Voices Page 2

  Then the day came when telegrams began to arrive from my dear brother:

  WE RODE STEAMER TODAY FROM TOULON PORT STOP AM ON WAY TO ALEXANDRIA WITH SIMONE TO CLAIM OUR PRIVATE CAR

  ARRIVED ALEXANDRIA TODAY ON WAY TO CAIRO

  WE ARE ON OUR WAY TO YOU AND WILL ARRIVE TOMORROW AROUND NOON

  The Maamur had sent a special messenger to invite myself and the Omda to come to town, and we were brought by the Maamur's private driver in his special government car. There, the Maamur himself greeted us — especially me — in an overly excited manner. We started right away to talk about what should be done for the reception of Simone and Hamid, to be sure of their complete pleasure and comfort during their stay.

  The Maamur insisted that I should make available every sort of convenience and amusement for my brother and his Parisian wife; and he made clear to me that the house Hamid and Simone would stay in must have a green garden with all types of jasmine and citrus trees growing in it. He explained this could be done by uprooting these, together with a few fig trees, and replanting them in our garden as though they had been growing there for a long time.

  It was a shame that I couldn't build Hamid and Simone the house they had asked for. The Architect told me straight off it would take at least two months to build. When we pressed him and even begged, he asked for a huge sum of money as a settlement on the whole deal which seemed to me far too much, and at any rate, was more than Hamid had sent me.

  No one in Darawish had ever consulted an architect before building a house. For this reason, the Omda and I and the other decision makers of our village found his services unnecessary. In fact, the village builders laughed at him. So we figured we'd build the house by ourselves, but then, even the workers of Darawish, whom we tried to line up to help, asked for double wages. They were probably just trying to take advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We didn't have much time and I'd already purchased for five hundred pounds a plot of land less than five hundred square metres.

  My worries piled up. I couldn't sleep. I no longer knew day from night. Finally, before the Omda, the village elders, the night watchmen and their supervisor, the primary school teachers, high school students and community leaders, it was decided that renovation of the family house would be enough, and we asked the Maa-mur to approve our decision.

  So I painted over the house with an oil-based paint. I bought new doors and fixed glass windows with screens. I also put down wood and tiles on the floor and installed a shower and a European toilet in the bathroom. I bought a new refrigerator and put a storage tank for water on the roof with pipes leading into the bathroom where I'd even fitted a washbasin for rinsing one's hands and face. The students from Darawish who were studying at the high school in the nearest town hung paintings they'd made on the walls after I put them in gilded frames. I covered the skylight in the roof with a pyramid of stained glass that had windows which opened and shut, and I pounded many nails and hooks into the walls

  of the bedrooms and living room in order to hang up gas lamps. And let's not forget the curtains, chairs, a dining-room table, bed spreads, white linen sheets, and towels for the kitchen and the bathroom.

  This was all a big strain on me, financially as well as physically and, in the end, I didn't save any of the money I was sent. Whatever was left went to the tax collectors and go-betweens and the beady-eyed assessors who all began robbing me down to the last milleme — and even accused me to my face of theft, trickery, underestimation and all around penny-pinching. True, my shop did benefit from the money as did my house, but that was all part of my duty to create the comforts worthy of Simone. My shop had to look right for her, as it was a reflection upon our family. I painted its walls and shelves and replaced its facade, constructed glass counters, and decorated the shop front with Arabic inscriptions. All this had to be done. But the one problem that I could never solve were the flies that swarmed by day and the mosquitoes at night. When I sprayed disinfectant on a swarm, new swarms would replace it in an instant.

  In the end I became angry and bitter about this visit, and about Hamid and Simone, who had stood our life (and the life of our whole village) on its head. But I swear, in spite of it all, that I was proud of my brother when I stood before the villagers of Darawish, and I swaggered among them, with my head raised boastfully, even more than the Omda himself strutting about with his whole entourage. Of course, I must admit that deep inside I felt jealousy toward Hamid and couldn't help but compare his money, his status and his wife, whom

  I'd never laid eyes on, with my own money, status and wife. Finally, one night I saw myself killing Hamid in a dream — happily. I cried when I woke up out of disgust and self-hate, disgusted with the treacherous evil feelings in my heart. And I remembered the Mosque Imam, one radiant morning, telling us the story of Cain and Abel: I became scared that, one day, I would become that very man who'd killed his own brother out of jealousy.

  The Omda

  The Maamur had commended to me the need for Darawish to present a suitable appearance to Hamid. It was perhaps even more important that we impress his French wife Simone. That way, we would enable Hamid to raise his head proudly before his wife, and we in Darawish — and indeed all of Egypt — could raise our heads before foreigners as represented by the Lady Simone. I had promised the honorable Maamur that I would devote my full attention to overseeing the matter. I told him that I would call all Darawish's village elders to an emergency meeting. I then returned to Darawish after my encounter with the Maamur, and

  ever since then the entire village has been in a state of emergency, preparing to welcome Hamid Ibn Mustafa Al-Bahairi, whom God blessed in the foreign lands, and who would bring with him his wife, Simone, who was French and European: a stranger.

  I told everyone that Darawish must present an appearance worthy of itself and the Egyptian motherland. They all agreed and we began over the course of the next two weeks to trim the grass along the canals, to repair the bridges (in case Lady Simone wished to walk over them some afternoon), and to fill up the puddles and swamps with earth. We felt lucky that there were no rice fields near Darawish since they attract mosquitoes to the streets and houses. We improved the village's roads and filled their potholes with rubble left over from the repaving of the bridges bordering the fields. We also made a deal with a store in the nearby town on the purchase of a number of lamps which we would set up at the first opportunity on the corners of the main streets of the village for as many nights as Simone stayed in Darawish to give her the impression that our streets had been lit every night for years. We further agreed upon the need to cover the main streets with sand borne by camels and donkeys, after having been brought by rented dump trucks, from the desert on the opposite bank of the river. We even reserved a small cabin at a nearby summer resort for Simone to stay in for a day or more if she liked.

  I issued an order, which I circulated through the village criers, forbidding the throwing out of dishwater in the back alleys and side-streets. I made clear that anyone

  disobeying this order would be subject to severe punishment at the hands of the Omda of the village and the Maamur of the town, and that it was the responsibility of the villagers present to inform anyone temporarily away from the village to obey the order. Finally, to be extra safe, I commanded the watchmen of the village (as well as the villagers themselves) to keep the dung from livestock and mules off the streets of Darawish, day and night, and I impressed upon these same watchmen the importance of their keeping a look-out for village children so that they didn't piss in the streets or behind houses.

  We exhausted ourselves for two whole weeks carrying out what we'd agreed upon and overseeing the completion of renovations and clean-ups. We spent the few nights leading up to the couple's arrival sitting in a village hall talking about what we had done and what we still needed to do — but these discussions always included various stories of Simone's French homeland.

  Some of the teachers present at the gathering would remind u
s, for example, of our wars with the French that were fought over a hundred and fifty years ago. Among them was a story I remembered being told by my grandparents, God rest their souls. It was that the French had settled in Darawish for several years during Napoleon's invasion and even lived in sin (God save us from such depravity) with the women of the village. Some of them stayed in our country after the French army left, converted to Islam and married our daughters, then worked as traders or farmed the land. We also learned from our cherished and honorable elders, who

  had in turn learned it from their deceased forefathers, that seventeen thousand villagers of Darawish and the surrounding area had died at the hands of Simone's ancestors. We were all extremely upset and angry about this fact, but we decided with the guidance of the Mosque Iman that the requirement of blood vengeance against Simone's people had dissipated completely with the passing of seven generations. In the end, we laughed together that all this had led us to discover the secret behind the elegant whiteness of the complexions of our women as well as the secret behind the large proportion of children with light-coloured eyes, not only in Darawish, but in the whole surrounding area, from Farskour to Azbt-al-Borg and from Port Said to Alexandria.

  It was my estimate, as I'm sure it was the estimate of the others (even though none would dare say it), that Hamid was now the possessor of ample riches and property. He had to return to Darawish, his motherland, where he'd been born and rested his head as a child; and — for his wife's sake at the very least — he could not bear a grudge against his village which had already paid such a price for losing him. He had to raise his head high and lift the collective head of Darawish before the whole of the outside world. We had to make the visit something Simone would talk about when she returned to her country, happy and healthy and remembering fondly our simple yet beautiful village, sitting like a shining bride near the bend of the river.

  Mahmoud Ibn Al-Munsi

  Finally, the great day arrived. The women of the village awoke early and adorned both themselves and their sons and daughters in their finest clothes. All the boys and girls came out of their homes decked out for a magnificent holiday. True, their clothes were old; but with the break of that day they were all cleaned and patched with stitches sewn with precision and care. Most of them had no shoes; but their feet had been carefully washed and dried by a mother or older sister before they left the house. The men, particularly the prominent figures, the fancy dressers and village elders, all wore clothes that were clean and, in some instances, even

  pressed in the nearby town. As for the women, especially those who were married or over thirty, they wore their normal black clothes and covered their heads with the traditional shawl, despite the extreme heat.

  Of course, the affair did meet some indifference as well, from many of the men and women of the village. They began going about their normal daily routine; working in their homes, along the roads and in the fields. But these people were of no importance. They were not prominent or notable figures in the village. Why else would they have labored away as they did every day to bring home their daily bread?

  As the noon hour approached, our village's beautiful facade began to crumble. People in the coffeehouse scraped at the shape and shine of their shoes and messed up clothes, victims of the heat, perspiration and just plain neglect. After a long period of restraint, the boys and girls began playing games, soiling their clothes, shoes and feet. The smooth sand-covered surfaces of the streets — especially the one leading to Ahmed Al-Bahairi's house — got covered with dirt and animal droppings with the villagers, old and young moving about as well as the bicycles, carts and automobiles. Swarms of flies and their noisey humming also increased with the heat as the noon hour approached, particularly in areas shaded by trees or walls.

  As the promised hour neared, a crowd began to gather along the paved agricultural highway. The chairs in the coffeehouse were abandoned, and many villagers sought shade under the few scattered trees, pavillions and walls surrounding the fields. As time passed, the traffic near

  the farm fields increased, and the workers began to sit down or squat in the fields to watch and wait. The rooftops of the houses, from the opposite bank of the river to the small canal, began to fill with women standing or sitting, some plopped down on piles of wood or straw, gathering up the ends of their head scarves to shield themselves against the intense heat of the scorching sun. The watchmen scattered here and there keeping the children in line behind the archway in front of the village.

  Some waited quietly, but in general, whispered conversations and tall tales increased as the blazing sun rose up into the pure, chalky heavens. Most eyes were gazing intensely toward the south where they hoped to catch a glimpse of Hamid Al-Bahairi's Parisian car. Then, suddenly, in a dazzling moment I'll never forget, the car appeared, darting around the curve at the Adilia traffic point.

  There the Maamur and officers, along with the Omda of the village and prominent figures from both the town and the village, were waiting to meet Simone and Hamid Al-Bahairi; and from that point all the way to the village entrance and beyond, over one hundred soldiers stood dreaming of being blessed by Hamid Al-Bahairi.

  Then, at long last . . . that unforgettable moment arrived. The noon's brilliant light, sparkling through the leaves of the trees, fell on to the car's red chassis as it stopped abruptly at the traffic point. Everyone — adults and children — charged. The soldiers from the town and the watchmen forgot about their duties and raced toward the red car. Even those still working in their fields and

  houses rushed out, overcome by their curiosity, leaving behind them tools, livestock or dirty dishes. A roar rose above the women's ululations and the children's screams of joy: It's Hamid! Hamid and the French Madame.

  If King Farouk himself had been coming to call, there wouldn't have been such a scene. The stampede of people stirred up a cloud of flying dust, which dissipated as the people slowly drew back in advance of the car, slowing its forward progress. Oncoming traffic, heading toward the town, was stopped by the crowd, but its honking horns of protest became rhythmic chants of welcome once the drivers learned from the waiter at the coffeehouse what was happening. Birds taking refuge from the heat among the tree branches were startled by the noise and took flight in all directions over the heads of the villagers. In spite of the car's slowness, the notables from the town and the village and the soldiers broke into a run beside and behind the procession, as did the villagers. The horns of the two cars carrying the Maamur and the officers bellowed warnings to the crowd, and the prominent wide red car led the way surrounded by a squadron of parade motorcycles commandeered especially for such occasions.

  The length of the wait had affected me, and what I was now seeing stunned me as I stood frozen on the bridge at the entrance to the village, momentarily forgetting my charge to stay near Simone whenever she was with the Omda or Ahmed Al-Bahairi because of my knowledge of her native tongue. The car approached the bridge as the people around it pushed and shoved, and then, in a flash, I saw the two worlds before me: the faces

  of the mob and the faces of Simone and her husband, whose bearing and even skin color had changed much, to the point that you could no longer tell he was from Darawish stock, even though there had been a time when he was one of its barefoot children in tattered clothes complaining constantly of cramps, headaches, dizziness, red urine and eye sores. And he would have remained one of us, had he been fated to live out his life in Darawish.

  The plan had been for the wide red car to be driven over the bridge, but the narrow main street would have stopped it from going any further. Hamid must have noticed the problem, because he steered his car off to the right while the soldiers beat the people back, and parked it in an open space that he seemed to remember between the coffeehouse and the tin structure containing the village mill. He then stepped down from the car, while she remained seated. He circled around to open the door for her, but the Maamur was quicker. He opened the door, then bent down an
d said to her in heavily accented French:

  'Bienvenue.'

  Then Simone stepped down.

  So, this was Simone. Coming fresh from the City of Lights, from the land of grand boulevards and the famous Sorbonne, the Latin Quarter, the Bois de Boulogne and the Champs-Elysees. The Maamur walked in front of her clearing the way as she followed with Hamid, followed in turn by the officers, then the Omda, then the elders. Hamid was relentlessly elegant. Health poured out of him. His stoutness showed clearly on his large

  frame. As for Simone, she wasn't really so appealing . . . neither particularly beautiful nor ugly. Her skin was red having been quickly scorched by the sun along the way. Her narrow frame was full and tender. Her complexion and her blue patterned dress were enchanting together. She had a light gait and sparkling blue eyes full of life. There were many women in the village more attractive and appealing than she was, but she had a certain spirit about her, a self-confidence and strength. There was a lightness and mirth exuding from her, and I felt sorry for all our women when I compared them to her.

  We all crossed the bridge behind the leaders, trying to see what we could of the goings on of this rare occasion, a Frenchwoman in Darawish. . . Ah, Simone. What a beautiful and magical name! The beauty of her eyes! And the magic of that camera, hung around her shoulders, dangling at her slender waist.

  TUMULT IN DARAWISH

  Hamid Al-Bahairi