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

the Faculty of Engineering have joined them. Enthusiasm reaches fever pitch and the slogans roar out, piercing the skies. The British try to disperse them but in vain. Then they open fire, the bullets whine, and the martyrs fall, crying aloud the name of Egypt. On the evening, he rushes to el-Nahhas’s villa in Garden City, where he sees the great men of the nation standing in the hallway and waiting. But he…he, Kamil el-Zahhar, leader of the Sa‘idiya students, who is not yet twenty years old, he is let in straight away and the Leader welcomes him and when el-Zahhar bends over to kiss his hand, el-Nahhas pulls it away with expressions of pious disavowal and says, “Zahhar, you are my son. A son of the Wafd. In you I see my own youth.”

How happy he had been that day! Where had it all gone? How strange life was! One day he said proudly to his companions at the Sa‘idiya, “I shall be prime minister of Egypt. I’m sure of it.” He almost laughed at himself in derision. And the years had quickly passed and he had retired as a Department of Social Insurance employee like thousands of ordinary people. People had forgotten him just as they had forgotten Mustafa el-Nahhas.

Mr. el-Zahhar was tired and sad. Suddenly, however, he was overcome by a sense of ease. A mysterious and comforting sensation filled him and immediately afterward a strong light dazzled him, a light that shone and burned and moved closer until he felt something like a sharp slap across his face. Mr. el-Zahhar leaped up in terror and ran and looked out of the room, but when he saw the picture on the wall, astonishment rooted him to the spot: the picture was moving. The Leader’s smile broadened, then he moved his right arm, and in a second he had descended from the picture. Himself. The Leader Mustafa el-Nahhas, in his brocaded frock coat studded with decorations and his tarboosh, standing before him and smiling. El-Zahhar started toward him, bent over his hand to kiss it, and embraced him, crying out, “Master! Where have you been?”

“I was dead, Zahhar. Then I prayed God would resurrect me and He answered my prayer.”

El-Zahhar stared at the Leader.

“I see you are astonished at my return, Zahhar. He says in His Holy Book, ‘Say, Who shall quicken the bones when they are decayed? Say, He shall quicken them who originated them the first time.’”

“The Almighty has spoken truly, Master,” muttered el-Zahhar. Then he continued in a trembling voice, “Most Lofty Excellency, save the Egypt for which you gave your life!”

The Leader shook his head and mumbled sorrowfully, “I know, Zahhar. In the Other World, I follow events day by day.”

“What is to be done, Master? How are we to extricate Egypt from its predicament?”

“The motto of the Wafd is unchanging, Zahhar. ‘Constitution and democracy.’”

“But the people have changed, O Leader of the Valley of the Nile. No one cares any more about the constitution. All people care about is filling their bellies.”

“They are not to be blamed, Zahhar. Prices are high, many are poor, and life is hard. But a better life can only come through democracy.”

“No one understands that, Master. No one remembers the Wafd and el-Nahhas any longer.”

The smile disappeared from the Leader’s face, his eyes clouded over, and he said earnestly, “Do not despair, Zahhar. Egypt will never die. It is ‘God’s Quiver on Earth.’ A new generation of youth will emerge who know the worth of the Wafd. Listen. A long and exhausting struggle lies ahead of us. Kamil, are you still true to the Covenant?”

“My life is Egypt’s and its Leader’s!” exclaimed Mr el-Zahhar, with passion.

“Excellent. Let us start right away. I shall give you one day. I want you to gather your comrades and wait for me on Monday, at eight in the morning. Peace be upon you.”

The Leader’s face started to grow dim, his regard changed and he seemed to be looking at something far away on the horizon. In a strained voice he said, as he retreated backward toward the wall, “I have to go back up. I have an appointment now in Heaven. I wish you good fortune.”

El-Zahhar rushed after him, asking urgently, “Where shall we wait for you, Master?”

“Before the House of the Nation.”*

The Leader uttered these words with difficulty, having now become fully stuck to the wall. El-Zahhar stretched out his hand to grasp hold of him but he was seized by a sudden violent dizziness and when he came to, the picture of Mustafa el-Nahhas had returned to its original state.

Muhammad Bey Bassiouni’s morning routine never varied. He would wake up, bathe, and change out of his pajamas. Then he would take a stroll in his robe de chambre in the garden of the villa in el-Maadi. Borai would have brought the newspapers and he would sit and read them in the garden, using his magnifying glass, while he sipped his cup of warm milk. Over the last few years, Bassiouni Bey had been subjected to numerous health crises and these had had their impact on his powers of concentration. It followed that that morning, when confronted with the sight of Kamil el-Zahhar standing in front of him, he was briefly confused. Then he welcomed him and no sooner had Mr. el-Zahhar sat down than he began telling him that the Leader, Mustafa el-Nahhas, had visited him the night before, at which point Bassiouni looked hard at him from behind his glasses and said to him, “Who did you say visited you yesterday, Kamil Bey?”

“El-Nahhas Pasha. He came out of the picture in the sitting room,” responded el-Zahhar.

“Ah!” muttered Bassiouni Bey, who then continued to listen to el-Zahhar with a polite smile and no interest. El-Zahhar immediately fixed his eyes on him reproachfully, saying, “Don’t you believe me, Bassiouni Bey?”

“Please, Kamil Bey. Of course I believe you,” Bassiouni replied politely, the smile never leaving his lips.

The old man doesn’t believe me,