Morning and Evening Talk (22 page)

The first fruit of Ata al-Murakibi’s marriage to the rich widow, Huda al-Alawzi, he was born, grew up, and matured in an atmosphere of glory and splendor in the mansion on Khayrat Square and the farm in Beni Suef. He knew nothing of his father’s former life, but he mingled with his relatives—his sister Ni‘ma, and her children, Rashwana, Amr, and Surur—from the beginning and his heart was saturated with love for the old quarter. The markings of a strong and proactive personality manifested at the outset, more apparent for their juxtaposition with the mild temper and gentle manners of his younger brother, Ahmad. Nevertheless, the two were equally unpromising in school and, like their cousins Amr and Surur, made do with the primary school certificate. Ahmad then settled into the life of privilege while Mahmud stuck with his father, an astute pupil, faithful follower, and hardy assistant.

He was a model of strength and coarseness; medium in
height, a hulking face, handsome features, and a large head supported by a short, thick neck. His demeanor, aggressive gaze, and solid frame bespoke challenge, struggle, and violence. His father found little occasion to censure him in his early teens other than a few flare-ups out in the fields, so arranged for him and his brother to marry two well-bred sisters from the neighboring Bakri family. Mahmud began a prosperous marriage with Nazli Hanem and his eyes never looked at another woman all his life. The partnership succeeded thanks to his attachment to the hanem and his wife’s refinement and traditional dedtication to her husband and marriage. As the days passed, she gave birth to Hasan, Shakira, Abduh, Nadira, and Mahir. From the very beginning, and with rare shrewdness, Mahmud was resolved on mastering his father’s heart. He knew the man was tight-fisted so played the part of a miser in front of him, even though he was himself neither overly stingy nor free handed. At work, on the other hand, he won the man’s admiration through his perseverance, precision, and judgment, as well as his excessive violence when dealing with others and his refusal to show leniency, as if it was a crime or betrayal. His father, for his part, suffered moments of cowardice and would say to him, “It’s also not wise to make a new enemy every day.”

“Everyone likes my brother, Ahmad, but I don’t care who likes me. The only way to protect your rights is with force,” the son replied.

Ata even exclaimed once, “I’ve got one son and two daughters!”

Mahmud was unconcerned by his abundant enemies and their rising numbers. He preferred to be feared rather than loved by either employees or business associates. The cases brought against him day to day and repeat visits to court with defense lawyers did not bother him. When his father, Ata, died and he was alone with his brother, Ahmad, and his mother, he said, “You’re entitled to manage half of the estate.”

Ahmad was confused. The bewilderment showed in his eyes.

“It’s a struggle in a forest of wild beasts,” Mahmud continued. “Nice people are lost there.”

Ahmad was even more bewildered and confused. Mahmud said, “Would you agree to me managing the business alone?”

“Happily! You’re my older brother and dear friend. We’ve only ever known love.”

“And I’ve never neglected a religious duty in my life. I work as though God is watching me.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Ahmad and let out a deep, satisfied breath.

Thus, Mahmud took his father’s place. It was a black day for the employees, watchmen, and business associates. He went about fields, farms, and the market like a steamroller, regarded with contempt, curses raining down on him from men and women alike. One night, returning to the mansion, a couple of anonymous men attacked him with clubs until he collapsed unconscious on the ground. They threw him in a ditch and disappeared into the darkness. Not long after, a patrol passed by and heard groaning from the ditch. They rushed over and rescued him from the brink of death. He was taken to hospital. When people heard the news they struck their foreheads in exasperation and cursed the bad luck that hastened to save him at the critical moment. He left hospital, healthy and recovered, with new contusions and scars from the surgery on his forehead, cheek, and neck, which made him look even grimmer and more ferocious. These did not, however, change his nature in any way, though he became better armed and more wary. His cousin Amr Effendi, the person closest to his heart, said to him, “My friend, you must adopt a different policy.”

“People are made for one policy. Woe to he who backs away from it,” Mahmud replied.

He would visit Bayt al-Qadi in his resplendent carriage, laden with gifts. He enjoyed chatting to Amr and Radia, then
would become immersed in talking about his countless lawsuits. Once Amr said to him, laughing, “You’ll soon be a legal expert like Abd al-Azim!”

He laughed—he often laughed in Bayt al-Qadi—and said, “I’d rather die than waive my rights.”

“But this life isn’t worth such toil,” Radia burst out passionately.

“Dear dervish, we were created for toil,” he guffawed.

He would visit Abd al-Azim Dawud in East Abbasiya, where he enjoyed sharing news of his success and affluence and discussed cases. When he had gone, Abd al-Azim would say to Farida, “Sickness is better than a meeting with that oaf.”

“His wife is a precious jewel,” Farida Hanem would say.

“Lord give her patience in her suffering!” Abd al-Azim would reply sarcastically.

Even Nazli Hanem, who loved him more than anything in the world, advised him to be more moderate. But nothing could divert him from his path, ever.

“Can’t Abd al-Azim Dawud help you at all in your lawsuits?” she also asked.

“He affects probity to hide his depravity and lack of chivalry. He’s an infidel and copycat of the English—he drinks whisky at lunch and supper!” he replied resentfully.

When the 1919 Revolution came, a new kind of emotion stirred in his heart for the first time. He was touched by the magic of its leader and donated several thousand Egyptian pounds to the cause. For the first time too he perceived in the simple peasants a frightening power he had not known before. When the different positions of the Crown, Adli, and the leader crystallized, he began to take stock of his accounts. He met with his brother at the mansion on Khayrat Square and asked him, “What are your thoughts on the current situation?”

“Sa‘d is undoubtedly in the right,” Ahmad said innocently.

“I’m asking what is in our best interest,” he said coldly.

“I haven’t thought about it,” Ahmad said confused. “Do you think we should support Adli Pasha?”

“The Crown is the permanent center of power.”

“You’re always right, brother,” Ahmad said simply.

“What is your social circle saying?”

“They are all for Sa‘d.”

“Publicize your political affiliation so as many people as possible know.”

“Our nephews, Amr and Surur, support Sa‘d too.”

“They don’t have anything at stake. The games are over. Don’t imagine the English will leave Egypt. And don’t imagine Egypt can survive without the English.”

In return for pledging allegiance to the Crown, he and his brother were awarded the rank of bey. “Now the Dawud family must admit rank isn’t restricted to them alone.…” he said to Ahmad. However, a revolution of another kind flared up in the family, this one led by his nephew Adnan. The family, both men and women, split into two rival factions. Opponents savored its misfortune while friends, like Amr and Rashwana, were sad. Even Surur said, “A curse has befallen that damned family.”

They were not reunited until Ahmad’s death, a few months after which Mahmud developed serious diabetes. Amr and Surur had passed away by this time and a melancholy compounded by the illness settled in Mahmud’s heart. His determination flagged and he withdrew from the business. He spent most of his time in the mansion on Khayrat Square until a heart attack seized him one morning and he died. Nazli Hanem joined him two years later and Fawziya Hanem died in the same year. Only those destined for extra long life from that generation, like Radia, Abd al-Azim Pasha, and Baligh, remained; they were the ones whose lives stretched until the July Revolution.

She was born and grew up in Bayt al-Qadi, the third child of Amr and Radia. With her pretty face, slender figure, and amiability she most resembled Sadiqa, the aunt who committed suicide. She was also the most beautiful of the sisters, and quite possibly of all the girls in the family. Though she came into maturity in an atmosphere of religion and mysticism, she did not assimilate their underlying significance and believed that loving God and His messenger exempted her from religious duties. Her exquisite beauty stirred jealousy in her sisters’ hearts, but as events unfolded this turned to pity. In her childhood and early teens, she was known for grace and mirth and for loving generously and being loved in return; not a woman or girl in Surur, Ata, or Abd al-Azim’s families escaped her charm. Yet none of this could intercede on her behalf when her charm enticed a young man like Lutfi Abd al-Azim to contemplate marrying her, for charm too is limited by class consciousness. The first happy experience in her life thus became an emotional trial that immolated her tender heart and injured her pride. Her pain was slightly eased by the blaze of anger that flared up around her in her and her family’s defense, as it was by the fact that she had not revealed her feelings. The battle thus turned on pride, then fell into the age-old chasm of tradition.

Not long after, a friend whom her mother had met at the tomb of Sidi Yahya ibn Uqab came with a proposal. Her mother regarded the location of their first meeting as a good omen and judged the woman, who lived not far away in the quarter of Watawit, to be a good person. The bridegroom—Muhammad Ibrahim—was a teacher at the Umm Ghulam School and in terms of diploma and profession was Amer’s equal. Matariya saw him through the gap in the mashrabiya and was attracted to his wheat-colored face, plump body, and the pipe he smoked like the English. She was wedded to him in the house his mother
owned in Watawit. Through good fortune, Matariya won her mother-in-law’s heart, and enjoyed a bond of true love with her husband until the day he died. Year upon year radiated with happiness and harmony, and she gave birth to Ahmad, Shazli, and Amana—all three satellites of purity and grace. People were right to consider the house in Watawit among the happiest, in the true sense of the word. Muhammad Ibrahim was the second man to join Amr’s family after Hamada al-Qinawi but he was urbane, gentle natured, cultured, and had a diverse library. His prim conversation and Hamada’s chatter and groundless conceit could not have been more different. Muhammad found it impossible to genuinely make friends with Hamada but was very amiable with him in deference to Sadriya, whom he admired and whose virtues as a housewife had not escaped his notice. Those happy years would remain in Matariya’s heart forever; the minutiae of daily life, the warmth of her husband’s love, her mother-in-law’s compassion and patience, the children with their bright promise. Then came the first blow of fate; Ahmad died in his fifth year. Matariya tasted the pain and profound sadness of a bereaved mother. Part of her throbbing heart, and the scent of her bereft spirit, began dwelling in the grave that spread in a swathe of new emotions before her tearful eyes. She loved Qasim all the more when she saw how inconsolable he was at the loss of her young son. She focused her wounded motherly love on Shazli and Amana, though her heart did not rejoice as she had hoped it would with their marriages. Her mother-in-law died in the 1930s, loading her with a burden to which she was not accustomed, and she mourned the death of her own father shortly before the Second World War and her uncle Surur’s a few years later. She truly suffered for her strong attachment to her family. She regarded Shazli’s marriage as a grave disappointment and considered it part of her bad luck.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” said Muhammad Ibrahim.

“He deserves a better bride,” she complained.

“He knows best what makes him happy,” said the man.

She followed Amana’s success at school with satisfaction and hope. Then her beloved husband unexpectedly developed cirrhosis of the liver and was confined to his bed. His health deteriorated and he died in the summer holiday after Amana had passed the baccalaureate. Matariya met the harshest blow of fate yet and found herself a widow before fifty. Amana was forced to marry Abd al-Rahman Amin while Matariya stayed on in the house in Watawit with her maid, lonely and sad. Her worries were compounded by the troubles her daughter encountered in her marriage. She would console herself by visiting relatives—her mother, sisters, brothers, cousins, the families of Ata and Abd al-Azim, and, first and foremost, Shazli and Amana. She began to wither. Her features changed, though her unique quality—the love she gave and received from the family and people in general—remained. She was probably the only person in the family not to sever relations with her brother Hamid’s wife, Shakira, after the couple separated in divorce. How she grieved over the premature deaths of Shazli’s children! While Shazli’s son, Muhammad, was still warding off his fate, she invoked God to preserve him for the sake of his father and herself, and entreated her mother, Radia, to shield him using whatever means. News of his martyrdom in the Tripartite Aggression came as the final blow. She withered even more.

It became clear she was suffering from cancer. Her health declined, going from bad to worse, until she died in her sixties. She was the first of the second generation in Amr’s family, or rather the whole family, to pass away. Circumstances dictated that those closest to her did not mourn her as they might have; Shazli’s sadness over his children did not leave much room for mourning, Radia was in her eighties and the grief of an octogenarian is short-lived, and Qasim lived in a neutral state of sadness and joy. Amana did not find anyone with whom to weep and strike her face in despair.

He was born and grew up in the house in Suq al-Zalat. His upbringing was purely religious and he took on his father’s learning and manners even before they were together at al-Azhar. He displayed nobility and talent, with a particular fondness for grammar, which he taught at al-Azhar after obtaining his religious diploma. A few months before Mu‘awiya’s father died, he married his son to Galila al-Tarabishi, the daughter of Salman al-Tarabishi, who worked at a factory making tarbooshes for pashas. Mu‘awiya took part in activities in the mosques around the quarter, which won his father-in-law’s love and respect. Galila was taller than him, eccentric, high-strung, and full of popular superstitions. He was determined to teach her the true principles of her religion and a long but amicable struggle broke out between them. He gave to her and took from her. When he was sick he would surrender readily to her folk medicine. Her reputation spread around the quarter until it almost eclipsed his own. They were bound by love and, thanks to this, their marriage endured despite Galila’s irascible nature and fanatical ideas. As the days passed, she gave birth to Radia, Shahira, Sadiqa, and Baligh.