Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) (17 page)

In an effort to cheer his brother up, Ayman said, “You managed to get the money in the first place. You can do it again. I’ll help you. Don’t give up. You’re still alive and have your life before you.”

“No, I died today and there’s nothing to look forward to. My life is ruined.”

Another moment of silence fell between the brothers. Abdel Samad suddenly stood up to leave the room. Ayman asked him, “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I’m going for a walk. I can’t sleep now.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You being around won’t help.”

“I wanted to talk to you. Tell you—”

“I want to be alone and think,” interrupted Abdel Samad, and left the room.

Ayman rushed after his brother. Their father was, as usual, sitting in the living room watching TV. The voice of Umm
Kulthum singing a line from the long poem
al-Atlal
—The Ruins—could be heard: “A citadel of imagination it was, only to collapse.” Father said to Abdel Samad, “Where are you off to?” Abdel Samad did not answer. He went out, shutting the front door behind him.

Ayman went back into his room and collapsed on the bed in tears. He had never imagined that he might cry on this of all days. He had been waiting impatiently for his brother so he could tell him what nobody else in the house knew. Yet here he was keeping all his feelings in. Was that what had made him cry? Perhaps. Great joy was as much a burden as sadness if you could not find anyone to share the intense emotion with.

Abdel Samad walked aimlessly for a long time. He did not know how far he had gone, but found himself in Saad Zaghloul Square before the lions of Qasr al-Nil Bridge. The opera house was behind him, and on the other side of the Nile twinkled the lights of luxury hotels and tall buildings. These structures were strange compared to the building where he lived, with its three stories that had not been repainted since it was built more than twenty years before.

It was late, past midnight, but the area was still so busy and noisy it might have been midday. Some young men had climbed the pedestal of one of the statues and were standing on a bronze lion taking photos of each other. Like baboons in the jungle, some of them were leaping around between the lion’s front paws. Screaming and laughing … were they drunk? Did they not know that life was a long series of tragedy and misfortune? Couples dotted both sides of the bridge. Their bodies pressed together as they looked beyond the bridge and the lights on the east bank of the Nile, gazing into the distance as if into the future. But what future awaited these miserable creatures?
They were so stupid and ignorant. Abdel Samad was stupid and ignorant like them, but the veil of ignorance had fallen from his eyes that day and he understood what life was really like. Life was a savage jungle, a dog-eat-dog world of cheating and lies. Even for lovers it was cheating and lies. Each one of the guys had his arm around the waist of the girl he had promised to marry. But once he got what he wanted, she would never find him, no matter how hard she searched. A new cell phone number, a deleted email account, and that was that.

On the other side of the bridge, a crowd had gathered, taking pictures of a bride in white and her groom on their happy day. Happiness? What happiness? Perhaps the groom was one of the few who had kept his promise, but the lies would begin after the wedding. That was the way of the world. The law of the jungle.

What was he going to do with his life? Where was he going to go? No idea. He kept walking to the end of the bridge, then turned right onto the Corniche. The Nile was to his right and the Semiramis Hotel to his left. He wandered along for about five hundred yards, passing the Semiramis and the Shepheard, then the British Embassy and the Four Seasons Hotel. At the ramp leading to the Grand Hyatt on its island in the Nile, he stopped. He did not know what he was doing or where he was going. He stood vacantly watching the cars coming down from the hotel, one after another, in dull succession.

Unable to make a decision, he must have stood in the same spot for a long time, for when a car stopped in front of him, he remembered having already seen it pass. The driver must have gone past then turned around and doubled back. The car stopped and the passenger door opened. Abdel Samad went over to the open door and got into the car as if he had been expecting it. He closed the door and they drove off.

The car was mid-size and black and of uncertain model. The driver looked to be in his fifties, of medium build, and with a thin moustache that reminded Abdel Samad of actors in the old foreign films he had seen on TV.

Abdel Samad was like a sleepwalker in a trance. He did not know why he had accepted this stranger’s invitation. Without knowing where they were heading, he had gotten into the car without a moment’s thought. He had not hesitated for a second. But why hesitate? Hesitation meant weighing two options and choosing between them. He, however, had no choices. He had nothing. He had lost everything and no longer had anything to fear. The future had gone. The money had gone. Worse, he had to pay it back. He realized that he no longer had choices. Every door had been slammed in his face, every exit had been sealed. He was like a broken prisoner without will who had to obey whatever he was told to do.

Abdel Samad came back to reality at the sound of the man’s voice. “What’s your name?” The voice was harsh and brassy like a military reveille, thin like the man’s moustache.

“Samir,” replied Abdel Samad.

“Your eyes are like a hawk’s. They have attracted their prey.” Abdel Samad said nothing and the man went on: “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

They drove off into the night toward the meandering streets of Garden City, a labyrinth without exit.

26 Detention

M
ervat tried to call Doha on her cell phone, but it was off. She had come home in the afternoon and Doha was not there. She thought she would be back soon, but the hours passed and there was no sign of her. Mervat started to feel anxious. She spotted the drawings for the new designs on the dining table. Doha had clearly abandoned them suddenly without tidying them up.

When Talaat came home, Mervat told him she was worried about Doha, given the events of the last few days. They waited for her to turn up for dinner, but she did not come and did not call to say she would be late. Eleven o’clock went by and Doha had still not returned. Talaat did not know where to look for her or who to contact. Mervat remembered that Doha had mentioned that she was going to the demonstration at the High Court with her friend Dr. Mushira Abdel Rahman, the university professor. After a lengthy search, Mervat found Dr. Mushira’s number among Doha’s papers. It was now past midnight, and Talaat was reluctant to call her. But Mervat insisted, and he suggested that it would be better if she spoke to her.

Mervat apologized to Dr. Mushira for calling so late and said that she and her husband were very worried about Doha, who had not come home. Mushira replied matter-of-factly, “Unfortunately, Doha has been arrested. A group of lawyers from the human rights association is trying to reach her, but no one knows where she is exactly. If you should hear any news about her, please call me at any time of the night or day.”

This was quite a shock for both Mervat and Talaat. No one in the family and none of their acquaintances had ever been arrested before. They had no idea what to do.

Talaat did not sleep a wink. The first thing he did in the morning was call Medhat al-Safti. Talaat was extremely worked up; there was no way Doha could have been arrested without Medhat’s knowledge—she was still legally married to him. “How could you arrest your wife, Medhat?” he asked him. “Don’t you have any decency?”

Medhat was calm and said, “I had nothing to do with it. It was the party’s decision. Your sister went too far for matters to pass by in silence when we’re in a very delicate time. I asked you before to make her stay at home until the elections were done with and let everything turn out well. But now matters are out of my hands. The decision was taken by my uncle Abdel Rahman Bey personally, and no one can make him change his mind.”

Talaat yelled down the phone, “But that’s insane! Have things reached the point that you’ll lock up your own relatives to stay in power?”

With the same calmness, Medhat replied, “If that’s a question, I have no answer. If it’s sarcasm, you won’t appreciate my answer.”

“You’re only damaging yourselves. It’s a serious political mistake to—”

Medhat interrupted him sharply: “Since when have you understood politics or been interested in public affairs? What’s happened to your respectable family, Talaat Bey? All of you are suddenly into politics? Suddenly you’ve become revolutionaries? Your sister goes to a demonstration and makes incendiary remarks to the opposition press, and you’re giving me lessons in politics and teaching me what’s right and what’s wrong?”

“You don’t need to be a politician or a revolutionary for it to be clear that your days are numbered.”

“I’m sorry, but at that I’ll have to end this conversation.” Medhat hung up.

Mervat asked her husband, “Didn’t you find out where Doha is?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten worked up with him. Then you could have found out where she is.”

Absentmindedly, he replied, “He wouldn’t have told me anyway.”

27 Reconciliation

W
here’s your brother? He hasn’t come back since he left last night. And now it’s almost sundown and he still hasn’t appeared. Meanwhile, you spend all day yesterday outside the house, come in, and go straight to your room without so much as a hello. What’s happened to the pair of you? This house isn’t a hotel for you to just sleep in without consideration for anyone else.”

Father was really angry and worked up, but Ayman was pleased. His outburst had paved the way for Ayman to tell him what he had being dying to tell someone. Maybe it was Father’s way of asking what had happened on the trip. “I don’t know where my brother is,” said Ayman. “Perhaps he had work. Yesterday I was with my mother.”

The words struck Father like a bolt of lightning. He had never imagined that Ayman would find her so quickly. “What do you mean?” he said.

“I mean that yesterday I was with my mother. I hunted for her until I learned where she was. Then, as I told you, I went. I spent the day with her. She asked me to stay overnight and rest after the journey, but I preferred to come home.”

“Where did you find her?”

“In Tanta.”

Father began to soften. “Believe me, son, I didn’t know where she was.”

“Yeah, but you knew she was alive and well.”

Father was touched by his son’s words and did not know what to say. There were a few moments of silence, broken by Ayman asking, “Why did you divorce her?”

“Didn’t she tell you?” came Father’s reply.

Ayman shook his head.

“Let her tell you,” Father said.

“She told me that you treated her badly. You cheated on her and kicked her out of the house. Then you sent her divorce papers.”

Father was quiet for a moment. The emotion was visible on his face when he said, “She was the one who treated me badly and cheated on me, so she had no place left with me.”

“Baba, tell me what happened. It’s my right to know.”

“What happened, happened,” said Father with defeat in his voice. “And it was between me and your mother. I’m not going to open that wound again. If she wants to tell you, she will. But I’m not going to talk about it again.”

Father fell silent as if that was the last thing he would ever say. Ayman fell silent too, sad and dejected. Finally Father said, “The past slips away like a thief. Let it go. Don’t rake it up again.”

Ayman kept looking at the face of his father, who had lowered his gaze in silence. Father’s expression was still severe, but he had lost much of his old pride. His beard, a mix of black and white hairs, made him look older. He seemed to have many more cares than his son. They were old, sad matters, ripened by the years and made yet darker and grimmer by the silence.

Ayman decided that from that day on he would not delve into his parents’ relationship and the reasons they had split up. What mattered to him was his own relationship with each of them. He was as protective of his relationship with his mother, whom he had found after years of absence, as he was of his relationship with his father, who had raised him over all those years. The old relationship between husband and wife was no business of his. He would not let it spoil his relationship with either of them.

Ayman felt relieved by his decision. The silence was broken by Father saying, “Forgive me, son.” His voice was quavering and Ayman did not engage him.

He just said, “My life is beginning again. I don’t want having found my mother to cost me my father. Despite all the pain you caused me by depriving me of my mother, I’m still grateful for all you did for me.”

Father and son both burst into tears and Father embraced his son with a tenderness Ayman had not known before.

28 Yes, Sir!

D
oha had headed down with the two men in the belief that they were telling the truth. But when she was about to take her car, which was parked in front of the building, they said, “There’s no need for your car.” At that point, she realized she was being arrested. There was an ugly black police car waiting for her as if for any common criminal. They sat her in the back between the mukhbirs and the two men sat up front with the driver.

As soon as the car began to move, Doha quietly pulled out her phone, quickly added her name to the message that Dr. Mushira had dictated, and sent it to the operations room. One of the men sitting in the front spotted her and said, “No. No telephone.” He stretched out his hand and she was forced to give up her phone. The man turned it off and put it in his pocket.

They went over the 6th October Bridge from Mohandiseen and turned right onto the Corniche. They passed Qasr al-Nil Bridge to the right and the succession of luxury hotels to the left. Doha paid close attention to the route so that she would know where she had been taken. When the car reached the
Manial Bridge, one of the men handed her a blindfold and asked her to cover her eyes. Doha did so, but left a small gap at the bottom that would allow her to follow the route of the car. They turned left and entered Qasr al-Aini Street. At that point, the car pulled over to the side of the road. One of the two men got out, opened the back door where Doha was sitting, and tightened the blindfold until Doha’s eyes almost popped out. She told him it was hurting her, and he replied, “It’s only a few minutes, then we’ll remove it completely.”