Radwa Ashour - Blue Lorries

On my first trip to Paris, Gérard and his engaging conversation had taken me from my mother, but Shazli, this time, had no chance of taking me far away from her; it’s more likely, in fact, that he brought me closer to her, not because I wasn’t thinking about him (I thought about him constantly, even as I slept under warm blankets, ate nourishing food, and enjoyed the feeling of hot water on my head and body in a warm bath, knowing all such amenities were out of the question for him now). My uneasy thoughts weighed heavily on me, so I ran to my mother — fleeing to her, as I see it now. I wanted to hear what she had to say, get to know her better, be closer to her, and I clung to her, seeking a safe haven.

‘Mama, how did you meet Papa?’

‘Mama, when did Papa tell you he loved you and wanted to marry you? What did he say?’

‘Mama, was it hard for you to go and live in Cairo?’

‘Mama, why did you and Papa separate? It’s not possible that a room full of smoke or those hundred pounds he gave his cousin could be a reason to get divorced!’

‘Mama, could we take a trip to Yvoire? I don’t remember anything about my trip there with the two of you — was I two years old, or younger?’

‘Mama, tell me about your father.’

‘Mama, what was his relationship to my grandmother like? What did she do when he died?’

‘Mama, do you still have family in the village?’

‘Mama…’

She talked, and I listened to her, both drawn to and puzzled by the rhythm of her speech, the shade of her honey-coloured eyes. The sudden slight upward movements of her head that emphasised the meaning of her words reassured me and filled me with something as good as serenity.

The second week I decided to treat my mother to a hot meal she would find waiting for her when she got home from work. I referred to a cookbook I found in her library. The game delighted me, so I repeated it. Thus I discovered that the preparation of meals has its own requirements and rituals. I would select from the book the dish I meant to prepare, study the ingredients, and go out to a nearby shop to buy them. Then my mother called my attention to the big market. So I started taking the Metro and going there, not just to buy things, but also for the simple pleasure of going there: the other Paris, the one that escapes the post cards, the fashion shows, and the perfume advertisements. Women unconcerned about their full figures (unapologetically, insouciantly oversized), men in whom was combined the roughness of everyday life with smiles so sweet they took me by surprise with their, ‘ Bonjour, Mademoiselle! ’ I would smile, make my purchases, and chat with vendors and with other customers. I would return home laden with vegetables, herbs, and two portions of meat or chicken, sometimes also flowers to surprise my mother the moment she opened the door and entered the flat.

This is when I started to develop cooking skills. I threw myself into it the way I did with anything new, but my absorption this time, in contrast to other obsessions, didn’t fade away. It grew over the years into a serious hobby, one I both loved and was good at — I considered myself an authority on the subject. Every cloud has a silver lining: from despair combined with feelings of disconnection, anxiety, and remorse a ‘super chef’ was born. (I smile as I write these words, but nevertheless the description is apt!)

The secondary, and more desirable, effect of this new hobby was that it eased relations between my father’s wife and me. Since the subject is cooking, I should say that it ‘oiled’ the hinges of the door that was closed between us, so that it began to open without the squeak that sets the teeth on edge. The first Friday after I got back, I announced, ‘I’ll make lunch for you.’ My father was surprised and so was Hamdiya (if only her family had chosen a different name for her, things would have been a little easier!); I think she regarded it as a well-intentioned move to help her — she thanked me profusely, and praised extravagantly the food I prepared. Then we began to compare notes and exchange advice. I taught her recipes I had pored over in books, and she taught me what she had learned from her mother and grandmother.

Boring courses, intense activism, arrests, a journey, a return, and then activism once more. The result: failing grades in eight out of ten subjects (the two subjects in which I passed my examinations were unrelated to the field in which I had chosen to specialise); the other result was less ruinous — or, let us say, more useful: my having taken refuge in cooking gave me a skill that, if worse came to worst, might qualify me for work as a cook, and in fact for better pay than that of an engineer just starting out on a career!

My father was angry about my failure and upbraided me severely. Hamdiya came to my defence: ‘Let her alone, for heaven’s sake — what a rough year she’s had! Those arrests, the anxiety, the fear, a trip she hadn’t expected or prepared for — what is she, made of stone?’ She patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘God willing, you’ll pass with distinction next year.’

But that ‘next year’ in which my father’s wife looked forward to my distinguished performance came with its own surprises and distractions. I switched to the College of Humanities, and my studies in the French Department, in which I had enrolled, seemed easy, since I was fluent in French and loved literature, finishing in two or three nights reading assignments that it took some of my classmates weeks to understand. But I didn’t pass with distinction — in fact, most of my subjects I barely passed at all; two of them I actually failed, and had to repeat them the following term.

It was a year replete with interesting developments, starting with the appearance of three students from the College of Medicine before the disciplinary board on charges of having written for the wall newspapers, of contacting other groups of students, and of causing unrest. Then fifty-two students were taken into custody. So we began concerted action in seeking an appeal and the students’ release, as well as an assurance that further roundups wouldn’t prevent us from continuing to voice our demands. We held meetings, issued statements, contacted the unions, and staged another sit-in at Cairo University’s Central Celebration Hall. Classmates of ours from the College of Engineering and the College of Medicine at Ain Shams University held sit-ins as well. Then they moved the sit-in to the Za‘faran Palace, the seat of Ain Shams University’s administration. There was another roundup.

This time I didn’t go to France.

The knock on the door at dawn.

My father woke me up. He whispered, ‘Do you have any papers here?’ I gave him the papers. He took them, folded them, leapt lightly and calmly on to a chair, and hid some of them in the wooden frame around the glass of the door to the balcony, while others he concealed in the window frame, in the slight crack into which the pane of glass was inserted. Then he whispered in my ear as he turned to open the door, ‘Deny everything, even things you think don’t matter, and refuse to talk unless a lawyer is present.’

He opened the door. Two men in civilian clothes entered (later it became clear that they were officers), followed by three soldiers or informants. Three men in police uniforms stayed by the door, holding rifles at the ready. They searched the house, but found nothing. One of the officers said, ‘We’ll take her for just an hour or two.’

My father went quickly into my bedroom and returned with a small suitcase into which he had put a few everyday items for me.

As I was getting ready to leave, I said, ‘I won’t need the case, since I won’t be staying with them more than an hour or two.’