The Queue (18 page)

But despite the best efforts of the woman with the short hair, a few months later the Violet Telecom boycott campaign waned. The issue was hard for people to fathom, especially as fewer and fewer citizens had been disappearing recently. Yet
there remained a prevailing belief that a new wave of disappearances was yet to come, and people stayed on their guard. They left their phones in empty rooms at home, afraid that their important or revealing conversations would be transmitted, and kept their calls to short social pleasantries, congratulations, and condolences. No one was able to change phone networks to avoid such precautionary measures. Again and again other networks explained that they were completely subscribed and couldn’t take on any more customers. Meanwhile, Violet Telecom continued to hold its lottery twice a month, and no one ever heard of someone who’d won a free phone declining it.

Under Um Mabrouk’s protection, the woman with the short hair strengthened her popularity and defied a string of threats and countless fervent prayers from the man in the
galabeya
. He had singled her out in group prayers, claiming that the path she’d chosen led to an abyss of corruption, and that she was planting seeds of evil among people by urging them to think, and ask questions, and engage in other such undesirable activities. But she paid him no attention. Instead she developed a daily program: she would take all the flyers that Um Mabrouk collected, decide which news was the most important (anything to do with the Gate came first, of course), and then mark those in red for people who could read, and read them aloud to those who could not.

One day, in a departure from this routine, she spent the morning reading out corrections and clarifications in
The Truth
. Apparently, investigations had revealed that the foreigner previously accused of orchestrating the Disgraceful Events was a medical officer implicated in certain war crimes. He had fled his homeland years ago and reappeared here,
changed his religion, married, and settled down under a new name in District 11. He’d stayed out of political activities and hostilities, despite what he’d done in his own country under a powerful regime that fell shortly after he left. The piece added that his embassy had released a statement stating that his country’s judiciary had halted prosecution after confirming that he had died a natural death. After the judiciary’s arms had searched for him for half a century, the man’s case had been closed. This brief redaction took up just a few lines at the bottom of the second-to-last page, while the front page was plastered with a large headline about spies in the country and an article on the long history of unrest that they had stirred up while undercover.

The truth was clear for all to see, and Shalaby was thrown into confusion. His pride was broken, his shoulders sagged, and he didn’t say another word about his story, though before that day he’d never tired of rehashing the details, which few people were actually interested in. At noon, he gathered his resolve and, despite their history, asked Ines to save his place for him. She immediately agreed, without asking any questions. In those brief hours, he seemed to have changed from his usual self, so much so that she pitied him. His voice had become hollow, his face was filled with weariness, even shame.

But she didn’t delight in his sorrow as he had in hers. Shalaby, she’d discovered from people around them, was down on his luck; he and his family and his cousin’s family desperately needed a steady income to escape the landowner’s threats and intimidation. Yet she also knew that this wasn’t the only reason he was waiting to process his paperwork at the Gate. He had once confessed to her that he deeply wished to bring his family a title that was worth something, something that would
make them glorious and renowned in their poor little town, something to put them on a par with the landowner.

He had arrived an optimistic braggart and was now dejected and confused. He was uncertain of what to do, just as she was, and like her was overcome by a slew of calamities that had arrived one after the next. In her case, it was all thanks to her loose lips and a tongue she couldn’t keep in check. She hadn’t been like this before coming to the queue, not at all. Something frightening had come over her here, changing her; she never used to talk back to anyone or pick fights, and had never delved into others’ affairs. Now she was the complete opposite. The strange thing was that after each slip of the tongue, she vowed she would go back to her usual self—quiet, introverted, and reserved—but then she would break her own promise the first chance she got. She was relieved to hear the correction in the newspaper; at least the person actually responsible for killing people during the Events had still not been identified. The matter had not yet been resolved, so what she’d said about Mahfouz and Shalaby and the other guards could still be proven right and beyond reproach. But she realized that there was no one to protect or defend her if disaster struck in the meantime. What friends did she have here in times of need, with this mouth of hers that would only get her into more trouble?

Later that afternoon, the woman with the short hair read out another piece from
The Truth
with a sarcastic smile. There was an unusual ad in the
Help Wanted
section about a new department in the Booth. It said anyone seeking employment there should submit their paperwork, including certificates and permits from their university and the Gate, and would undergo a personal interview within a week. It included an address where applications should be sent by registered mail:
The Gate’s Booth, Communications Department, Behind the Restricted Zone
. Nagy chuckled when he heard it, and told the woman that this was by far the strangest ad she’d read yet; there were no job summary, candidate profile, responsibilities, requirements, or conditions. Yet even so, it was an attractive government job with a steady salary and holiday allowance. He still hadn’t heard back from the translation department; as usual, his checkered past kept him from being hired anywhere. He considered submitting an application to this new department, not because he thought he had a shot at the job but just to spite the hiring committee. They would certainly be surprised by his file and his nerve at applying for any job, much less this one. He waved at Ehab when he saw him approaching and told him about his idea, but Ehab surprised him by saying that he was going to submit an application, too. Ehab lowered his voice to say that he suspected the ad might be connected to the phone-tapping operation. They still didn’t know the extent of the surveillance or how long it would continue, and they could get no information about those who’d vanished, although the disappearances were becoming less frequent.

Shalaby left the queue for a couple of hours and then returned without his leather bag or wristwatch, empty-handed except for a shiny golden medal on a dark-blue ribbon. He told everyone that he’d gotten it from the Booth in honor of his cousin Mahfouz. He’d shown the officials their mistake and they’d found his name on their lists, and he would be given a Certificate of Appreciation, just as soon as it was stamped by the Gate. Nagy recognized the medal, but he didn’t want to expose Shalaby’s fabrication and didn’t say a word. He only laughed and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks.

In a surprising development, Amani called Nagy. For several weeks she hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone but Yehya, who hobbled to the office when he was feeling well enough to spend an hour or two with her. At first Nagy didn’t realize it was her; the number that appeared on his phone wasn’t the one he had saved for her, and without giving him a chance to ask questions or even to say hello, she asked him to meet her immediately. At the corner by the coffee shop, across from the restaurant, she walked in circles on trembling legs, waiting for Nagy to appear. The doctor in uniform had visited her again.

He had come to her office a few days before and threatened her in front of her boss and colleagues. It hadn’t been an explicit threat, but he’d said he was waiting for Yehya to pay him a visit at Zephyr Hospital. He’d said that Yehya had to have an operation, to avoid complications that could cause his health to rapidly decline, more rapidly than she could imagine … complications that could even be life-threatening. Before leaving her office, he’d turned and told her that he knew exactly where Yehya was. And if Yehya didn’t show up at his office within the next few days, the man said, it might save him time to pay Yehya a visit himself.

When Nagy arrived she looked around wildly and pleaded with him to keep Yehya from visiting her, to keep him from coming to the office at all, or anywhere else, even to her apartment.
The queue was safer, she thought; at least no one had disappeared there without returning, eventually. She still hadn’t uttered a word about those terrible days, which had come rushing back to her at the sight of the doctor alone. Things had happened to her that no one else knew, things she couldn’t speak of, things she still hadn’t admitted even to herself.

She spoke so hurriedly that Nagy wasn’t able to get a word in at first. He was shocked to see her so disturbed, and so he agreed to her request without question, and assured her that it would all work out and Yehya would be fine. Gripped with anxiety, she begged them to be careful, and he tried to calm her down. Maybe the doctor’s words were just an empty threat; these people often relied on fear, scaring others to stop them from thinking straight or acting rationally. He kept talking to her in an attempt to reassure her, but she didn’t hear a word he was saying. She just repeated herself in confusion, and then rushed away so quickly that she staggered and nearly fell several times, as Nagy watched her go.

He wandered around, thinking about what he should do now. His attempts to comfort Amani were just the first words that had come into his head and then out of his mouth, and he couldn’t even believe them himself. Yehya wasn’t well enough to run away, and he was too stubborn to consider it, much less be bullied into it. In the queue he was constantly surrounded by other people, and he seemed safe enough for now. But once or twice a week he went home to rest and regain some energy, energy he was losing day by day with the grueling effort of staying alive. Winter was looming and soon he wouldn’t be able to stay in the queue day and night as people did now. Yehya’s apartment was no secret, and neither was Nagy’s. The neighbors knew them; neither place would be safe for him.
Nagy lost himself in all the complications, his head a torrent of disparate thoughts, and he realized that he’d arrived at the microbus stop without realizing it. He felt fatigue bearing down on him, so he squeezed himself into the first bus that arrived and decided to let himself be taken to wherever the line ended.

He yawned and rested his temple against the window, making circles of condensation with his dewy breath and doodling in them, an old favorite pastime. The streets were empty at this hour. Even all the cats and dogs had vanished, except for a single plump cat, also yawning, on top of a white car covered with a considerable layer of dirt. The sky was faintly lit; thick clouds veiled the rays of the sun, tempering the air, while dusk lay heavy on the horizon. It was the hour when particles of dust and debris seemed suspended in the emptiness, neither falling to earth nor disappearing into space.

The bus passed an arrow-shaped sign with
PUBLIC ROAD
written across it in thick letters. It pointed toward a steep ramp veering off to the right of the highway, and, unperturbed, Nagy realized that he was heading up a hill. They were going in the direction of the newspaper headquarters, and it occurred to him that he could try to catch Ehab, who’d raced off to the office with a new investigative report. But for now Nagy savored the sensation of letting his mind drift, and put his thoughts aside. Signs rolled by, one after another, until finally the driver announced the end of the line. He stopped the microbus beneath a giant sign with the phrase
REMEMBER GOD
written in thick white letters, above a cell number and signature:
Abbas
.

He wasn’t far from the newspaper headquarters; he could see it just down the road, and he got off the bus leisurely
and headed toward the unassuming building. He figured he should tell Ehab what he’d learned from Amani, but he wasn’t convinced that it was worth seeking him out. Even with this information, what could either of them do? Inside, he inquired about Ehab, and another employee told him he was in a meeting with the editor in chief. Nagy left his name with her and went to wait outside. He sat down on the sidewalk across the street and leaned his head against an old tree trunk, feeling the branches drape themselves around him and the ancient scent of pine fall over him. Maybe it was time for Yehya to stop being so obstinate, even if he felt it was an insult to back down. The situation was dire, and he was no longer the only one implicated; Amani had been drawn into the game as well, which meant it would be hard for things between them to go back to how they were before.

In the years stretching between his studious university days and that afternoon, the two of them were all he knew, his closest friends, despite how different they all were. Amani and Yehya hadn’t been drawn to each other out of an effortless, natural compatibility; they were both strong-willed and stubborn. Amani was headstrong, a trait he hadn’t often seen in women, while Yehya’s tenacity never abandoned him, and he never lost his faith in his ability to turn a situation to his favor. Yehya would never admit that he was just a single, powerless man in a society where rules and restrictions were stronger than everything else, stronger than the ruler himself, stronger than the Booth and even the Gate.

Nagy had failed to convince them that everything in the world was interconnected, and that their lives were ruled by a network of intricate and powerful relations. Even things that seemed random operated according to this invisible system,
even if the connections couldn’t be seen. Yehya laughed whenever they discussed it seriously, teasing him that the philosophy department had corrupted his mind and destroyed his faith in human nature. Amani would laugh, too—she could never be convinced that the independence she believed she possessed was in truth no more than an accepted illusion, part of a web of relations and contradictions. The Gate itself was an integral part of the system, too, even if from the outside it appeared to pull all the strings.