loudspeaker he was holding and his voice carried to all those crowded in front of him: “My brothers and sisters, I thank you all for the spirit you have shown
by coming here today. Your presence has political and social significance and will have historical significance too. The whole country is looking to you in anticipation. The whole world is following today’s demonstration. We hope its significance will not be lost on the dictatorial and tyrannical party that dominates the levers of power. The world around us has changed, but the party has not. The five thousand people standing before me today are the finest sons and daughters of this country, because they have chosen to express what is raging in the hearts of the people. The venerable people of Egypt, who deserve a life far better than the dead end imposed by this corrupt party. The party of personal interests, the party of the high hand and tyranny, the party that defends itself with a made-to-measure constitution to tighten its grip forever on the riches of this nation.”

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

“Change the constitution now, before the people work out how!”

There was a round of slogans before Dr. Ashraf continued his speech: “When we demand change to the constitution, we are demanding a life of freedom and dignity for the people. Freedom preserves people’s livelihoods; dictatorship consumes their rights. This people does not submit and does not accept oppression, and you are the vanguard expressing popular rejection of the current situation. When this people rises in anger, none can face its anger. The Egyptian people launched revolutions one after another that upset the balances in the whole Arab region and the whole world too. It rose up against the oppression of foreign occupation in 1919. Every part of society joined together as one to gain independence. The people also erupted in the 23 July Revolution, which brought liberation and independence, the declaration of the republic, and the nationalization of the Suez Canal. Once again the people fused into
one and brought down empires. It changed the international equation, confirming Egypt’s position in Asia and Africa and making it a leader of the third world.

“A people whose history records such mighty revolutions will rise again when the same conditions recur. Corruption has returned, tyranny has returned, the chains that fetter the will of the nation have returned, as if we were once again under occupation. This people will revolt again and bring down the regime of the party of corruption, tyranny, and oppression.”

The chants rose again on every side. The demonstrators mounted the main steps and bore Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni aloft on their shoulders, shouting in support of him and for the fall of the party of corruption, tyranny, and oppression. Doha felt she was part of the birth of something massive: a new dispensation for the country, and one fitting for the people Dr. Ashraf had spoken about. She wanted to get nearer to where Dr. Ashraf and his comrades were at the top of the marble steps. But the mass of people crammed into the space prevented her taking a step. The masses were guiding her feet, just as they were creating her patriotic feelings at that highly charged moment.

Doha was on her own, nowhere near Mushira. She looked for Hala, who had been next to her, but she too was gone. The surges of the crowd pushed her out to the right of the body of demonstrators and on to the end of 26th July Street. All of a sudden, black Central Security wagons entered the scene, arriving from the opposite direction. The crowd scattered in an effort to avoid being crushed under the wheels. The wagons spewed men with riot batons. They started to crack the heads and beat the backs of the young men and women. Some people screamed; everyone was terrified. In front of Doha, a girl fell down covered in blood. Rushing over, Doha saw it was Hala,
who had taught her the slogan. She threw herself over her in an attempt to shield her, and shouted at the officer who was hitting her, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, man? Your salary is paid from the sweat of these poor people to defend them, not to defend the ruling party. How can you hit a girl the same age as your daughter?”