Basma Aziz - The Queue

There were empty tear-gas canisters strewn in the stretches between the munitions all the way to the coffee shop. Nothing they remembered was as it had been, except for the beggar lady, whom they knew well from their university days. As they drew closer, they caught sight of her sitting in her usual place under the violet sign, but her things, which had long been the same, were slightly altered. A gold medallion on a dark-blue ribbon now hung in front of her, next to an old kerosene stove, a cup of tea, and her usual packets of tissues for sale.

In Nagy’s eyes, she’d earned that medallion as a badge of honor for refusing to leave her place during the times when the street had been filled with tear gas. She’d sat cross-legged in her usual place, not moving an inch, not trying to hide, a helmet on her head, a black gas mask hung around her neck, while everyone else was running all around her. She’d reached the pinnacle of valor, her hand always extended in front of her, clearly signaling she was begging for change. After all, one must not stop working, no matter what the circumstances were. Yes, he thought, clearly she’d realized that the economy was lifeblood itself! That the wheel of production and construction must not stop spinning, not even for a moment, not even in the darkest of times. He smiled cynically at his own thoughts. If he hadn’t made that valiant decision — a valiant stupidity, he admitted at times — to resign from his position at the university, where students often missed classes and didn’t ask much of the lecturers, he would have presented her to his advanced students. He would have asked them to conduct a study on the philosophy of time, space, and physical existence, and then write a short paper inspired by her: the Lady with the Mask.

For as long as they could remember, the television had been sitting on a thick wooden shelf high up on a wall in the coffee shop, stuck on one channel. It couldn’t get any other signal, the boy who worked there often announced. Or maybe it was Hammoud who constantly claimed that the thing was broken, just stuck on the same channel, and never gave customers the chance to ask to change it. With practiced care, Yehya slowly bent his right knee, leaned his torso to the right, too, and then lowered one side of his skinny bottom onto the edge of the wooden chair. He let the pain swell to its full magnitude for a moment, until he knew he could bear it without groaning or crying out, and then slid his whole rear end onto the rough-edged wooden seat, stretching his left leg out a bit. From their table on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop, they could see that the damage hadn’t been serious. Some glass cups had cracked, a few chairs had lost a leg or two, and an antique painting had fallen from the wall where it had hung. Nagy poked his head inside the coffee shop but didn’t see Hammoud, just a few customers staring at the television while the backgammon sets and domino pieces sat untouched. He turned his gaze toward the television, watching it carefully, and then placed a cautionary hand on Yehya’s shoulder. The Gate rose up on the screen in its full splendor as the announcer’s voice proclaimed with zealous delight:

“O beloved fellow citizens, in order to fully cater to your needs, the Gate shall soon extend its exceptional services to you every day of the week, from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon each day. Please complete your paperwork before reserving a place and deliver it to the Booth, making sure to keep the receipt signed by the official as proof of validity. For applicants for Certificates of True Citizenship, your application must be accompanied by an official letter notarized by your place of work or study, stating the purpose of your request, the party to which the Certificate shall be sent, as well as confirmation of their eligibility to receive it. Do not hesitate to inquire about the following numbers …”

The announcement lasted seven whole minutes, and Nagy watched them tick by on his watch one by one. Afterward, a phrase no one in the coffee shop had seen before appeared on the screen, as though it were an addendum, unconnected to the audio recording. With regards from Former Major General Zaky Abd el-Aal Hamed, President of the Northern Building .

Nagy looked away and smiled. Despite how often the Gate released these promising updates, it still had never reopened, and nothing ever really changed. All it provided was hope for people to cling to and a reason to stay in the queue. The Gate had started producing these announcements shortly after it appeared and initially aired them on several different channels. Before long, a special channel was created to broadcast all Gate-related news, then related fatwas as well, and recorded messages aimed at citizens, too. After that, the special channel began to broadcast new laws and decrees as the Gate issued them, one after the next, and forbade other channels from showing them. Then it decided to list the names of people whose applications and permits would be approved when the Gate opened, listing them on-screen at the end of every week. This attracted a huge viewership; people delighted in discovering who among them had been lucky and who had been rejected. Later, the Gate issued a decree that forbade other channels from screening any announcements other than its own and forced them to air its broadcasts instead. Its messages had become increasingly aggressive and intense, particularly after the Disgraceful Events, and it made the other channels replay them all. Some networks complied, but others refused and instead shut down their channels and offices. The Gate didn’t regulate radio stations the same way, though. It simply made sure it held sway over employees at the stations, and recruited loyal citizens, men and women alike, to call in to the programs while posing as unbiased listeners.

Hammoud appeared about half an hour later carrying a tray of drinks, and stopped short in front of them, understandably surprised. Seeing them outside the queue, right here under his nose, was the last thing he’d expected. Nagy reproached him for disappearing so suddenly and abandoning the residents of the queue without a hint or warning, but Hammoud said the situation had become so dangerous that he had no choice but to serve the construction workers instead. He was sorry, he said, but he was also fed up with the way things were going, especially with Um Mabrouk, who’d overstepped her bounds.

“What does she know about tea and coffee?” He began to shout. “Shouldn’t she just stand in the queue like everyone else? Why’s she cutting into our business?”

He accused the two of them of collaborating with her to hatch a plot against him and the coffee shop’s owner; it wasn’t right that they’d lost so many regular customers to Um Mabrouk, and so quickly, too. People could have waited until life returned to normal, things in the neighborhood calmed down, and the coffee shop opened its doors again, but no — no one had said a word, and no one thought to dissuade Um Mabrouk. Most of them had encouraged her to stay in business and even to expand. Hammoud carried on, growing so furious that he was ready to start an actual fight or even throw them out, but thanks to Yehya’s patience they rode out his anger and then countered his rant, turning the tables on him with playful banter. Wasn’t there a well-known brand of tea, Nagy said, whose taste mysteriously changed when it was in Hammoud’s hands? And which they had discovered — purely by chance, of course — was cut with some kind of black powder: watered down, just like the rest of his drinks were? Winking at each other, they told him that that was the real reason they supported Um Mabrouk, and Hammoud gave in. He laughed without commenting on or denying their accusations, and then went to get their drinks: two cups of coffee with sugar, in proper glasses instead of the usual cheap cups.