Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

A few months into their marriage, Said announced his wife’s pregnancy. Umm Said was truly thrilled at the thought that Fayeqa was carrying her and the late Abd el-Aziz’s first grandchild. Forgetting Fayeqa’s mischief, she was overcome by a feeling of tenderness and started telephoning her a few times a week to check on her condition and to advise her against sudden movements or carrying heavy loads because the first pregnancy was always delicate, especially during the first months. She was surprised, then, to hear Said telling her that he would visit her with his wife on Friday. Naturally, she welcomed the visit but added with a hint of worry, “How is it Fayeqa is able to take the train in her condition? It could be risky.”

Said, however, assured his mother that the matter was important and could not be put off and that he would like his wife to be present. When the call was over, Umm Said wondered what was behind this visit. Had the doctor not warned Fayeqa against excessive exertions and needless jostling like the bone-shaking train from Tanta to Cairo? And what was so important that Said could not come alone? Umm Said discussed the matter at great length with Saleha, but neither of them could come up with a convincing explanation.

On the Friday, Said and his wife turned up just before noon, as usual. Said went to say Friday prayers at the Sayyida Zeinab mosque, and when he came back, they all sat around the dining table. They ate duck stuffed with onion prepared by Umm Said, and after lunch, they drank their way through three pots of tea. Then Said did his ablutions and returned to the mosque to say the evening prayers. When he came back again, his mother led him by the hand to the sitting room, shutting the door behind them, and their conversation became louder and louder until it echoed throughout the apartment. Kamel rushed to the sitting room. Fayeqa dragged herself slowly toward the sitting room as if she already knew what was going on.

The door opened, and Madame Khashab appeared. The moment she saw Mahmud her face froze.

“Is everything all right? Do you want something?” she asked warily.

Mahmud was bewildered and confused by her tone, but then he pulled himself together and stuttered, “I’m sorry, Madame.”

She turned her face away and asked him coldly, “Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he said quickly with some warmth in his voice. “By God Almighty, I’m so angry that my mother made me return your present. Please forgive me.”

Madame Khashab was about to say something, but she stopped herself. Mahmud then took a step toward her and held out the flowers.

“I have brought you these,” he said imploringly, “to apologize.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Mahmud continued, “Please accept the flowers. By the life of the Prophet, don’t embarrass me, Madame.”

After a little hesitation, Madame Khashab took the bouquet. “Thank you, Mahmud,” she said and smiled.

“Are you still angry with me?”

When she did not answer, Mahmud continued. “Madame,” he said in a voice full of sincerity, “you told me that you have a good heart and that you like to forgive.”

Madame Khashab started examining the flowers, held them up so she could smell them and then said, “The flowers are beautiful. I love carnations.”

Mahmud smiled, showing his glistening teeth, as if to say that was the least he could do.

“So have you forgiven me?” he asked again.

She nodded and looked at him affectionately.

“Mahmud,” she said. “I consider you my son. I could never be angry with you. When you returned the present, I was upset because I had just been trying to be helpful.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

Madame Khashab’s smile broadened. She pushed the door open wide with her hand and took a step backward.

“Come in, Mahmud.”

“Thank you.”

“You can’t stand there at the door. Come and have something to drink.”

Mahmud let himself be invited in as three thoughts occurred to him: first, that Mustafa had been completely right about the effect of flowers on the temperament of foreigners; second, that this was his day off and he could stay there a little; and third, that he had to be careful not to upset Madame Khashab again.

The three thoughts preoccupied Mahmud’s brain, making him incapable of resisting when Madame Khashab held out her hand and led him to the sitting room. Then she took the paper off the flowers and arranged them in a vase on the table by the window. She admired the flowers and sat down on the sofa. Mahmud, for the first time, noticed a bottle of whiskey, a glass and an ice bucket on the table and realized that she had been drinking. She reached out for her glass and with a sudden laugh said, “So how are you, Mahmud?”

“Thank God, I’m fine.”

He continued watching as she emptied her glass in one go and then leaned over to pour herself another. Mahmud sat there with his hands on his knees, not knowing what to say, when Madame Khashab asked him affectionately, “Should I pour you a glass of whiskey?”

“No, thank you.”

“Just one glass.”

“Madame, I am a Muslim. We’re not allowed alcohol.”

Madame Khashab laughed and took a sip of her whiskey.

“Do you pray?” she asked.

“Not regularly, unfortunately. Sometimes I forget and sometimes I don’t get around to it.”

She seemed to be thinking of something, to be looking for the right words.

“How old are you Mahmud?” she asked him.

“Nineteen.”

“All right. And don’t you know more now than when you were ten?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good. And as a person gets a little older, he understands more about the world, doesn’t he?”

“Of course.”

“Good. And it is God who created the whole world and everyone in it, so he must understand more than all of us.”

“Naturally.”

“And if God knows more than all of us, then he must forgive us?”

“Does he forgive us even if we do stupid things?” he asked naively.

“God has to punish us for big sins,” she said laughing. “He punishes us if we hurt people. If we lie or steal or murder. But if we drink a glass or two to drown our sorrows, I don’t think God would punish us for such a small thing.”

That was rather complicated logic for Mahmud, who nodded, a smile frozen on his face.

“So what do you say?” Madame Khashab asked him again. “Shall I pour you a glass?”

“No, thank you.”

“All right, as you like. Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?”

He hesitated a little and then answered quietly, “That would be lovely.”

“How much sugar?”

“Four teaspoons.”

Madame Khashab laughed as she started to understand his character. She nodded, finished off her glass in one gulp and went to the kitchen. Mahmud sat there, looking around. To his left in the sitting room, he could see a large wooden radio set and an aquarium, illuminated from the inside, with colored fish swimming around. In front of him was the dining room with its balcony overlooking the Zamalek corniche. On the wall hung a wedding portrait of Madame Khashab and her handsome husband, Sami Khashab. There was also a large photograph of him some years later, his hair now white, hanging with pride of place in the sitting room, a black ribbon draped down the side. A few moments later, Madame Khashab came back and placed the glass of chocolate milk in front of him and then poured herself another whiskey.

“Do you know what, Mahmud? Your mother was both right and wrong to refuse the gift. She was right because you have to keep your dignity, but she was wrong because I love you like a son.”

Mahmud felt uncomfortable, because she had brought the conversation back to the problem which he thought had been solved. The drink was making Madame Khashab maudlin. She sat back in her armchair and stretched out her legs, taking another sip of whiskey.