Nael Eltoukhy - Women of Karantina

So it was that Inji’s deepest desire was to visit the South, if only once, just once, to search out that fugitive, elusive root, lost in time. Just once, Lord, then I can die happy. Thus she addressed God, then pulled the blanket over her body and slept.

Ali couldn’t let it go. He admitted as much. Even though this job of his had taught him to be patient. I’ll be straight with you, brother, there’s not much wrong with the girl. It’s not that she’s my cousin, that’s not it. She makes you feel like she’s a professor or something. I’m furious with myself, to be honest.

Ali remained furious with himself for two weeks, unwilling to forgive himself, Inji unwilling to answer his calls, and his brother throwing him reproachful glances all the while. Ali learned to wake early, to smoke on an empty stomach, to bite his nails and fiddle with his balls and turn customers away, especially the college girls. Ali opened the shop each morning with a curse to heaven and a gobbet of spit to the ground. He had turned into an animal.

A full month later, Inji sent him a message. A one-liner: I love you. Ali collapsed onto a chair and started weeping. At that moment, it seemed to him that his pain was over, that it was goodbye to the moonlit vigils, the torments, and the endless nights. But it was only the beginning.

Taar — a debt of honor to be avenged — is a story of its own, one from which Egypt has suffered greatly, particularly in the poor and ignorant South, and all the government’s persistent attempts to uproot the idea from the heads of its inhabitants have been in vain. The people have clung to their obduracy in the face of any effort to enlighten them. And so it is that what we might call a culture of honor killing has remained powerfully rooted, first and foremost in the South, though there is nothing to stop it feeling its way downriver to the rich and educated North.

It was something along these lines that Ali was trying to explain to Inji as he told her of his father. An old debt of honor, its origins a mystery to all, had flared up between the al-Aleili and Amin families in Akhmim Sohag and claimed the life of Mohamed Sayyid al-Aleili. Your uncle was the best of men, Inji. Don’t you believe anyone who tells you different. He had nothing to do with taar and guns. They’re the ones who followed him up here from the village. Ask your dad. He’ll tell you.

Oh, I’m so sorry, Ali. You must have had people saying you had to take revenge, right? Ali fell silent. After a moment: Everyone. And don’t go thinking that your own father didn’t have people telling him the same. Everyone was saying it. Till I couldn’t take any more. My brother and me we don’t want trouble, but I swear to you on this cigarette, not one of them will get away in one piece. Inji patted his shoulder. Her hand lingered for a moment. She stared at him for a full minute, smiling. Her leg touched his and when he pushed back, when he tried to play along, she said, Ali! What are you doing? and got all upset. The world is unjust; has long been so.

Ali took her around all the sites: the Citadel, the Pyramids, City Stars Mall, the Nile. She wanted to see Egypt. That’s Egypt, sweetheart. Happy now? She wasn’t just happy; she spent the whole time delirious with joy. Most of that time she was hanging off his arm in a sleeveless T-shirt and sunglasses with a camera suspended around her neck, all of which made her look like a tourist. As for Ali, he looked like an idiot. He insisted on stuffing his shirt into his ancient jeans and keeping his striped sleeves unrolled and buttoned at the cuff, and with his faint mustache and bottle-top glasses he failed, overall, to make a good impression. But they didn’t care, and that was the most beautiful thing about their relationship. Perched on a pyramid’s stone block she rested her head on his shoulder. His armpit stank of sweat but such trifles did not bother her. Suddenly she asked: Ali? Is what you said true? What did I say? You were saying you didn’t want trouble. Look here, Inshi — that’s how he pronounced her name — me and my brother, we keep to ourselves, but on one condition: that no one starts with us. Treat me nice, I’ll treat you nice. You so much as think of hurting me, I’ll fuck you right up. So what about your dad? You’ll just let his blood go unavenged, Ali? Let his blood go unavenged! I swear to God, those kids won’t get away from me. I’m the one who’ll take his taar, you hear me? Not anyone from your lot, not my brother, even. She smiled. Promise me, Ali. What’s that? I said I swear to God, isn’t that enough for you? She grabbed his hand and rubbed its palm on hers. She looked at him and her smile grew wider. You’re my sweetheart. Have I told you that?

But that wasn’t everything. Ali wasn’t looking for trouble, and Inji knew it — but Inji was. She knew that right is right and wrong is wrong and she knew she would have a long, hard road with Ali. Sometimes she would take refuge in romance, as in the scene above, and sometimes she’d become more brutal. She lit a cigarette and gave it to Ali. They were sitting in Beano’s café.

Ali! The waiter’s taking his time. You noticed?

Yes, my love.

Well, could you hurry him up?

He’ll be here any moment, my love.

Ali! (Tensing) We’ve been here half an hour. It’s really unacceptable. Tell him it’s unacceptable.

(He gestures to the waiter to speed things up.)

(Silence.)

That’s it?

Eh?

(Nearly shouting now) Ali! Do something! Tell him it’s too much. Tell him it’s unacceptable to leave us hanging just because His Lordship isn’t happy with the tips from his last table.

(Not a word.)

(Scornful) Ali, you quite sure you want to avenge your father?

Back then things weren’t set in stone. Here’s this character who might do this thing, say, and then you find out they were aiming at something else entirely. Or take another case: there’s this character who might be thinking of two things at the same time, in pursuit of a third thing, and it’s impossible to say which of the two he wants more. Is it the first or the second? It was a mysterious time. Its motives were mysterious. Ali and Inji decided to spend two days in Sohag. Ali spoke to someone he knew and told him he would be staying over for a couple of days. He didn’t say a word about Inji. Let God look after it.

They enter Ramses Station dragging a large bag behind them, two tickets already purchased. What made Inji decide to travel to Sohag? What made her spend two days trying to convince Ali of her decision? Was it the desire to see Egypt? Was it the desire to set eyes on the backdrop to the things he’d told her about his murdered father, with Inji still clinging to her right to revenge, her taar? No one knows, and maybe it was a mix of these incentives and influences. It was a mysterious time. But no matter the motives, the events are what count.

Inji lights a cigarette and Ali gets angry. Not in front of everybody. Inji gets angry. I’m free to do as I please. He gets angrier still. Free is when you’re by yourself, not with a man. She swallows the insult and plots revenge.

Know what, Ali?

What?

I’ve no idea why you’re going to Sohag.

Wasn’t it you who said I should introduce you to my family?

Ali, don’t be silly. Your family’s my family.

(Irritably) What is it you want?

You said you wanted to go back to avenge your father.

Sure.

What do you mean, “Sure”? Yes or no?

I don’t know.

Ali. You’re not a man.

(No answer.)

What I call a man isn’t scared of responsibility.

(He looks around. Exhales.)

They stand on the platform. He takes out a cigarette and finds he hasn’t got a lighter. He moves off a couple of paces to look for one. The sound of a screech issues from the spot where he was standing. Inji’s voice: How dare you! A man’s rough tones: But I wasn’t anywhere near you. Ali leaps. In one bound he’s beside them. He grabs the man hard by the shirt. You’ll be settling up with me, here and now. Today’s the day I fuck you up good and proper, with God’s help. The man flails out, trying to get away. There is no god but God! You’ve got it wrong, sir. But Ali, right or wrong, does not hear him. He kicks him in the shin and at the same time the man’s shirt rips in Ali’s brutal grip. The man loses his composure. Beneath this unanticipated hail of blows he manages to land a slap square on Ali’s face. For two seconds, Ali is still. The gathered crowd, which was trying to pull them apart, falls nervously silent in turn. Wary now, and waiting for some terrible comeback, the man backs away. Ali lunges forward, punches him in the belly, in the head, he does not let up. The man tries to squirm free, and the people restrain Ali. A massive specimen comes up to clamp his arm. Ali gives him a sharp shove and Inji rushes to free her lover. The man bats her away. She gives him a shove. Ali gives him a powerful shove. Suddenly this happens: the man falls onto the tracks. Right onto the tracks. The Southern Train is pulling in. Now the man is mincemeat beneath its wheels.