Ibrahim Meguid - The House of Jasmine

Hassanayn never stopped smiling and waving at the girls and women who passed by. Whenever he got a response, he blushed and said with embarrassment: “That’s it for me. I can’t go any further.” We usually laughed at him, and only minutes later he’d resume his smiles and waves.

I often thought about the one hundred pounds, and, in moments of despair, repeatedly thought of wasting them. At the end of summer, winter arrived. One night at the café, Hassanayn asked me, “Why do you look so distracted these days?”

“On the contrary. I’m not distracted at all,” I replied.

Magid said that many of his customers at the pharmacy forgot to pick up the medicine they’d bought, and then returned the next day to ask if they had forgotten anything. ‘Abd al-Salam said that when he took the train to and from Rashid to go to work every day, he always saw people fighting as they got on and off the train, but once they were on the train, they remained as silent as deaf-mutes. I made up my mind to go to Holy Yahya, who sold carpets and straw mats as a street vender, for it was known that he was also a broker.

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“I will sell the house,” I said to my mother one night, while I was wrapped in a rough blanket, reading the evening paper, whose headline was “Beirut Burning.” We could hear the wind roaring and the rain beating on the houses and streets outside.

“Sell it, son,” she replied, without looking at me. She was sitting in front of the kerosene stove warming up her hands as well as the small room where we sat. She had been awakened by the chickens screaming in the coop, which she had recently said she wanted to repair.

“I will rent a big apartment in the Bahari neighborhhood.”

“Sell it, son,” she repeated in the same tone. I could not tell whether it meant satisfaction or despair.

A few days later, Holy Yahya, who had decided to buy the house himself, came by. He brought along the fruit seller, ‘Abdu al-Fakahani, who was building an apartment building by the sea, near the airport. Holy Yahya was the one who told me about ‘Abdu, and said that he would put in a good word for me, so that I could rent an apartment in his building.

I made my mother put her fingerprint on a sales contract for a thousand pounds, which Holy Yahya paid in cash. It was the first time I had ever seen a thousand pounds. We were required to leave the house in six months. ‘Abdu al-Fakahani wrote me a rent contract for an apartment that I was entitled to get in six months and took the thousand pounds. My mother remained silent and didn’t stir the whole time. I felt my heart sink. Who is the winner here? I do have a contract, but it is no more than a piece of paper that, for any reason, may become useless. Holy Yahya has secured a house for himself, and al-Fakahani has received a thousand pounds! I could not retreat. If you had been as naive as I was, you wouldn’t have retreated either. Besides, there is a kind of happiness that can suddenly swell up inside a person and make him very shortsighted indeed.

During the next four months, Holy Yahya visited us frequently, and I also went to see the apartment building and became less worried about my prospects.

“Why doesn’t your mother sit with us?” Holy Yahya asked me on one of his visits. I couldn’t find an answer. She hadn’t been talking to me much. Every time a chick died, she brought it for me to see. If I was outside, she would wait for me to get home and see it, and I would hold it by its soft legs and throw it as far as I could out of the windows over the jam-packed rooftops.

“Her spirits will rise when you move to the new apartment,” Holy Yahya said.

On my next visit to ‘Abdu al-Fakahani, he said, “Mr. Shagara, I still have your thousand pounds if you want them back. The construction costs have gone up, and I need another two hundred pounds.”

“. . ”

“Mr. Shagara, you are an employee in the big shipyard, and you can apply for a loan.”

I left him, and didn’t stop at the café. I had bought a kilo of oranges from him. I gave them to a beggar on my way home. It was only six o’clock when I got home, and my mother was already asleep. I heard the chickens clucking and thought of giving them some food. I had never done that before. Why do I dislike this peaceful house? What had gotten into me that I wanted to change something that has always been the way it is?

Lying on my bed, I felt weary, but I found myself thinking about my old Arabic teacher at the Ras al-Tin High School. He had a sad face and calm features. He always said that life was too short to be spent in sadness and worry. If you feel that way, all you had to do was get a sheet of paper and write a letter to whomever you had offended, or had offended you. Write to ask for forgiveness or to explain that you are hurt. You won’t even need to mail this letter because you will feel better already, and will tear it up. My teacher said that this was his only successful method of getting rid of his worries and sadness. He disappeared suddenly from our school, and no one knew where he went, but many of the teachers became sulky and quiet after his disappearance.

In my utterly miserable state, I thought of writing a letter to my illiterate mother, who slept in the next room, asking for her forgiveness. I got out a sheet of paper, placed it on top of a newspaper, and laid it on my knee. I wrote:

Dear Mr. President, champion of the crossing and the victory: Please accept my sincerest greetings.

We would like to inform Your Excellency that the workers of the Marine Vessels Shipyard have shown an enthusiastic desire to travel to Cairo to join you in the Labor Day celebrations. However, the Chairman of the Board objected, saying that this will slow down production. What production could be so important as to prevent us from expressing our love and support to Your Excellency?

Sincerely yours,

A faithful worker in the shipyard

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At sunrise on the first of May, I was standing in front of two big buses at Masr Station. I felt the cool breeze on my face while I watched the rows of Peugeot taxis, their drivers smoking in silence. Usta Zinhum, who was on his third trip with me, was sleeping on the steering wheel, and so was Usta ‘Abbas, who was on his second trip with me. The big broken station clock showed twelve o’clock, and there was little movement in the place. The station square had a large garden whose benches were occupied by sleepers covered in rags. I was smoking nervously, thinking about the week before and how I’d been overcome by hysterical laughter while playing backgammon with Hassanayn, Magid, and ‘Abd al-Salam. I didn’t want to tell them anything about this. Al-Dakruri had come into my office, looking even paler than usual.

“Prepare yourself for the Labor Day celebrations. I have recommended you because you know Cairo and Hilwan well.”

It took a tremendous effort to keep my surprise from rising to my face. I had never visited either Cairo or Hilwan, and I was also trying to hide my anxiety long enough to find out the whole story. Al-Dakruri said that some cowardly worker had sent a letter to the president, claiming that the shipyard’s chairman of the board was preventing the workers from traveling to join the President in celebrating their day. Al-Dakruri also mentioned that he was upset that the letter was written in terrible handwriting — I had used my left hand to write it, then mailed it from the main post office in Manshiyya.

The president’s office had mailed the letter back to the shipyard with “We received this letter” written on it.

“So they haven’t asked for anyone to travel to Cairo?”

He gave me a sarcastic smile, wished me a good trip, and left. I could hardly believe it.