Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

With a bitter smile, Ali Hamama asked himself, “Do they think I can just print banknotes on a machine in my shop? Every day, it’s ‘I want this, I want that.’ Does everyone think they can just help themselves to my money? Are you kids trying to get your inheritance while I’m still alive? Bloody bastards!” He smoked ten bowls of tobacco, one after the other, then got up to go and pay al-Khalfawi, the tea shop owner. His bill was less than half what it should have been, as a result of a complicated agreement whereby purchases from his grocery were set against the cost of the tobacco he smoked there. As he left the tea shop, he felt as free as a bird and as finely tuned as a perfect musical phrase. He set off slowly, swaying from side to side, but still clutching the box with the necklace. Gradually, he started to see the situation in a new light. Aisha was his wife, and he knew her only too well. She was as stubborn as a donkey, and when angry, she was the worst sort of harridan created by God, fully capable of causing considerable damage. He could never forget the day she took a pair of scissors to his beautiful brand-new galabiyya. In the end, there was no might nor power except in Allah. What was the point, then, in continuing to provoke Aisha? Her capacity to do him evil was unequaled, and her obstinacy beggared belief.

“Right. I’m going to be better than her. I’ll be the noble, forgiving one.”

So it was decided. He would just tell her off this time so that she would realize that she’d been at fault and not do it again. But instead of plotting revenge on Aisha, he started thinking how he could make her happy. It was actually not because he was afraid of her or feeling unusually compassionate that Ali Hamama’s mood changed but because he was so aroused that it almost hurt. Hashish sent his sexual imagination into overdrive, but he could never imagine sex with any woman but his wife. For a quarter of a century, he had not been to bed with any other woman, not out of propriety but because Aisha used up so much of his energy. Her fondness for sex and her amazing skills under the covers had always kept the spark in their marriage. Ali Hamama made a half-hour detour to the Tahira sweet shop and then went home to find the light still on in the bedroom. He tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside. He gave the door a few friendly yet persistent taps with his finger, but Aisha did not respond. He was certain that she was still awake. He leaned against the door and said quietly, “Open the door, Aisha.”

She did not answer, so he tried again with a jollier voice. “Ayooosha. Open the door, sweetheart. Please don’t do this. Let’s not act childish.”

“Have you brought the magistrate with you?”

Her voice was angry but also soft and seductive. Feigning surprise, Ali Hamama asked, “The magistrate? What do we need a magistrate for?”

“To divorce us!”

“Don’t be so silly, my little missus. How could I divorce you after so long?”

“You don’t want to divorce me, but you took my necklace? I tell you what, mister. Let’s get a divorce and go our separate ways.”

The indifference in her voice drove him wild with excitement. Quaking with desire, he called out, “Ayooosha. It’s time to stop these foolish games. We both rubbed each other up the wrong way, but it’s over now. Do you think I would take your velvet box after a lifetime of happiness? I’ll buy you another. You’re worth your weight in gold.”

“Oh my, dear me! Do you think I was born yesterday? I’m not like you, Ali Hamama!”

She spoke that last sentence with such languor that he almost burst with anticipation and called out, “Open the door, sweetheart, Aisha. Don’t do this. You can’t leave me in this state. I brought you something…a half pound of basbousa with clotted cream from Tahira’s. It’s all for you — I already had a piece, thank God. And as for the jacket for Fawzy, well, I’ll buy it for him on Friday, please God.”

That was what is called, in diplomatic negotiations, a compromise with an indemnity. All it took was a half pound of the basbousa with clotted cream, which Aisha adored, to make her accept his substitution of the suit by a jacket. Bull’s-eye! Ali Hamama heard the sound of a sigh, then footsteps, followed by the click of the door being unlocked and opening slowly.

“Are those ballet shoes dyed?” Miss Suad said tersely.

I looked at her in silence. I was trying my best not to cry. After a moment, Miss Suad repeated the question, louder this time, “Answer me! Those ballet shoes have been dyed, haven’t they?”

Choking back my tears, I answered feebly, “Yes, Miss Suad.”

She looked away and waved me off.

“All right. Get back in line.”

At that moment, I hated Miss Suad from the bottom of my heart. I hated her because she kept on about a completely trivial matter. I hated her because she had made me put pressure on my father, made him even more aware of his poverty, and only then dismisses it all as nothing. Had she punished me, expelled me from the class, that would have been better. Instead, she just wanted to come across as Miss Compassionate, having already called attention to our poverty. Now, she could just let me off to take my place in the line. Back to my place I dragged my feet along in those awful dyed ballet shoes, almost falling over myself in anger and embarrassment.

After that day, being at school felt like a festering wound. I tried to forget my pain by studying as hard as I could. That was the only way I could help my father, as Kamel had said. I would be first in the class and show him that all his sacrifice had not been in vain. I would lock my bedroom door and spend hours studying, but my zeal for learning had acquired a rather bitter taste. In some way, I was taking revenge. I would do well in my lessons in order to affirm my existence. It was true that we were so poor that my father could not pay the school fees or buy the ballet shoes, but I was cleverer than all my classmates put together. I was top of the class in our midyear exams. As I handed my report certificate to my father for him to countersign, a strange feeling came over me, as if I had just run a huge distance and was now standing there panting. My father smiled as he picked up his pen. Without saying a word, he got up and put his hands on my shoulders, “Saleha! I’m so proud of you. I hope God lets me live long enough to see you teaching at university.”

“Why do you think I’ll end up teaching in a university?”

“I don’t know. I can just imagine you giving lectures to the students.”

His words touched me, and I agreed enthusiastically, “Then you will see me teaching at university one day, I promise.”

I continued studying my heart out and was top of the class at the end of the year too. During the summer holiday, I didn’t ask my father for pocket money or to take me on outings as I used to do. I was happy to stay at home, helping my mother and waiting for Kamel to come home at night. Then we would talk for a long time. Kamel was the person who understood me best in the whole world. I loved chatting with him. He would talk about anything with me: politics, art, literature. He used to tell me excitedly, “Egypt is a great country, Saleha, but it has not seized the moment. The Occupation has kept us all down, but if we expel the English, we can build a strong new democratic country.”

He used to read classical and modern verse aloud to me. I loved to listen to him explaining the love poems. I’ll never forget certain verses of Andalusian poetry. I adored the one that read:

If my sin is allowing love to be my master, then all nights of love are sin,

I repent of the sin, but when God forgives me, for you I atone.