Ibrahim Meguid - The House of Jasmine

At times I thought he was right, and I was afraid. Then I asked myself what I had to fear. I didn’t care about Damietta because I wasn’t going to buy any furniture from there. I didn’t care about Rosetta either, since I caught my own fish behind the airport. And I didn’t care what happened to the whole country in a hundred years, because I wasn’t going to live that long, unless God challenged me, and I didn’t think that he would do that to an orphan like me.

I returned to my apartment in the afternoon and felt as though it were midnight. Shivering with the cold, I took off my wet clothes, and found that the electricity was still out. I lit a few candles and sat in front of the silent television set, staring dismally into the air. I could hear the movements of children and the laughter of the new residents in the apartment on the upper floor. I thought that this might be another heroic deed to be added to my list — living alone among happy families. I remembered how my father once told me about a similar winter that drowned the village where he grew up. The houses dissolved under the torrents of rain, and the mud was knee-high. Fires broke out as if it were raining oil and gasoline. The mosque collapsed on top of those who sought refuge inside it, and not an hour passed in which there were no wails over a cow that had died or an old person who had frozen to death. My father said that our family was all saved because his grandfather, Shagara, locked them inside the house and said that whatever happened to them would be the predestined will of God.

I remained silent day and night, watching the empty looks on people’s faces, and thinking that the winter was not going to end before bringing some ill fate.

#

Only a few people attended the funeral — the members of the workers’ union, ten or so workers, Hagg Luqman, and me, the only administrative employee of the shipyard who was there. Hagg Luqman sat next to me and I shrank uncomfortably in my seat. I had taken five hundred pounds of his money and hadn’t done anything to earn it. He had won the elections. He had known that he would win, and I didn’t know why he had squandered his money the way he had. He must have squandered quite a bit. If I received five hundred pounds for a small neighborhood like Dikhayla, then how much did the representatives of such neighborhoods as ‘Amriyya, Wardiyan, Mafruza, and Basal Port get?

In the house we were received by a young man who looked very much like al-Dakruri. I learned that he was his brother. He sat with us in a small room, and his eyes were bloodshot. There was a shaykh who looked quite confused and kept gathering the wet tails of his outfit around his knees. He recited the Quran, his voice, his ears, and his hands all shaking. In the middle of the room was a marble-top table with a few candles stuck on it, since the electricity was still out. We could hear the rain falling outside, and some of the people whispered,

“God have mercy on your worshippers.” Hagg Luqman appeared to me to be the most distressed.

“Al-Dakruri was a fine young man,” he said.

“He liked you too, Hagg, but we can’t object to the will of God,” replied al-Dakruri’s brother.

What made Hagg Luqman go to Um Zughaib, near ‘Amriyya, to inspect the iron wares stored in the desert in this terrible rain? And why did al-Dakruri go with him? What kind of snake suddenly slithered out of its den and chose to bite al-Dakruri, of all the people accompanying Hagg Luqman, on the back of his hand? Hagg Luqman said that they were astounded to see al-Dakruri suddenly screaming and writhing on the ground, his right hand open and stiff and his left hand holding the wrist of the right. Then they saw the greenish yellow snake wriggle away slowly, unaware of, or indifferent to, what it had done. Hagg Luqman said that he immediately took al-Dakruri to ‘Amriyya Hospital in his Mercedes, which he drove himself, but that al-Dakruri had died on the way, even though the trip was only ten minutes in the Mercedes. Hagg Luqman finished his story by saying that the more he thought about the incident and about the way the snake looked, the more he was convinced that the snake had been sent to carry out God’s will.

“Otherwise, we would not have been blinded to it,” he concluded, “and it would not have crawled away in such peace and calm afterwards.”

When we left al-Dakruri’s house, we were met by the cold wind slapping our faces, and had to jog and hop in the rain, in the mud and the darkness everywhere.

#

“I’m sorry, but the rain kept me from visiting you earlier,” I said to Hassanayn when I visited him in March, more than a month after the rain had stopped.

“Same here,” he said. “This was not normal rain. It was the wrath of God.”

He was wearing a robe of red wool, and a woolen hat. He looked very healthy, and his face was as red as if he had been standing in front of a burning oven. He called out to his wife, Ibtihal, who then came into the room, preceded by a sweet fragrance.

“This is Shagara, about whom I have told you,” he said to her before turning to me, “I talk about nobody other than you, Magid, and ‘Abd al-Salam. Is there any news of ‘Abd al-Salam?”

I had gotten up to shake hands with her, and she had a very pleasant smile as we shook hands. I was confused by his question, which came just as I was about to congratulate her, and wasn’t sure whether I should answer or go on and congratulate his wife. Then I sat down and again said, “I’m really sorry, Hassanayn.” I felt really guilty. He was rubbing his hands together, and again called out to his wife, who returned carrying a china plate with a gray floral pattern. She placed the plate, which was covered in peeled oranges, on a low marble-top table in front of us. Then she left the room. Only a few minutes later he called her again and she came in with a similar plate of tangerines, then left. He called her again, and this time she came in with a plate of bananas. I was quite taken by the whole thing. I kept saying that this wasn’t necessary, and she only smiled while he insisted and then said, “Tea, Ibtihal, then coffee.” He kept offering me the fruits and insisting that I eat. I was a little hesitant, but I gave in to his adamant hospitality, and I ate and ate. The fruit tasted different from any I had eaten before, and I wondered if the fruit grown in Egypt had actually become sweeter or if it was just the warm and friendly family atmosphere surrounding me.

I looked at the freshly painted walls and the simple inexpensive chairs. Everything in the room looked beautiful and well matched. I watched Hassanayn as he kept calling out to his wife with the delight of a small child. He received her with eyes full of joy, which followed her everywhere, as if Hassanayn were too happy to believe that she was real. I thought that he was acting as if he had created her himself, otherwise what was the reason for such rapture and pride?

“So. What do you think of marriage?”

I had expected him to repeat his earlier question about ‘Abd al-Salam, which I had not had a chance to answer. His wife smiled at me as she put the tea in front of us. He surprised me by asking her to fix us some dinner. This time I strongly objected, and Hassanayn’s wife was disturbed by my refusal. She blushed and, in a voice as soft as a gentle breeze, asked, “Why not?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I gave up. Suddenly, Hassanayn turned to me and said, “Keep visiting us. I will find you a wife.”

I saw his wife blush again, and felt my own ears on fire.

#

Why did he ask me to keep visiting him? My father, his grandfather, and their whole family were saved because they trusted their fates to the will of God. Is it right that I visit him because I wish to get married? My problem will be solved by He who does not sleep, Hassanayn, and whatever God has destined will be.