Basma Aziz - The Queue

When it was her turn to talk, she balked and stalled, offering only muddled words. A desperate look came over her, and suddenly she looked like she was very far away. He placed his hands on her shoulders, filled with concern, and she turned and looked at him blankly. Only the slightest hint of her spirit was left, and he could tell that she saw the worry on his face.

“It’s nothing, Yehya. Nothing happened to me. I was just remembering something, something stupid.”

The director walked past the room and paused in front of the door. Yehya stood up to leave, and tenderly patted the back of her hand before whispering a few words into her ear. She shook her head at him, and smiled faintly.

Shalaby asked Hammoud to show him the article in the newspaper. He’d heard the newscaster read it on television while he was sitting in the coffee shop, and felt as if he’d found a light shining out of the gloom. Hammoud picked up the newspaper and opened it to the page with the article, and Shalaby asked him to cut it out for him so that he could keep it. He spread the clipping among his things on the table, careful not to tear or crumple it. Then he took a final gulp of his tea and rushed off back to the queue.

Shalaby was still angry with Ines for what she’d said about his cousin Mahfouz; she’d insulted him, and Shalaby had been waiting to get his revenge. Her words hadn’t left his mind, and he gnashed his teeth in anguish as he remembered their conversation. He blamed himself for not giving her the response she deserved, and now he felt as though his words were tainted. Every time he told his story he glanced around, looking for her, afraid she would butt in like last time, ruining it and turning him into the laughingstock of the queue.

He had to admit that she’d really riled him from the moment he had arrived in the queue, even if she was only a woman. She was just one person out of dozens, hundreds even, one against a whole village, but she was still just a woman — and one who didn’t know her place. She thought she was so smart, but he knew more than she did. He had heard things from behind the scenes, from people who knew things, that the young man Mahfouz had killed had been a believer, who’d prayed and fasted and went to mosque on Fridays, and that he probably wasn’t a rioter, just a passerby. But surely Mahfouz hadn’t known this. They said that the young man had been on his way to work, but Mahfouz had also been working, just obeying orders. Mahfouz had wanted nothing more than to complete his service as soon as he could and return home; his cousins had moved recently, and he planned to join them.

Yehya arrived at the queue as Shalaby was returning from the coffee shop. Despite the pain, he felt blissful. In his mind he held the first gentle smile that had crossed Amani’s lips since she’d disappeared. Now that he’d seen her, he felt a faint flickering of hope suddenly glowing inside him, giving him the will to keep fighting. She’d agreed to see him again and now the world was different, almost brighter. True, she hadn’t revealed anything new or confessed what pained her, or eased his concerns about how wary she had become. If anything, she’d confirmed his fears that he wouldn’t find out what had happened to her, at least not until the Gate opened and resolved this overwhelming situation. But she’d given him permission to visit her at work, and that was all that mattered. Even if only rarely, he could be near her again. Next time, they would have cinnamon tea together, with milk, just the way she liked it. They’d go out to dinner like they used to do, and he wouldn’t say so much, to stop time rushing by as it had today. He would let her tell him this secret when she wanted to, without pressuring her.

Suddenly, Shalaby’s rough hand reached out in front of Yehya, startling him, rupturing his reverie. Shalaby was fishing out leaflets from his old frayed leather bag and distributing them to everyone around him. Yehya saw that it was an article photocopied from The Truth . Ehab grabbed one eagerly, and another landed in Um Mabrouk’s hands, but when she realized that there weren’t any pictures she could understand, she passed it to Ines, who had become so skittish lately that she flinched. When Ines realized that everyone else was holding the same thing, she accepted a copy cautiously. “ MASTERMIND OF THE DISGRACEFUL EVENTS DISCOVERED!” was the article’s dramatic headline. There weren’t enough papers to go around, so the woman with the short hair volunteered to read a few lines to everyone who had gathered.

It has been revealed that a foreign individual, who was accused of terrorism in his home nation and sentenced in absentia to life imprisonment, entered the country several months ago. Assisted by operatives, ingrates, and fools, he plotted to stir up unrest and destroy the trust between the Gate and the people. It has been reported that this foreign instigator succumbed to a fatal injury last week, before his wicked schemes were accomplished, leaving no information behind. Extensive investigations are now underway to determine the extent of this man’s involvement in the Disgraceful Events, as he is believed to have been responsible for the gunfire witnessed in the square during that time .

Shalaby weaved around the queue to see what reaction the leaflets were getting. He darted here and there, rereading the article: it claimed that the Quell Force, which included the branch that Mahfouz had belonged to, hadn’t shot anyone; the Disgraceful Events were simply a conspiracy hatched by some cowardly foreigners and a few measly traitors who had orchestrated the Events by planting seeds of discord among people, intentionally trying to divide them. These traitors and foreigners had framed the guard units (guards like his cousin, thought Shalaby) for the deaths that had occurred during the Events, and then vanished before anyone could suspect them. These conspirators had a long history of concocting plots and schemes just like this one, but God was just, and so their role in the Events had been revealed.

The truth has finally emerged, thought Shalaby, pleased with this new version of events. This meant that Mahfouz was blameless, not guilty of any wrongdoing. It was those rabble-rousers who’d crossed the line, and his cousin the martyr had simply taught them a lesson — using his truncheon. He’d used it before, nearly every day, and according to the experts, truncheon blows never result in death. Mahfouz had had nothing to do with the casualties from the Events, Shalaby told himself; his cousin had probably never even fired a shot. What’s more, he thought, it was possible that Mahfouz hadn’t even been carrying his truncheon at the time.

Shalaby now had the proof to defend his cousin. Even if skeptics claimed that Mahfouz had fired his gun — and even if he had — now they knew that a foreign spy had been shooting, too, so who could say which bullets belonged to whom? Shalaby couldn’t verify it himself; he hadn’t seen Mahfouz’s gun and didn’t know whether it was missing a bullet. But he’d heard from other guards that no one had found the bullet that people claimed had penetrated the man’s skull. The man had been taken to a military hospital and the doctors tried to save his life, they’d even opened up his head. But the doctors said they hadn’t removed any bullets — not from the man, not from anyone.

At any rate, the real culprit had finally emerged, and investigations being conducted at that very moment would definitely prove that Shalaby was right. Mahfouz’s family deserved a pension, compensation, and recognition. Shalaby’s imagination ran wild as he thought about what he would ask for when he got to the Gate. He dreamed of building a memorial in their hometown with the names of all the martyrs, and Mahfouz at the top of the list, so people would always remember that he had died a hero.