Morning and Evening Talk (3 page)

His mother’s nerves appeared to relax. She put a spoon of ice cream between her wrinkled lips and began chewing.

“Inquiries will have to be made,” she mumbled.

Adham frowned.

“It’s just the formalities. I’m optimistic,” his father said obligingly.

Visits were exchanged and the choice met with approval, though some critical comments on Samiha’s part were inevitable.

“The mother is evidently not educated,” she said to her husband.

The man was amazed at her remark since she—Samiha—had not herself obtained the baccalaureate, but he said only, “It’s not important.”

Everything was agreed on. Hazim bought his son an apartment in al-Ma’adi for six thousand Egyptian pounds and Adham moved there with his bride at the end of the year.

Of his family tree Adham knew only his mother’s branch; his grandfather, Muhammad Salama, who set up the engineering office, and his maternal aunts and uncles. As for his father’s side, he knew vaguely that his grandfather, Surur Effendi Aziz, was employed in the railways, that his great uncle, Amr Effendi, worked at the ministry of education, and that he had paternal aunts with children, but he never saw any of them. He also knew his family came from al-Hussein, a quarter he associated with poverty and backwardness, but there was no reason to remember it and he only ever passed through in a car. He often encountered members of his family in squares and public places without him recognizing them or them recognizing him. His father followed his movements with pleasure, confident that when he retired one day in the not too distant future the office would be left in capable hands. He once said to him with respect to the corruption that was rife, “There is plenty of opportunity out there. You have knowledge, intelligence, and ambition. Don’t digress. Don’t scorn advice. If you mock values then at least strive for a good reputation and beware of jail.”

She had a radiant complexion, delicate features, soft hair, and was the image of her mother, Matariya, but for two front teeth that stuck out a little. She was Matariya’s last child, born a few months before Ahmad’s death. Her uncle Qasim was fond of her, but dared not claim her as he had her deceased brother; he loved her from a distance until his personal tragedy wrenched him away from worldly concerns altogether. Her paternal grandmother died when she was seven and she mourned her more than was warranted for someone of her age. She entered primary school without opposition thanks to the times and, likewise, went on to secondary school. Matariya was only interested in marriage but said to her husband, “Like my sister Samira’s daughters, everyone wants an education these days.” Muhammad Ibrahim accepted this without discussion. He had been promoted to a senior teaching post by staying at the Umm Ghulam School through the good offices of Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud.

As it happened, Amana displayed a promising propensity for learning and her talent for mathematics was clear. University seemed an easily attainable dream. She passed the baccalaureate, but in the summer holiday that followed, her father developed a galloping illness and he soon died, while only in his fifties. The family inherited the house, his pension, and the rent from the shop below the house. The Second World War was by then over and from the second generation Amr, Surur, and Mahmud Ata had passed away. Thus, Matariya felt she was facing life alone. During this period, Abd al-Rahman Effendi Amin, an employee at Dar al-Kutub, requested Amana’s hand. He was fifteen years older than her and had a good reputation. Amana liked him but wanted to finish her education first.

“Our circumstances mean marriage comes first,” Matariya said with sympathy. She consulted her mother, Radia, who said,
“A suitable man is a thousand times more important than university.” She looked at Amana admiringly. “Why would a girl of your beauty be interested in education?”

Her uncle, Shaykh Qasim, said to her, “I saw you in a dream dancing in the district of Gamaliya!”

Matariya asked her mother what the dream meant and she said without hesitation, “The district represents peace and security, the marital home. …”

Matariya provided Amana’s dowry, the value of her and her paternal grandmother’s jewelry, and what little was left of her late husband’s savings. Amana was wedded to her groom on Azhar Street.

It was evident that love sheltered the new couple in its wing, but from the beginning harmony between husband and wife required stubborn efforts. Abd al-Rahman Amin believed in the man’s authority, while Amana was extremely sensitive, fussing over an ant’s nip like it was a snakebite. She was quick to burst into tears and shut herself away or head off to Watawit from Azhar Street. Matariya would escort her back and try and resolve the mess, then end up embroiled in the quarrel herself. Her older sister Sadriya said to her, “Your daughter’s husband is no worse than mine but no one gets to know what goes on between us. Don’t interfere in their private affairs and don’t side with Amana in every disagreement.”

Radia learned of the newfound bickering and sought refuge in incantations, spells, and tomb visits. The dissension constantly threatened to escalate until the specter of divorce raised its ugly face like a bat. The extent of the problem was compounded by the fact that the moment Amana gave birth to her first child, Muhammad, and was overwhelmed with motherhood, the beautiful wife all but disappeared. After him, she gave birth to Amr, Surur, and Hadiya and the specter of divorce withdrew, although the bickering continued and constant stress left its mark on her face.

The children started school with the first generation of the July Revolution. They departed the gloomy atmosphere of the house and hovered in skies of fortune and splendor before drowning in the sea of confusion that swallowed its victims on June 5, 1967. They began their working lives after the demise of the first leader, and during the wave of victory and the infitah policy they were awarded contracts to work in other Arab countries. Even Hadiya did not stay behind. As for Matariya, she died after suffering many disappointments: the premature deaths of her youngest son and husband, the aberrations of Shazli, and Amana’s bad luck. Abd al-Rahman Amin eventually succumbed to old age. Amana savored her children’s success, though old age and illness overtook her too before her time. She saw her respected uncles and aunts and the rest of her relatives pass away. She read the book of sorrows as it turned its pages one after the other and would listen to the prophecies sent down to Shaykh Qasim and try to apply the verdicts to her destiny.

He was born and grew up in Bayt al-Qadi. Surur Effendi’s house was next door to his brother, Amr Effendi’s, and Amir was around the same age as his cousin Qasim. He played and roamed about with his cousin but was kept away from him after his tragedy. Unlike his brothers, he was strong bodied, inclined to be overweight, and loved fun. In terms of chivalry and piety, he most resembled his uncle Amr. He knew the 1919 Revolution as a legend of demonstrations, battles, and anecdotes and grew up a faithful and patriotic Sa‘dist. He tried to mimic his brother Labib‘s accomplishment and industry and made successful progress, though he never reached his brother’s level. His piety and spirit of decorum and tradition were a detriment to relations with his sister, Gamila, who was four years his senior, for he objected to what he saw as casual behavior unworthy of the family
name and honorable religion. No one in his family shared his views. They became increasingly annoyed with him until his father said, “You’re too zealous. Leave the matter to me.”

In secondary school he began participating in the party struggle that broke out after Sa‘d Zaghloul’s death. He joined in demonstrations protesting Muhammad Mahmud’s dictatorship and spent two weeks in hospital after he was struck by a club. He had three relatives in the police with sensitive positions at the ministry of the interior; Hamid Amr, his cousin, and Hasan Mahmud Ata and Halim Abd al-Azim Dawud, his second cousins. They consulted on the matter and the one closest to him was assigned the task of cautioning him and setting him on the right path. Hamid delivered the speech in the presence of his uncle Surur and father, Amr.

“Your name is at the top of the blacklist at the Interior,” he said to his cousin.

“I’m honored,” Amir laughed, as he did often.

His cousin pointed to the scar on his temple and said, “You can’t always rely on being so lucky.”

“They won’t hesitate to discharge you from college,” said his father.

“I’m a Wafdist like you, but must advise you,” said Hamid.

The young man did not conceal his disdain for Ata and Dawud’s families. He sensed his father was not overly fond of them and scoffed at their roots at every opportunity. He began to light the political sky at the center of the young Wafdists and was the one they would proffer to the Wafd leaders. His ambitions for the nation reached for distant horizons. His brother Labib, who was a public attorney at the time, tried to put the brakes on his exuberance but he said, “I’ve discovered my path and won’t ever turn back.”

“What if you lose your job? You know we’re poor,” he inquired with natural calm.

“Then I’ll work for the press,” he replied confidently.

But he did not lose his job or work for the press or continue his political struggle. At the beginning of Ismail Sidqi’s time, during the flood of demonstrations protesting against the abrogation of the 1923 Constitution, he was shot dead in Muhammad Ali Street. The security forces took charge of his burial, along with many others, so as to prevent their funeral processions from paving the way for further demonstrations; only his father, uncle, and brothers were permitted to attend. His premature death shook Surur and Amr’s families profoundly. They recalled what Shaykh Qasim had said to him at the end of one visit to his uncle’s house: “You will raise the red flag.” They interpreted the words as a reference to the blood spilled the day he was martyred.

S
HE WAS BORN IN AN APARTMENT
in a modern block on Ibn Khaldun Street, the first child of Hussein Qabil, the antique dealer in Khan al-Khalili, and Samira, the fourth child of Amr Effendi. The quarter was fragrant with the perfume of westernized Jews and the apartment radiated elegance, good taste, and affluence. As Badriya grew, sweetness infused her features and gracefulness her manner. When she visited the old house in Bayt al-Qadi with her parents, her early maturity would attract attention. Amr Effendi, her grandfather, chuckled and said, “She’ll be wearing the higab and veil before long.”

“But she is going to continue until she finishes her education, Uncle,” said Hussein Qabil.

“What a weird, wonderful world,” Radia laughed.

“We won’t treat our sons and daughters any different,” said Samira.

“Even if a bridegroom comes round the corner?” asked Radia.

“He can wait or go in peace,” Samira said without hesitating.

“Samira, you’re quite the odd one out in this family!” said her father, disguising his objection with a smile.

When she reached adolescence a merchant on a visit to her father’s shop saw her and wanted to marry her, but he turned
away when he discovered he would have to wait until she finished her education. Another visitor came forward whom they could not satisfy. Then, in her fifteenth year, sitting on the balcony with her mother and brothers and sisters, she suddenly collapsed, her body rigid, her limbs shuddering, her mouth foaming. Alas, it was epilepsy. Qasim’s tragedy was etched in people’s hearts but this was epilepsy of the most violent kind. The doctor was summoned and advised rest, a change of air, and extremely gentle treatment. She stopped going to school. The glow in her wide eyes was replaced by a vacant, dazed look, and her ability to converse vanished, replaced by senseless jabber. Samira appealed to her mother for help.

“If she could do anything she would have done it for her son,” said Hussein Qabil.

But Samira did not accept this argument so Radia came with her incense, spells, and incantations. She took the girl around the tombs of the saints and the Prophet’s family but the situation went from bad to worse until only a ghost remained.

One morning, Badriya said to her mother, “I dreamed a prince was summoning me to go for a walk in al-Qanatir.” Samira’s heart was gripped with foreboding. Death came for the girl at noon and she passed away. Thus, Samira lost a daughter just as Matariya had lost a son; but Samira’s had been in the prime of youth. She was surrounded on all sides by condolers from the families of Amr, Surur, Mahmud Bey Ata, Ahmad Bey Ata, and Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud. How Radia grieved. Whenever she thought about her daughter’s situation she would whisper to her lord, “Have pity, O Merciful and Compassionate.”

Surur Effendi secretly resented Radia. He suspected she was the reason neither of his two daughters were chosen by any of her sons and reviled her in his usual manner. He said to his wife, Zaynab, “It all derives from Radia’s family; all the men and women in it are touched with madness, her first and foremost.”

He was the last of Shaykh Mu‘awiya al-Qalyubi’s children and the brother of Amr Effendi’s wife, Radia. He was born in the shaykh’s house in Suq al-Zalat in Bab al-Sha‘riya, the only infant born to the shaykh after his release from prison. He had a religious upbringing from the outset and his father enrolled him at al-Azhar when he was still young. When he visited his sister Radia in Bayt al-Qadi, his youthfulness, jubbah, caftan, and turban turned heads. He occasioned a mixture of reverence and merriment in her family for by nature he sated both sides, reciting the Qur’an in a fine voice at his sister’s request and joking with her sons and daughters. He had an attractive, round, wheat-colored face and his love of fine cuisine was evident; he knew as much about different kinds of food as he did about the religion he studied.