Nael Eltoukhy - Women of Karantina

They walk together. He defends himself. Says he can’t make promises he can’t keep, that he needs money for his pocket, that he doesn’t want to be a burden on her. She quite understands, but it’s not like she shortchanges him. My dear, I know. Did anyone say anything about shortchanging? Suddenly she stops. He breaks off. He follows the line of her gaze. A young man in his twenties pissing against the wall, his gun lying on the ground half a yard away. It’s too much! she screams. I can’t take it anymore. He tries to soothe her but he can’t. She runs for the exit. Trips. Picks herself up. Keeps on running.

They’ve got their reasons, too, my dear.

Yehya! I’m warning you, don’t irritate me. What do you mean they’ve got their reasons?

Well, put yourself in their place. Down in the tunnel twenty-four hours a day? They’re going to have to go.

He can go outside and piss as he pleases, brother. The mosque’s right next to the stairs.

And the elderly? The ones who can’t manage?

The elderly and the ones who can’t manage, you said you’d thrown them out. Or were you lying to me?

I’ve never lied to you in my life, but I can’t turn out an old man who depends on me.

Yehya!

(He looks at the ground.) I’m sorry, Yara. Forgive me. I can’t throw out a man my father’s age.

You asking me or telling me? Don’t irritate me, now. . (With an effort she restrains herself.) They can go to hell, Yehya, and they will.

(Slowly, gazing into the distance) I’m sorry. I can’t.

This was the second strain on Yara and Yehya’s relationship. Yara went away in a rage and he stayed on in the carriage, thinking about her. He thought of calling her but his pride prevented him. And all around him people were talking, going on and on with their insinuations and forced cheer. He was extremely angry and didn’t know where to direct his anger and, in the end, the anger was turned on Kama Sutra, on the kid called Gamasa.

Gamasa came up to him and said, Forgive me for what I’m about to say to you, Yehya. Yehya was on a hair trigger. He looked at Gamasa and said nothing. And the kid went on. It’s just Miss Yara. With all due respect, I just feel that she’s taking advantage of you. Taking advantage of me how? Well, to be honest she’s not a nice person, and you’re like a chief down here, a commander, and she knows that if it wasn’t for you she’d be finished by now. What do you want? Well, I might be younger than you, Yehya, but you should think of me as your little brother — who’s seen his fair share of life. Aren’t those Sabah the whore’s girls? Let her go, Yehya. Let her go and spare yourself the headache. Upon hearing these words, Yehya Volcano rose to his feet. Grabbed the kid. Pulled out his bayonet and buried it in his arm. He was screaming like a man possessed: Have you forgotten yourself, you faggot? Forgotten who scraped you off the street and made you fit for company? He shoved the kid toward the exit. The kid began to run as Yehya bombarded him with half bricks. By my mother’s womb, if I see you again, I’ll kill you, faggot.

So Kama Sutra left the tunnel. In the space of seconds his world had collapsed about his ears. The tunnel had been his Paradise, his Dream, his Everything, and he had been cast out like a stray. He sat on the station wall gazing longingly at the tunnel. A tear fell from his eye. And away he went. But this was not the end of his tale. Like those before him, like all those who had been cast out of the tunnel before him, Kama Sutra was not defeated. He pulled himself together, gave himself over to God’s tender care, and set out for the building where dwelt Amira, Sousou’s daughter. Once there, he told her: Consider me your devoted servant, to do with as you will. Amira finished her prayers. She saluted the angels seated at her right hand and her left. She smiled. And tenderly she patted him on the head.

One night Lara saw herself in a dream, alone. She is alone and comfortless, walking down a shadowy road, and abruptly everything is illuminated. She sees Hamada in the distance, sitting with his friends, Farouq and Sheikh Mohamed. She approaches, and Hamada folds away the Monopoly board on which he’s been playing and strokes her hair. He kisses her forehead and asks her, Why so upset? She is about to speak when he shudders and slaps her face. Farouq tries to calm him, but to no avail. Suddenly, Farouq pulls a switchblade from his pocket and slashes Hamada’s face. There’s a machine gun in the dream now, a machine gun raining fire on everyone. The café’s chairs tip over, the tables sway, and Hamada falls to the ground, and then his body starts to swell; it swells to unprecedented proportions, until he fills the frame, spills over even, and Sheikh Mohamed’s standing on a chair threatening all present that if they don’t go home he’ll rape them one by one, and playing with the cock that’s jutting fiercely beneath his gallabiya. Lara awoke, sweating and scared.

It was the days following Yara’s marriage to Yehya Volcano. Lara wasn’t sleeping. She would hear them having sex, quite openly, without the slightest shame, and it is not hard to deduce that she was burning with desire and envy at one and the same time. It was around then that she got close to Umm Salah the maid. She’d hear the sounds of sex, decamp from her bedroom, and repair to the maid’s, who would sense her presence and hold her as she slept. This one time, Lara found her gone, out with relatives. Downcast, Lara went back to her room and decided to call her. She told her she wanted to talk to her about something very important and that she was coming over to see her, now, in her apartment in Kom al-Dikka.

All the way to Kom al-Dikka Lara wracked her brains for something to say to Umm Salah. She had no idea. She was scared, that was all. Umm Salah greeted her with a smile. She made her a cup of tea and did not speak, and neither did Lara. And then Umm Salah broke the silence. Men have become a real handful. She did not explain. Lara went to her and laid her head in her lap. Umm Salah began to talk. Know what the problem is? The problem is that all the first-rate folk are gone: died, killed, locked up. My own husband’s been behind bars for God knows how long. All that’s left are the younger generation, and the young don’t know anything.

And what is it that the young are supposed to know? Umm Salah had no clearly defined answer to this. Her monologue ran on and on without her pausing to draw breath. Men back then weren’t like that. There were tender ones, there were kind ones, there were some absolute bastards too, it’s true, but these days only the bad ones are left. I mean, not all men are bad; the majority, let’s say. The best thing is that there aren’t that many of them anymore. Look here (she starts counting on her fingers): There’s you, there’s your sister, there’s Amira, there’s Inshi, God have mercy on her soul — and another one who died is Minna, Amira’s mother. Then there’s the original Umm Amira, the old one. The men are finished, they hardly count. (Lara looks at her, like she’s about to say something.) No, no, my girl. I don’t count Yehya Volcano as a man. Not because he’s bad. Because without you two he’d be nothing. Yehya was raised by your grandmother and now he’s your sister’s husband — your turn next, God willing. In other words we made him and we keep him.

This, more or less, was just the preface to the tale that Umm Salah wanted to tell. The meat of the story came only after the tea had been drunk and the tobacco plugs fixed atop the shisha. Her tale was the tale of two women who once upon a time had left Alexandria reeling. The police had been unable to catch them; they played with men like they’d played with dolls as girls. I want you to really pay attention here, because one day you and your sister might be able to achieve what those two ladies achieved back in the day. I want you to get close to your sister. Don’t hate her and don’t resent her happiness. Remember those two ladies and remember what they managed to achieve when they loved and cared for one another. Their names were Nadia and Itemad.