Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

“Listen, son. You are supposed to study with clever people so that you can learn from them. So why on earth would you study with that Fawzy? You’re both terrible students!”

Mahmud, however, would not relent, and he whittled away at his mother’s resistance. The two boys started doing their homework together every evening, preparing for their sessions as if for a party or the opera. First a long, hot bath, followed by a careful shave. Then they would slather moisturizing lotion on their bodies. With the aid of hair cream, they would comb their hair into a neat part, before dressing and dousing themselves with cologne. Naturally, all these preparations took quite a while. At whoever’s flat they met in, they would greet each other as if he were returning from a long trip. Then they would prepare the theater of their drama. First they would check that the floor was spotless, sweeping it if they found even a speck of dust. Removing the clean, ironed cloth from the table, they would check the glass top underneath it for any spots.

One might ask at this point why bother over a few flecks of dust on the floor or a small spot smudged on the tabletop that was covered anyway? What had any of it to do with their homework? In truth, it went against their meticulous nature to overlook these minutiae over which they might spend a whole hour. Then they would sit down facing each other, open their books and get on with their homework. It would generally only take a few minutes for Mahmud to mutter in disgust, “Oh God, my pencil has gone all scratchy!”

At this, Fawzy would stop reading and take the pencil from his friend to check the extent of the problem. Then he would smile and say, “Don’t worry, boss! I’ll sharpen it for you.”

Some might think it is a piece of cake to sharpen a lead pencil, but they could not be more mistaken. Sharpening a lead pencil to get the point just right is a fine art requiring concentration and expertise. Proof of this is the fact that Fawzy Hamama, for all his sharpening powers, often gave the pencil one twist too many in the sharpener, and the worst would happen: the slight cracking sound of the point breaking off. Fawzy would start all over again, while Mahmud sharpened another pencil. The boys would sit there working away until they had a good supply of finely sharpened pencils. After completing this task, which naturally took a good a bit of time, they would set about their homework again, but then, no matter whose apartment they were in, the host felt it his duty to ask the guest whether he would like to eat or drink anything. These were the inviolable rules of etiquette. The requests were usually manifold and very specific: a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich, a plate of mashed fava beans served with spices or fried eggs with pepper and cumin. That would be followed by cups of mint, delicious salep or fenugreek tea, which is known the world over for its excellent nutritional value. The host would go and prepare the food himself, but as a matter of form, the guest would go with him to keep him entertained. And so between sharpening pencils, polishing the glass tabletop, making food and wolfing it down, not to mention trying to come up with yet another new exercise for their shoulders and thighs, evenings spent doing homework passed this way. It should have come as no surprise when they got their marks at year’s end that both of them had to repeat that year for the second time in a row. They were not particularly bothered by this, though they resented it when their parents cut off their pocket money for a few weeks as punishment. Fortunately, they had already put some aside for emergencies and survived on it until the sentence was served.

That winter, as the two friends were sitting the same classes for the third time, they hatched a brilliant new plan. They would meet in the early morning and each down a glass of buttermilk, before a hearty breakfast: plate after plate of fava beans, fried liver and eggs, this in order to gain the necessary energy. Afterward, they would go down onto the street in the cold, in short sleeves with the top buttons open. They would head for the Huda Shaarawy Girls School, where — as they stood with their bulging muscles and open-necked shirts showing off their thick tufts of chest chair, another blessing that God had granted them — the sight of them would arouse the curiosity of the girls, who, wrapped up in their pullovers against the cold, would chirrup excitedly and flock around them.

One of the girls would call out, “Look at that! They’re wearing short sleeves in the middle of winter!”

Fawzy would turn to her and shrug, “What of it?”

“What of it? It’s freezing out here.”

At that point, Fawzy would puff himself up like a bird and say, “Fortunately, God made us tough.”

During these morning struts, they got to know two pretty girls in particular: Nawal and Soraya. They even managed some snogging with them in the back row of the upper circle during the morning show at Cinema al-Sharq. It was typical that the two friends passed their days in utter contentment. In fact, they were simply confirming the old adage which says that a man’s happiness comes from within. They took things as they came, unperturbed by what might bother other people. They were totally at ease, precisely because their priorities in life were different from those of the rest of mankind. A muscle that did not respond to training, a girl that turned up late for a date at the cinema, a soccer match lost on the triangle or even a zit one might get on his face — such were the matters that occupied their minds, whereas other benighted souls thought about getting good marks at school.

One week, Fawzy, the brains of the duo, asked his friend, “Mahmud! Have you forgotten our kushari bet?”

From time to time they would wager to see who could eat more kushari —a dish of rice, lentils, onions and tomato sauce. They would go to the kushari café in Tram Street and gobble their way through plate after plate until one of them gave up. A winner would be declared, and the loser, as per their bet, had to pay the bill.

Mahmud smiled and said, “Of course I haven’t forgotten. It’s always such fun!”

“Do you know that guy Sidqi al-Zalbani?”

“Yeah. I know him.”

Al-Zalbani had been a classmate of theirs at the Ali Abd el-Latif School, but he had managed to move ahead and get a place at the Ibrahimiya Secondary School. Fawzy continued, “I’ve set a date with Sidqi al-Zalbani. Next Friday, please God, after prayers. The three of us are going to the kushari café to see who can eat the most. The loser will pay not only for the lot, but he’ll have to give a pound to each of the others. Don’t you think it’s a great idea?”

The torrent of information overwhelmed Mahmud, who could only take things in slowly. A platitudinous smile froze on his dark face as he looked inquiringly at Fawzy, who went over the plan again more slowly this time: Sidqi was the son of Muhammad al-Zalbani, owner of the famous Zalbani Sweet Factory, who had heaps of money. The two friends would easily beat Sidqi in the kushari competition, not only getting to eat a huge amount free of charge but getting paid a pound each to do it.

Mahmud finally caught on, and his face relaxed. “Great thinking, boss!”

Friday arrived. The three contestants said their prayers in the Sayyida Zeinab mosque and then headed for the kushari café owned by Hagg Subhi, who, according to terms prearranged with Fawzy, had kept a table for them in the far corner, out of sight of the other customers. At the last moment, Sidqi al-Zalbani became hesitant and whispered anxiously, “Let’s forget the bet. Why don’t we just go to the cinema instead?”

“You’re speaking like a child!” Fawzy barked back at him. “We’ve already agreed, so let’s get on with it, or are you so afraid of losing?”