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

ignorance and poor performance. In a word, everyone had taken it upon himself to expose the ignorance of those who were junior to him, and the quarrels proceeded as in some monotonous soap opera. In the morning, a professor would be rude to a lecturer and tell him off in front of everybody and half an hour later the lecturer would find a fatal mistake made by an assistant lecturer, who would lose no time in his turn in taking it out on a resident or a sister. As Hisham was the most junior, the flood of affronts would always end up pouring down on his head. Fearing a confrontation that Dr. Bassiouni might hear about, Hisham would accept the slights in silence, or, if his tormentor went too far, would direct at him a sad and reproachful smile. He thought at first that this approach would get him out of all the things that he had to put up with, but the actual result was that the insults multiplied and everyone in the department started shouting at Hisham and finding fault with him for the most insignificant reasons. Hisham even caught the sisters, who were beneath him in the hierarchy, winking more than once to one another over him and laughing. This pained him, and each night before he slept, Hisham would put the pillow over his head and remember, with bitter feelings, the events of the day. He would counsel himself to be patient, saying, “It will all change. I will become more skillful. I will make first place in the master’s exam and then they will think hard before doing that. In fact, nobody will dare to speak to me without using my title.”

The fact is that this poisonous, hatred-charged atmosphere did not prevent Hisham from learning. He read up well on each case and focused his mind during the operations, staring at everything he saw so as to fix it in his memory; thus he inevitably made progress. His diagnostic mistakes gradually grew fewer and he became certain that, were he allowed, he could perform numerous operations with success. As the master’s exam approached, Hisham realized that this was his big chance. He closeted himself with his books, reading, understanding, and memorizing. Often morning would find him still studying, on which occasions he would take a cold shower to wake himself up and then go to the department without having slept. Hisham passed the written exam with virtually no mistakes, did perfectly on the practical, and, as was his custom, won the admiration of the examiners on the oral. When Hisham finished, he was certain of the result.

An unintentional mistake resulted in the omission of his name from the list of those who had passed, or so Hisham decided. He did not therefore worry too much and went to the Office of Student Affairs, where he explained things to the director. The man was extremely polite and Hisham got to see his grades in the exam. Hisham didn’t argue or say anything, but set off immediately for Dr. Bassiouni’s office. He knocked quickly and hard on the door, opened it, and went in. Dr. Bassiouni was reading. Hisham interrupted him, saying in a hoarse, panting voice (which surprised Hisham himself), “I failed the exam.”

“Congratulations,” said Dr. Bassiouni without lifting his eyes from what he was reading.

“I want to know why I failed,” Hisham insisted obstinately.

“You failed because you didn’t deserve to succeed,” Dr. Bassiouni told Hisham, starting to fiddle with his long sideburns. His tone gave warning of a coming eruption.

“I had no mistakes on my written or my practical. And the oral….”

At this, Dr. Bassiouni exploded. “Listen, pig. Do you think I’m taking time out from my many tasks so that I can repeat to you what I tell you every day? I’ve told you a thousand times: there is a difference between the surgery exam and the primary school certificate. We don’t let everyone who turns up become a surgeon, no matter how much he knows. What matters to us is your character and above all your morals. I’ve told you from the beginning, you will never succeed and continue with us unless you please me. Got it?”

Hisham took refuge in silence.

“Now, be about your business, pig.”

And Hisham left. He resumed his work as usual and when he was alone that night he wasn’t exactly sad; it was a feeling of panic that possessed him. Panic is the right word because, for the first time, he realized that his intelligence, that firm base on which he had always confidently depended, was no longer valid. That the doctor had clearly announced that he did not please him (wasn’t that what he’d said?) when he did not know what to do in order to make him pleased further increased his agitation. Days passed, and weeks, and months, and Hisham went on working in the department with his old application but with only half his mind, the other half being preoccupied with the urgent and critical question, what could he do to please Dr. Bassiouni? When Hisham could come up with no answer, he decided to ask the people he knew, starting with his mother, so he put the question to her. His mother, however—to his amazement—attributed all his problems to his colleagues’ envy of his superiority and took to pestering him every evening to pass seven times over a brazier for which she brought incense from the tomb of Lady Sugar Lump (a well-known saint with a shrine on el-Azhar Street). Hisham’s annoyance at all this was extreme, but he did it to please his mother and shut her up, submitting and passing seven times over the brazier. Time went by, and there were only months to go before the second master’s exam (and Hisham’s last chance). He was desperate to know how to please Dr. Bassiouni and started getting to know every professor in the department, working out the times when he was in his