Ibrahim Meguid - The House of Jasmine

Two beggars sit near the public urinals in Dikhayla. One of them was once a well-known grade-school principal who used to open the school at night and force the teachers to lecture to the empty seats. The other was a butcher who heard a sheep cry between his hands as he was slaughtering it. He said that it was a ram sent by God from heaven. A few days ago, the two men became four.

“How can you sleep when you are the president of the union?” Hassanayn cried as soon as I opened my door. I put out my hand to shake his, but I didn’t embrace him. He had not embraced me when I went to his house to congratulate him on his marriage.

“A terrible summer flu,” I said. He held my arm and I leaned on him until I managed to return to the bedroom and lie down in bed. I pulled the covers over me, then asked him, “How did you know?”

“By chance. One of the people I had met with you at the Lansh Café stopped me on the street, shook hands with me, kissed my cheeks, and then told me. He was very happy. Are you taking any medicine?”

“I don’t like medicine. I just drink a lot of lemon juice.”

We were silent for a few moments during which Hassanayn looked at the old furniture around the room. Why hadn’t I bought some new furniture? I had savings I wasn’t using. Hassanayn stood up, and his smile became wider, so I smiled back at him and said, “Don’t you dare suggest that we go to the café.”

“I won’t,” he said, “but let’s at least go out on the balcony. This room is very grim, and it must be infested with germs. I have a sensitive chest, as you know. Besides, you won’t get better unless you expose yourself to sun and fresh air.”

He pulled the comforter off of me and pushed it into a bundle at my feet. Then he tried to pull me by the arm.

“All right! All right!” I said, laughing, but with difficulty, my whole body shaking. “I’ll get up.” I supported myself on my hand and sat up on the side of the bed. Hassanayn tried to pull me again, so I was forced to get up. I was about to lean on his arm when he moved it away.

“Walk on your own. I will carry two chairs,” he said. “You’re not as sick as you think.”

I walked to the balcony on my own, wondering about Hassanayn and his strange behavior.

“It was the mistake of my life, Hassanayn,” I said as soon as we had seated ourselves on the balcony. “It really was. I can’t find time to work or sleep. They come to me here with their problems.”

“Listen,” Hassanayn said, “I didn’t come here to listen to you complain. I came to tell you that we have several potential brides for you, so if you’re serious we should do something about it, and if not, then let’s just go to the café and forget all about it.”

I watched him as he talked. I was happy to see him. He seemed to be more concerned about me than I was about myself.

“Many things have changed for me since I got married,” he said. “The most important of them is that I don’t think alone anymore. My mind no longer goes on asking and answering questions until it’s exhausted. Now I think out loud. I talk to Ibtihal and then I feel better. Thinking is now a sweet exchange. You know what? I have noticed that women usually smile when they’re talking. Before my marriage, I had never noticed this. Your wife’s smile makes you relax and appreciate the beauty around you. At night, when we’re in the same room, the light seems to be very bright. It becomes white, whiter than milk, and I feel the contentment of someone who has everything. I nearly forget that there are other people, other rooms, a whole world full of sadness and joy around me. Our room becomes an island in a sea of bright light.

“I’m not trying to tempt you into marriage,” he went on. “You seem to be quite ignorant about life, but we have come to the point after which it is all downhill. Now we have to run to catch the train of normal people. It is a wonderful train, and on it you find real life, no matter how late. The real tragedy is if you miss it. Do you realize what it means for you to become forty years old without a son? It means, at the very least, that you will not live long enough to see him become a man. I don’t think that anyone in our generation will live to be more than fifty. The number of changes in the presidential cabinet that we have seen in our lifetime alone is enough to shorten the life of an elephant!”

His last statement made me laugh, even though laughing made me ache. I was following what he said, amazed, and wondering what went through his mind to make him talk to me like this, as if I were opposed to the idea of getting married. But he went on: “Don’t laugh. I’m serious. Where do you think they get all these ministers? They must outnumber normal citizens. Anyway, this will all be to our advantage on the Day of Judgment. God will stand in front of all the people and ask each person what his or her nationality is. Egyptians will be allowed to enter heaven without judgment because of what they have suffered on earth, especially with the change of cabinets. Don’t laugh! In addition to our inevitable suffering, we also make things more complicated for ourselves, because we actually have it better than others. Each of us has a stable source of income. Magid has his pharmacy and can find an apartment if he wants to. ‘Abd al-Salam will return, and you’ll see that the first thing he’ll do will be to get married. We have an advantage over many people, and even they get married. They may complain about their inability to do so, but before long they invite you to their wedding. Then they go on living however they can, but never give up. They are a race of jinni children who can pass through the eye of a needle.

“Besides, what’s keeping you from getting married?” he asked. My whole body was already rocking with laughter, and I was desperately trying to signal him with my hand to stop. “Don’t let the union make you believe that you are a great activist. That may happen. Weren’t you arrested for political activism? You must know that this isn’t your kind of thing. Holy Yahya is more suited for it than you are, and ‘Abdu al-Fakahani is the best of all. Even if you want to be an activist you need to get married. Napoleon was married, and so was Lenin, Sa’ad Zaghlul, and even the prophet Muhammad, who set a record. And why should I go so far? President Nassir was married and had children. Huh! President of the workers’ union! Who cares? Hagg Luqman has become a member of the People’s Assembly. God damn you, bastard!”

I was completely overcome by both laughter and coughing. Hassanayn looked as if he had just taken a weight off his shoulders, and he sat back with a satisfied smile on his face. I remembered the five hundred pounds, but only went on looking at the sea in front of us. The waves were smooth and the sea seemed to be asleep and dreaming. There was a refreshing breeze in the air. September was holding on to the last summer breezes, while cautiously opening the door for fall. I felt that sitting here might cure me of the damned flu. I felt that I was not sitting with Hassanayn alone, but with Magid and ‘Abd al-Salam as well. Oh, how we all loved each other without even knowing it.

“Can you believe that it has been almost a year since I last saw Magid?” I asked. “We are only five minutes away from each other, but for some reason I don’t go to see him, and he doesn’t come to see me either.”

“I saw him at the pharmacy before I came to see you,” he said as he stood up. “I was upset with him because he had not told you about the two girls, but he said that he had come to see you twice, but you were out. He also said that every day he thought of passing by to see you, but then hesitated, thinking that maybe you would come by his pharmacy, until he forgot about the whole thing.”