Voices Read online

  It is unfortunate that I didn't begin writing these

  memoirs on a daily basis from the time Simone and Hamid arrived, but the idea only occurred to me as we were saying goodbye to Hamid. I cursed myself for not having thought of it before. From the start I should have been recording Simone's presence in Darawish, or at least as much as I knew from what I'd seen and heard. But to tell the truth, I'd been overwhelmed by their frenzied activities which never seemed to slacken. I was amazed to the point of shock by Simone's vitality as she attempted to comprehend Hamid's adventurous life in Darawish and across the seven seas. So now, I would like to go back and mention what happened during the past week.

  Simone and Hamid had attended a number of banquets, meetings and official visits since arriving. These functions took place either in Ahmed Al-Bahairi's house or in the house of some prominent figure or the Maamur and once in the house of the District Manager himself. The invitation was always for lunch, dinner or tea and I was inevitably part of it, staying alongside Hamid and Simone to help those present with French words and phrases or with English, in which Simone was also proficient.

  But the strangest of these visits was one we paid to the museum and house of Ibn Luqman in Mansura. Simone had requested this visit herself, and the Maamur had arranged it for her the following day, last Wednesday. She wanted to see the prison where the French king, Louis IX (Saint Louis), was once held captive. She saw the room and the shackles. Then we went to the garden of 'Shagarat ad-Durr', and we told her a story about

  what Shagarat ad-Durr did when her husband, the king, died.

  On our way back to the car, while we were still in the garden, Simone leaned toward me and said: 'Tell me, did the jailer, Sabih, really castrate the king?'

  I answered her with honesty and open embarrassment over her question, which betrayed the extremes of her people's beliefs about us:

  'Really, I don't know.'

  She persisted saying, 'What does the word 'Tawashf mean then?'

  I said, 'I don't know that either, but I'll ask.'

  She continued: 'Fine. What is its French equivalent?'

  I shook my head at her, expressing my inability to answer, but quite unable to say the word 'eunuch' to her. Promising to have the answer for her soon, I cursed that poet who had once written a famous verse that had made it all the way to Paris:

  'The chains endure

  And so does the Eunuch Sabih'

  I wanted to talk to her about the 17,000 who had died at the hands of her people in this battle and about those who'd died in Darawish and about the pregnant women whose bellies had been split open in order to determine whether they were carrying males or females. I wanted to talk about the way they impaled live ducks and chickens over slow fires with long sticks pushed through their bottoms until they came out their mouths or necks; and about the villages completely destroyed and razed to

  the ground by Napoleon's Army. But I took into account her position as my guest and remembered that she had no part in what happened and had not shown the slightest malice or sarcasm in her tone or expression when she asked her questions. But who knows whether or not this European face might be able to hide behind itself things the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear? But then again why deal with her on the basis of a presumption, since presumption is a punishable sin?

  Last Tuesday at the Maamur's house over glasses of unholy drink, Hamid opened up to us all more than I had ever seen him do before. He told us the story of his life. He had escaped from Darawish by foot, walking until he could stow away on top of a railway carriage.

  As a boy he'd worked at various tasks, each for a few days only, and usually in a new town, until finally he ended up in Alexandria. There he had the opportunity to work washing dishes on a steamer, travelling everywhere, visiting various ports. His wanderings ended with a job as a servant in an Algerian coffeehouse in Paris. I noted how everyone enjoyed his story.

  Yesterday, I went to sit with them in front of the nice cabin on the beach. Hamid and Simone had stretched out next to one another; Hamid raised up on his elbows while Simone rested her head on his shoulder and tried to imagine how a distant French city with a unseen beach might compare with that place. Then she gazed at Hamid, content and enraptured, and quite unworried about his background. The sea was rough, and black warning flags were raised all along the beach. That excited Hamid who gently moved Simone's head off his

  shoulder, jumped up, stripped and threw himself into the sea. He then began slapping at the waves with his arms as Simone called out: 'Oh . . . Hamid!'

  I wanted to stop him or call the lifeguard to come and help, but she took hold of me before I could move and said, 'Don't worry about him. He's just like that. He's really an excellent swimmer. . . He swims like a fish.'

  The lifeguard came over and blew his whistle and called out a warning. Then he put a life belt around his neck and was on the verge of trying to save him and to bring him back to the beach from the roaring, crashing waves. But just then he saw him coming back. He came over to protest Hamid's conduct, but when Simone gave him a silver riyal he smiled and began praising her husband's swimming ability. He went on to request that she keep him from diving in again since the sea was as treacherous as Death herself and her angel, Azrael. He also mentioned to her that Azrael usually stayed in the sea when he wasn't busy claiming some soul. He added that at times Azrael liked to amuse himself with people who barged into his house when the waves were crashing together to make his bedtime music. Simone laughed a great deal as I translated for her all of these things which he seemed to be making up as he went along, and she gave him another riyal.

  Meanwhile, Hamid came over panting and with water dripping from his face and hair. He went into the cabin to shower, and I told Simone that Hamid had suffered and endured a great deal in his life. I said that he and his life story were an example to me. Simone just smiled and said,

  'He has experienced life.'

  Hamid returned and sat down happily. He ate a few eggs and a piece of romano cheese, and Simone poured him a cup of hot tea from their thermos. He could really have been Parisian, if it had not been for his dark complexion, his thick, wavy hair, his dark eyes and his ears whose tips stuck out from his slicked-back hair as though they were constantly straining to hear something just beyond earshot, not to mention his sunken eyes beneath his heavy eyebrows.

  On the other hand, he could just as easily be an Egyptian but for the luster and vigor of his face and the bit of pink in his skin color down to his collar, probably from all the wine he had drunk and all the pork he had eaten, or from the multitude of hot and cold showers he'd taken in recent years and his constant attention to his intake of vitamin-rich fruits and vegetables. I was not without envy for his lively, vigorous body as well as for the emotional strength I sensed in him for Simone and her love for him. I rationalized his superiority to myself by thinking it was a matter of luck, and that this was his lot in life. When he chose risk as his path in life, that path could have easily flung him into the abyss of poverty, illness and despair. But I can't put myself in his place. In what sense is he a son of Darawish? We have all come to be one people and each understands the other, since Hamid came to us and we saw Simone.

  Yesterday, after returning with them from the beach, I left them and went back to my house where I found a letter waiting for me from Medical School informing me of my acceptance as a student with a tuition waiver

  based upon my academic achievement. Today I forgot to mention the news to them (or at least to Simone). Hopefully, I won't forget tomorrow. If my efforts to help them are successful, I'll be changing my plans for the future. For ever since they arrived, I've been dreaming of life in Paris, of studying in Paris, and obtaining the highest degree possible, a medical doctorate, in Paris. They should be able to obtain a study grant for me as a token of their gratitude, if they wished. They could also provide me with support while I was in Paris, for which I would be indebted to them the rest of my life. I woul
d be prepared as well to work for Hamid in Paris, in his hotel or in one of his restaurants in any job that he might assign to me. My knowledge of French and English is passable now and will improve immensely in the coming years. But I must be cautious: I can't ask for all this openly. The important thing is that Simone should be pleased with me and also be fond of me. And if she falls in love with me so much the better, since at that point, she herself might present the idea to me and then talk it over with Hamid. Perhaps she wouldn't even need his help. After all, she is a journalist, and people like her have influence and know their way around. It's just up to me to be careful, kind, intelligent and devoted . . . especially the last three things — kind, intelligent, and devoted — things I don't always feel the need to employ in my dealings with the people of Darawish.

  Saturday, August I I

  Today was the first day we spent together by ourselves, walking outside Darawish. I wore a fancy shirt and slacks for the occasion, but found Simone worried that I might damage them. She asked me to wear walking pants and dark, short sleeved shirts during the day. Her own very simple look surprised me. She had tied her hair in a bun and wore a short-sleeved cotton blouse and short pants (shorter than the underpants my mother wears) and her camera was slung around her shoulders.

  As we left Darawish we were bothered by the usual

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  stares from rooftops and from behind windows or half opened doors.

  Just outside the town Simone saw an ancient sycamore tree standing beside an old water-wheel dating from the days before farmhouses began to spread through the area with each year. She took a picture of the sycamore from several angles, then climbed up on it with glee, but I stayed behind since my clothes weren't appropriate for tree climbing. Then we entered a heavy thicket of reeds and bulrushes until we were overlooking a pungent pool of stagnant water. We walked along its edge guarding carefully against falling in until we'd finally made our way out of that nauseating and repulsive brush. Simo-ne's presence made me sense the meaning of things around me more than I had before — their smells, their colors, their component parts. Some children had relieved themselves at the edge of the thicket and the wind had spread the smell in the midday sun.

  As we stepped away from the brush she saw the Nile for the first time, running a short distance from our village. She shouted with surprise and delight and scolded me for not having brought her to see our great river before. She made a comparison between its blue-ness and its width and the narrow, brownness of the Seine. I told her its water was sweet-tasting as well, then found her suddenly taking the camera off her shoulders and beginning to unbutton her shirt.

  'What are you doing?' I asked.

  She replied very simply: 'I'm going to swim across the river and then come back.'

  I said that she should not do this, and she became

  afraid and asked me if I'd said this because there were crocodiles in the river. I told her that the crocodiles were all south of Egypt blocked off by cataracts, locks and dams. Then I explained that the peasants and children of the area suffered from diseases contracted from the river water, and she said that she felt very sorry for them. She took a few pictures of birds, palms, acacia and mulberry trees along the banks, then she took me over to a field where we picked some cucumbers and washed them with water from her thermos, which she had been carrying in her bag in defiance of my offer to carry it for her.

  We sat under the shade of a tree near a neighboring village, where all the people working in the fields had already seen Simone in Darawish and knew who she was. Perhaps they had even been waiting for her to come and visit their area since they showed no signs of surprise at seeing her or at seeing me in her company. They came over to meet us and gave us even more cucumbers, then they roasted ears of corn for us, and Simone chatted with them. They all seemed to like her. They also talked about her a great deal in their own tongue, which she couldn't understand. I, of course, didn't bother to translate their expressions of desire for her and regret for the inadequacy of their own women. But they never went beyond mere words. I, myself, tired a great deal during this visit since I was responsible for relaying all that she said and most of what they said. They put her on a donkey bare-back, and she took a picture with the donkey and several pictures with them. The encounter ended with her shaking each of their hands in gratitude

  and, as we left, she began talking to me about them. She commented that they were a generous people in spite of their poverty and poor health.

  Then she asked, 'Why don't you use any machinery on your farms?' In answering her, I referred to our ignorance, overpopulation, lack of capital and British Imperialism. She, again, expressed her sympathy and apologized to me when she saw me become emotional about these subjects, as though she herself were the cause of all that had happened, or as though she'd opened up an old, forgotten wound in my heart.

  We came to the hills at the outskirts of the town. Throughout our walk, Simone had looked to me like some tourist trying to discover everything about a world that she had not known previously. She behaved like a child seeing the world for the first time, full of chatter and bouncing with life and happiness.

  We ate lunch in town at the Al-Rahwan restaurant: fried fish, fish soup, rice and sauce. The owner himself brought her a cold Aswan beer. She drank some of it with her lunch until she became slightly intoxicated, then she forced me to drink with her. Since this was the first time in my life, I quickly became drunk. I began to lose all my inhibitions and I told her that I loved her, at which she laughed and said without a trace of annoyance:

  'Monsieur Mahmoud, you're drunk. Let's go back to Darawish now.'

  I became embarrassed with myself and agreed that we should return to Darawish. We went back as far as a coffeehouse on the river overlooking a port with some

  fishing boats and a large ship ferrying passengers to a summer resort. We sat on a round balcony on an upper floor where we drank more beer, and I became so elevated and light that Simone took the bottle from me and poured it into the river saying, 'I beg your pardon, Monsieur Mahmoud, but you've had enough.'

  We left the coffeehouse as the sun angled toward the horizon, and Simone announced her desire to return to Darawish by way of the river. So we rode back a way in a small boat, the best of the ones in the port. I was in no condition for rowing so Simone had to take turns with the boatman, until she tired and lay down on her back at the end of the boat where she rested and contemplated the horizon's seductive roundness. Then she turned over on her stomach, looking over the side of the boat and playing with the water's rushing froth. There in the middle of the river with the waters rushing around us I didn't think to warn her about Bilharzia microbes. I was too content watching her as every fibre in my body stirred, and the breeze played with my hair. But I didn't go beyond mere fantasizing. I contented myself, in that awful silence, with my dreams of her and me.

  Simone waved goodbye to me at the Al-Bahairi's door. I was supposed to return two hours later so she could, with my assistance, chat with her in-laws.

  When I returned to my house I was only too aware of the problem of the beer smell on my breath. I quickly rinsed out my mouth with bicarbonate of soda, then chewed some mint leaves, then ate dinner. After that I hurried out of the house to take a walk along the agricultural highway so that no one would smell my

  breath. All the while my head was still floating with rapture.

  I went to the Al-Bahairi's house at the appointed time, and Zeinab opened the door for me, saying sarcastically: 'Please come in . . . The "senora" is on fire.'

  I went into Simone's room after I'd knocked, and she'd asked me to come in. A record album was spinning on her gramophone and she was sitting near the window with a serious look on her face writing a letter. She asked me to go into town for her tomorrow to have it mailed to Paris. Then she began to show me the pictures in her album as the music played in the background. Our heads were so close together that the scent of her Chanel pe
rfume ran up my nostrils into my head stirring in my breast the passions of adolescence. I tried to pull myself away from her, but I couldn't until the door opened suddenly with no warning and I saw Ahmed Ibn-Mustafa Al-Bahairi standing in the doorway, saying to me: 'How very nice, I must say! Get up and out, Sonny boy.'

  Simone asked me what he was saying and I told her.

  'He's just letting me know my father wants me.'

  'Fine,' she said. 'Go on, and then come back after a while.'

  I moved toward the door actually intending to leave, but Ahmed blocked my passage at the doorway, suddenly seizing me and saying, 'Wait a minute. You at least have to translate for us.'

  I looked at him and noticed the command in his eyes. Then I turned toward Simone and went back over to her

  causing her to ask, 'Why aren't you going to your father?'

  'Monsieur Ahmed says he doesn't want me 'til later on,' I said, 'after I'm finished here.'

  Simone looked at me dubiously, then turned to Ahmed. Finally, she decided to ignore the whole affair and stood up. She told me to tell her brother-in-law that she wanted to eat dinner on the roof in the moonlight.