Friendly Fire Alaa Aswany (no david read aloud .TXT) 📖

what was going on in my head because, as soon as we went out on to the street, she immediately took the initiative and extended her hand to shake mine, saying, “Thank you so much. I had a good time. I hope we can meet again. Do you have a telephone at home?”

I looked at her for a moment. Then I said suddenly and in an unequivocal tone, “I shall never leave you.”

She laughed and asked, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I am incapable of leaving you. I want to be with you.”

Once again, my audacity amazed me. Jutta looked at me as though sizing me up and her face shifted into its serious mode. Then she said, giving weight to each word, “Isam. Listen. It’s true that I like you and find you very interesting. I’d even be okay with your coming home with me. But that would cause me problems I can do without.”

“What problems?” I asked. She sighed and replied, “Before I came to Egypt, Frederick warned me, because Egyptians have their own different traditions. You know what I mean, of course. But I ignored the warning. I didn’t take him seriously. And one night I tried to invite a male friend to my apartment, and that made Mr. Shaaban very mad and almost caused a scandal.”

“And who’s this Mr. Shaaban?”

“Shaaban the grocer. His shop is below my building and he stays up until midnight. I don’t want to make trouble with him. He’s a religious zealot and can’t accept my bringing a man to my apartment. That’s what he told me clearly the first time.”

I found myself yelling in fury, “Are you going to let the grocer control your private life?”

“Please understand. I don’t want to hurt his feelings and I also know that challenging tradition in Egypt leads to disaster. Frederick made that very clear to me.”

My fury reached its peak and I was silent for a moment. Then I suddenly found myself taking hold of her and pulling her along with me while she shouted, “Isam! Wait, please! I’m serious.”

I paid no attention to her yelling and pulled her along until I’d got her into a taxi that was waiting in front of the hotel. Then I sat down beside her and whispered imperiously in her ear, “Tell the driver your address.”

She looked at me hesitantly, then said to the driver in broken Arabic, “Madinet Nasr, Abbas el-Aqqad Street.”

On the way to her house we talked, but a slight anxiety made the conversation a little tense, so it came to a stop. I was not afraid. I could feel a sweeping, driving strength flowing through my limbs. No doubt it was the alcohol, but I had grasped that I was living the most important moments of my life and that I had to take them in my hands or they would be lost for ever. I was ready to confront Shaaban. If he objected to my going upstairs with Jutta, I would hit him. I would take anything heavy from his shop and hit him hard on the head. It didn’t matter to me whether I killed him; I would not let Jutta slip away from me and I would never allow anyone to keep me away from her. Who was this Shaaban? A grocer with religion! Someone who would cheat and swindle his customers and pray each prayer on the dot. Base, stupid, parasitical, and spiteful, like any Egyptian. I would address him in the language he understood—Buy not the slave without his stick, as al-Mutanabbi said. Jutta decided to have the taxi stop some way before her house and after we got out and the taxi had left, she whispered anxiously, casting a look toward the house, “Shaaban’s shop is open. There’s going to be trouble.”

I pulled her by the hand and as we went toward the house I said confidently, “When we get to the entrance of the building, you go on ahead and leave me to deal with him.”

The shop was small and bore the name Faith Grocery. A fat bearded man wearing a white gallabiya was picking things up and dragging cans and barrels inside. Shaaban was getting ready to close. From his appearance as I approached with Jutta, it seemed to me that he was fierce and that the battle would not be easy. We reached the entrance and Jutta went inside quickly while I slowed down in front of the shop. I stopped and turned to Shaaban, who left the cans and came up to me, looking at me warily. I stared at him in fury, and then shouted in a loud voice, “As-Salamu alaykum!”*

He didn’t reply, but kept looking at me in silence, combing his beard with his fingers and weighing up the situation before intervening. His eyes were narrow and treacherous and his brow was broad, with a dark round prayer spot splattered on it. Was this the face of a Believer? How pleased with himself he looked! No doubt he was confident he had won his Lord’s favor in full. I hate animals like that. Ignorant and base and arrogant. I approached until I was standing right in front of him. The small distance that lay between us brought his face within striking distance. I fixed my eyes on his and yelled in the voice of someone who wants to start a quarrel, “I said, As-Salamu alaykum!”

For a moment he didn’t seem to understand. Perhaps it was the suddenness of my appearance or he could smell the smell of alcohol on my breath, but suddenly he lowered his gaze and muttered as he turned around and went back to his original position, “Wa-alaykum as-salam wa rahmat Allah. Welcome.”

Shaaban was broken and went back to his cans but I watched him closely for a moment until I was sure he had resumed his work as though nothing had happened. Then I walked away from him slowly so he wouldn’t think I was