Suleiman Fayyad
Free Time
In the morning he awoke from his second snooze. The time was still before noon. He stretched, yawning, lazily rose to his feet, made the bed and opened the window on to the light of day. The calls of vendors and the shrieks of children flowed in. Leaning on the windowsill, he took delight in the blue autumnal sky, the flat roofs of the houses, the windows. From where he was he could see, through an open window on the ground floor of the house opposite, his fellow-student Abdel Wahhab: sitting in semi-darkness, he was painting a portrait of a girl on minutely squared paper, copying from a photograph stuck with a pin to the top of the picture. On the wall behind it were his clothes on a hanger, the nail from which it hung being covered by his turban.
He drew away from the window and left the room. He went down the stairs. Crossing the walled courtyard of the house, he knelt down to wash his face. He dried his face with the end of his gown and sprinkled a few drops of water on his hair, rubbing it with his hands, and went up again to his room. He went through the hallway door and. standing before the shelf and mirror, began combing his hair. Entering the room, he took off two lids from the remains of yesterday’s supper and sat down to his breakfast. He then quenched his thirst with water and wondered what he should do.
He returned to the window and leaned on it. All too soon he was bored by the spectacle: the bright light, the empty roofs, women sitting by the doors picking over rice, blowing away the particles of dirt, the calling of vendors, the shrieks of children.
He left the window and gazed about him in the room, searching for something to entertain him, to keep him occupied. His school books were ranged along the floor on an old newspaper. Beside them were the books of his colleague and a number of literary books by al-Rafi’i, al-Manfaluti, al-Zayyat, and Ali Adham, also some numbers of the magazine al-Risala. He felt no desire to read any of the prescribed books. Of the other books and magazines, he had finished reading the last of them yesterday by the dim light of the lamp. His mind was blank, incapable at present of giving itself over either to past memories or to daydreaming.
What, then, should he do? He thought about the cafés, about visiting fellow-students who occupied rooms scattered about the quarter. He told himself that today was Friday, the time noon. The cafés would be almost empty of customers and his fellow-students would be busy preparing, on their stoves, the lunches they had bought themselves in the market. He would not find himself welcome. He wished he could go to sleep again; he wished his fellow-student Farag would come back quickly from his trip to the village and bring back with him some of the tasty country foods, some of its fruits, its news, stories about who had married and who had died and who had quarreled. His eye happened to alight on his turban and that of his fellow-student hanging on their nails. He saw the two pure white, newly washed shawls. Here, he thought, was something he could do. He felt animated, full of enthusiasm.
He brought the two shawls and, one after the other, sprinkled them with water and rolled them up beside him on the bed so that the moist dampness of the drops of water would work its way into the whole of the fine, soft threads.
He brought the two turbans and began brushing the dust from them, restoring to the dark red plush its normal brilliance and splendor.
He took hold of one of the shawls and spread it out fully. Drawing it tight from each direction, he smoothed out its silken creases with the palm of his hand. He pulled it from opposite ends and made a triangle of it. He folded the head of the triangle over on to its base, then again, drew up his leg to his thigh, and fitted it on his knee.
Lifting the end of the sheet on the bed, he extracted several pins from the mattress by their tiny heads and placed them in his mouth; he held them between his lips, the heads facing his teeth and tongue.
He combed through the black tassel with his hand, making sure its silken plaited strands were smoothed out into a single tidy line. The tassel lay toward his chest. Placing the end of the shawl by the corner of the tarboosh opposite the tassel, he began going round it leftwards, the shawl held taut by the thumb of his right hand, gently and precisely until the tip of the beginning had been hidden under the winding of the shawl. The fingers of his left hand began smoothing out the wrinkles and making the fringe show near the end, standing up straight and neat. Then he began putting the pins in with great dexterity: one he put in from top to bottom, a second sideways, while a third he inserted from below, then turned round upward and pressed downward.
Finally, he concealed the end of the shawl between itself and the tarboosh in the right-hand corner so that when the tassel was standing upright on the head it would be in line with the neck and back. He then made fast the final movement with three pins, the very number he had estimated from the start. Using spittle, he paid yet more attention to the fringes till they were like needles.
He removed the turban from his knee, put his left hand inside it and twirled it round his left index finger with his right hand. It went around twice, spinning evenly. He smiled at it, at his skill which so few people could equal. Placing it alongside him gently and cautiously, he began doing the other turban.
Having finished both turbans, he placed them carefully alongside each other on top of the books. He covered them over with an old shawl to protect them from invisible specks of dust. Wiping away beads of sweat from his forehead, he seated himself on the edge of the bed.
What should he do now? He thought again. He got up and brought the short-handled palm-fiber broom and began sweeping out the bedroom and hallway. He went downstairs and washed up yesterday’s plates. He wiped the sweat from his face with the end of his indoor gown, with its black, red and white stripes, then leaned on the window sill, hoping to find a fresh breeze, but there was none. The feeling of loneliness came back to him, with its boring, weary emptiness. He thought about his favorite pastime: the dagger and the target.
On the cinema screen stands the girl, her back to the wall. The man with the dagger, when aiming at the wooden wall right behind her, takes hold of the tip of the dagger, its handle pointing downward, brings it up to the top of his chest and hurls it. It plunges into the wood above her head, perhaps severing a stray hair. The daggers follow in quick succession from his hand until her head, shoulders and arms are all ringed round. The girl leaves her place, the daggers remaining in the wall, and there is applause for this dangerous act successfully accomplished.
From behind the window the villain comes into view: a secret agent or spy, a hired killer. He forces the point of the dagger between the two halves of the window. The sounds of the party spill out. He looks around for the man who is fated to die by his hand. He spots him. Quickly he hurls the dagger with the same unerring accuracy. The poisoned dagger plunges into its target. A loud scream, then silence. The villain who has thrown the dagger disappears and the window remains empty before appalled eyes.
He brought out a knife. Its blade was of black, unwrought. inflexible steel. Its wooden handle was light and out of balance with the heavy blade. It would not work for knife-throwing. He went into the hallway and slammed the door. He tried it out. His assumption was confirmed: the knife fell to the ground. Then he took it by the handle and hurled it. It fell. He retrieved it. He went a couple of steps near to the door and hurled it. It plunged into the door, ripping the long fibers. With difficulty he wrenched it out; its tip had gone through to the other side.
He came to the conclusion that this knife caused too much damage, so he returned it to its place in the bedroom and brought the brass pair of compasses. He opened them as wide as they would go. They had a strong, sharp, tapered point. The grooved wheel on the other side, which opened up and held the pencil, was stiff, as was the arm here the place for the pencil was. It would work—he had tried it before—for knife-throwing.
Holding the pair of compasses by the tip, he brought them up and threw them. They plunged into the door. The whole of the point penetrated into the door. He should have stood a little farther away.
He went to retrieve them. Getting them out was a troublesome job. The point snapped off. The main body of the pair of compasses remained in his hand, which had struck back against his chest. He regretted what he had done. He spat at the door and flung the pair of compasses from the bedroom window into the street.
He brought a stone from the courtyard and went on knocking the end of the point from the outer side of the hallway door till it was even with the wood and its other end stuck out inwards. He tried to extract it with his teeth but failed. He knocked at it with the knife till he had flattened it against the wood of the door. Once again he went back to leaning on the window, panting and in a state of angry dejection.
The Visit
As he was returning from the mosque he felt himself as light as a bird, as empty as a strip of bamboo. Traces of dust still lay on the palms of “his hands and there was matting on the center of his forehead. He thought about what the person giving the Friday sermon had said in his first sermon. He tried to remember, but the monotonous voice in which the second sermon had been recited, memorized by heart from far east to far west, chased away every word contained in the first. He thought: Perhaps it has settled in my soul. He assured himself: The important thing is to live in innocence, without spite or malice or envy, “cleansed of heart” as the Prophet Muhammad had said. The priests of ancient Egypt had also said nothing but this. Zarathustra, Buddha, Christ. What, then, was the difference between them? All say to you: Do not be wrong-doing. Wronged against? There is no harm in being wronged against. Christ said: “Turn the other cheek.” God said to Muhammad: “He who attacks you, attack him.” But He also said: “He who desists and makes amends, his reward is with God. Do not act wrongly.” There is no objection to being acted wrongly against. He told himself that tomorrow he would ask his sheikh at the Institute.
Nearing his home, he again thought: What could he perhaps do? In the afternoon Farag would come. Until the afternoon he should not eat, for he had slept a lot last night and into the morning. He thought about Hindawi’s visit. He thought that such a person would not stay alone in his room; every moment he must be doing something. He was vicious, ever-rebellious, ever-irate, with a vitality that was inexhaustible. His sarcasm was never-ending; his eyes gleamed with ill-temper. He had never seen him calm from the time he had first known him. He was in the class at the Institute when the sheikh was giving a lesson on grammar, on the verb kana and its sisters, devoting himself wholeheartedly to it. He had put one of the students as a guard by the door. The guard would shut the door on him, then open it as the sheikh said. “Open the door for Kana that he may enter.”
The guard opened the door. The student Kana entered.
“What do you do?”
“I make the subject go into the nominative case and the predicate into the accusative.”
“O Amsa, enter. O Zalla, O Bata, O Asbaha.”
Hindawi’s turn came. He entered and gave his answer.
“Give an example,” demanded the sheikh.
“Hindawi continued running.” shouted Hindawi.
The class laughed at the mention of his name in the example. The sheikh flew into a rage so as to quieten the class. Suddenly Hindawi began leaping over the desks, returning to his own by an unfamiliar route. The sheikh screamed curses at him, rushing after him to hit him, but he did not catch up with him.
“Make way, boy,” yelled Hindawi as he jumped.
As Hindawi’s feet approached, the boys ducked. The sheikh was running up and down the aisle between the desks, but Hindawi was always at the other end. He would run after him, beating about with his stick to land him a blow. The stick, though, always caught someone other than Hindawi. Eventually the sheikh was panting and gasping for breath, puce in the face. He coughed because of the asthma he was always on his guard against. He coughed and coughed till the tears ran down from his eyes, while he cursed the young generation, present times, and the end of the world which was at hand.
He turned off at the street junction to Hindawi’s house. He was aware that he was drawn to him by the magic of his biting viciousness, which was both delightful and hurtful. He passed in front of one house, then two more on the right, keeping the door of Hindawi’s house to his left. Finding the door open, he entered the dark narrow hallway. The door of his room to the left being open, he stepped down over the threshold.
He found Hindawi unexpectedly asleep at noon. His snoring indicated he had been asleep for some time. The smell of his sweat filled the room with a fecund, nauseating stench. His crinkly hair was rumpled from tossing about in his sleep. He was sleeping in his woolen gallabiya with the country-style neck-opening and his silk, striped waistcoat. His Upper Egyptian face was dark brown, sharp-featured, with thick mustache and eyebrows. As he regarded him he thought: if he were not a student he would be a railway porter, a night prowler on village farms, a crooked merchant.
It occurred to him that the other’s world was closed to him, that he had never entered it. He would have liked to wake him up, to talk to him. He was on the point of doing so. He hesitated: sleep has its own sanctity, is a temporary respite.
He saw the end of his wallet protruding from his waistcoat pocket through the opening in his gown, as though about to fall, as though some hand had been pulling it out, had then hesitated or changed its mind suddenly. He approached it: its thick leather was dark brown and it bulged with the pieces of paper it carried. God alone—and its owner—knew what good things and secrets it had hidden inside it. He thought of stretching out his hand and seeing what was in it. He thought of taking a small note from the money it contained. He stretched out his hand and touched it. For a fleeting moment his hand stopped there, while his heart thumped. A fleeting moment, no more. This isn’t taking, it’s stealing. He did not have the right to spy on someone’s personal affairs. He pushed the wallet down, covering it over carefully, cautiously, with the end of the opening of the gown decorated with black thread.
As he was walking round the room away from Hindawi, it seemed to him that he saw two half-open eyes, so slightly open as to be scarcely perceptible, fluttering to the suddenly calm rhythm of his breathing. He stared at him for a moment. His breathing was once again heavy and labored. He reckoned he was completely asleep, now that his eyes were again closed tight. He felt a tenderness toward the sleeping man, a sympathy and affection.
The two wooden halves of the window were open. He closed them gently, taking care to make no noise. He walked on tip-toe. Taking a light coverlet, he covered him up to the chest with it. He arranged the end of the sheet of his own camp bed. On an ashtray he saw a packet of Gold Flake. He opened it. He felt a desire for a cigarette, to smoke it at his leisure. He took one. He remembered he had some matches at home. He withdrew from the room, stepping over the threshold and up into the hallway. He drew the door to behind him.
As he was leaving the room he saw the landlady sitting in the darkness in another small, narrow hallway, watching him with half-closed eyes. Momentarily uneasy, he left the house.
The Trial
When he awoke to the call of the high-pitched, sarcastic nasal voice, and the movements of Farag’s hands shaking him, it was evening. A bewildering surprise was in wait for him: Hindawi was sitting, a short cane in his hand and his elbows resting on his knees, in the only chair in the room. On his face was a scowling, glowering silence and a gaze that was directed toward him with impatient hate. Farag was standing up, with his fair, oval face, his huge nose, narrow forehead and differently colored eyes; his woolen peasant skull-cap, the color of cooking butter, was tilted backward, pressed down upon light, honey-colored hair, the ends of which showed on his forehead in a triangle; his ears were as large as baskets. He rose to his feet, then sat down again. His inner self told him that something unpleasant was going to happen. The light from the fully opened room looked yellow, mournful and depressing. He felt a sensation of sadness and anxiety for which he knew no reason. He reckoned he was ill. Without wanting to, he smiled at Farag:
“Thanks be to God for your safe return. When did you arrive?”
“What safety does someone like you give?” the other yelled with nasal sarcasm.
He looked at Farag once, at Hindawi once. He was sure about the unpleasantness. He got to his feet. He was surprised at not finding a newspaper spread out as was usual whenever Farag came back from a trip, with dishes of stuffed vegetables and pigeons on it, and boiled eggs and loaves of bread that were still hot, retaining the smell of the oven, of burning and fire. Farag’s hand was inside the left-hand opening of his gown, by his pelvis, idly playing.
He went to the window. He looked out, to his left, at the far horizon, broken by lines of roofs. A twilight cloud was reddened by the rays of the facing sun. A thought leapt into his head: Hindawi has been robbed; Hindawi has come to accuse me of the theft.
At the very moment he mined, tense and uneasy, angry and chat challenging, Farag pulled him by the shoulder. Except for anger there was no other emotion on his face: he had been accused, his punishment had been determined, and nothing remained but the formalities. Despite himself he made the mistake of asking:
“‘What’s happened?”
Hindawi got up with explosive laughter. Putting the stick under his arm, he brought the palms of his hands together. He guessed Hindawi was thinking of the saying: He kills and walks in the murdered man’s funeral.
“That’s really great, man.”
“What’s happened?”
“Hand over the wallet.”
“Wallet? What wallet?”
It was just what he had expected. He told himself that he must be careful. Any word would be held against him.
“What wallet?” he repeated hotly. “I don’t understand. What’s happened?”
“Hand over the money. It doesn’t matter about the wallet.”
“Farag, I don’t understand.”
Hindawi sprang at him and got hold of him by his gown, at the chest, with both hands. Shaking him, he screamed, “Hand over the money—a hundred and thirty piasters. I’m not the person to be cheated or robbed.”
He stammered, shrinking into himself. Hindawi was twice his size and stronger than ten like him. Farag was six school years ahead of him. Even if he was capable of putting up a fight, what would be the point? He had now become a thief. The matter had been decided and was at an end. He should nevertheless try. Farag had pushed him away. He quieted him down, reassured him with a sign from bunched fingers, which also bore a threat.
“Hand over the money,” said Farag, “and we won’t punish you. We’ll keep the secret between us as deep down as in a well. No one will know. You’re from my village and what brings disgrace upon you brings disgrace upon me. God curse the devil who put you up to it—confess. I’ll tell you what: there’s no point in confessing, just hand over the money and the matter will be at an end.”
Tears of anger gushed from his eyes.
“I didn’t steal.” he screamed. “Search my belongings, all my books. I took one cigarette from the packet, I took it as a friend.”
“Then you did come into my room while I was asleep,” shouted Hindawi triumphantly. “He’s confessing, Farag.”
“I only took a cigarette.” he said pleadingly. “Believe me.”
He thought: This too he shouldn’t have mentioned. He thought: But the woman had seen him and Hindawi’s eyes had been partly open; he had certainly seen him for a fleeting moment.
“You took a cigarette from me?” said Hindawi. “So you did come to my room. I definitely found a cigarette missing from the packet. Oh yes, he who steals an egg will steal a camel.”
“Hindawi, Sheikh Hindawi, believe me—just the cigarette.”
Farag seated himself on the edge of their two beds that had been brought together under a single mattress. To one side of the room the mattress of his own bed was rolled up and covered with sacking.
“Then we’ll hold an interrogation.” He put the question to him: “have you any evidence?”
“Evidence? I? Why?”
“Evidence showing you didn’t steal.”
“I swear I didn’t.”
“Evidence comes after swearing.”
“It is from him I demand evidence to the effect that I stole.” He quoted: “Evidence is for him who accuses and the oath is for him who denies.”
Hindawi sat himself down in the chair.
“The evidence,” said Farag, “is that the landlady saw you when you were entering the room and when you left it, and that you admit you stole.”
“Farag, I took ... as a friend.”
Hindawi laughed. “Without my knowledge!” he said.
“I thought of you as a friend,” he told himself.
“Don’t be annoyed,” said Farag. “You took a cigarette—from Hindawi’s packet.”
“It was on the ashtray.” said Hindawi in affirmation.
“But I didn’t steal,” he said desperately—”neither a wallet nor money. I swear. God is my witness.”
“So you did take something,” said Farag. “Confess. Hurry up, I want to change my clothes and for us to get Hindawi his food. We’ll bribe him so he’ll hide your shame and mine.”
“Farag, I told you, I took nothing but the cigarette.”
“And the landlady?” said Hindawi.
“She’s a liar, a liar—she’s lying.”
He thought. He remembered. A wallet was sticking out from his pocket as though it was going to fall. A hand was extracting it, was surprised by a step, a push at the door. Fleeing away in haste, the landlady had returned and taken it after he had gone out. Perhaps she had not been there before him. She might, for instance, have gone in after him. His going to Hindawi possibly had given her the opportunity for stealing from Hindawi and then accusing him. He wished he had not admitted taking the cigarette. Up till then it had been possible for him also to deny he had paid Hindawi a visit. Yet his eyes, for a fleeting instant when his breathing had grown calm, had appeared partly open. At that instant Hindawi had seen him. He thought: Why doesn’t Hindawi mention this fact now? Maybe he was mistaken about what he had seen. Were this true, he would, by his denial, be more likely to be believed that it was the landlady who was the thief. Her husband was a seller of animal fodder and Hindawi used to sleep with her when he was away.
“Why are you silent? Speak.”
“Hindawi,” he said, earnestly. “Believe me, I didn’t steal either the wallet or the money.”
“Where are they then? Listen—I’ll skin you alive.” He turned to Farag. “I don’t want any questioning—he’s the thief.”
“Listen, Hindawi,” he said. “The landlady, your landlady, it’s she who stole from you.”
“I’ve lived in her house for two years and she’s never stolen from me, not even when I’ve been away.”
“But she stole from you this time.”
“Impossible. She’s not a thief. She never stole from me before.”
He was on the point of saying something that would cause an explosion but thought better of it. He feared the other’s violence, his savage anger. He was somebody who stood up to the sheikh and the local toughs of the district. Were it not for Farag he would not have been as amenable as he now was.
“There’s no point in discussing it,” said Farag to Hindawi. “I’m hungry and I want to change my clothes. We’ll eat first, then . . .”
“And my money?” Hindawi said to him, his tone reflecting his former composure which he expected and reckoned would be justified.
“You’ll get it.”
“How?”
“Listen, Hindawi. Though I’ve taken nothing from you, I’ll pay you the money.”
“And the wallet?”
“I know nothing about it.”
Farag looked amazed. His astonishment passed to Hindawi, who suddenly said:
“I’m demanding back what you took from me.”
“I didn’t take anything.”
“Do you think you’re doing me a favor?”
“No,” he hastened to say, “but there’s nothing else I can do. You two have pronounced me to be the thief and there’s nothing else I can do.”
Hindawi fell silent and his anger increased with his silence. At the same time, though, his mind was on Farag’s basket and the food it contained, as Farag took out the dishes from it and spread out a newspaper.
“Wash the plates,” Hindawi said to him.
He carried off the plates and washed them. When he returned he found they were already eating. He saw the pigeons and knew where they were from, the eggs too. In them lay the skill of his mother, the munificence of his father. He wanted to eat. He was held back by shame and having capitulated to what he could not help, to what was inevitable. Farag laughed with delight.
“Sit down,” said Farag in a malicious, tormenting tone. “It’s from your home. Eat.”
He sat down and began to eat. He lowered his eyes to the food, to he movement of his hands. He did not dare raise his eyes.
Ordinarily, they would have been laughing: they would have made jokes and he would have listened and laughed. Unable to resist the desire, he stole a glance at them. He saw their eyes speaking, the sparkle in them charged with warning. Deep within his head he saw the world’s light as a sickly yellow, the horizon drowning, during the few instants preceding sunset, in the redness of blood.
The Punishment
He returned from below, having washed up the plates. He entered the room and put them down. He bent down to dry them. He heard, “Take it—here’s your money.”
The voice added, “He’ll have seventy piasters left. His monthly messing is forty and the rest he’ll have for himself.”
He thought about the schoolbook he had to buy for fifty piasters and the price of the cigarettes he used to smoke on the quiet from time to time. He assured himself that his father would believe him. He would tell him what had happened. His father would send him what he wanted—but if he did not question his story he would come and take him away from sharing digs with Farag. As though talking to himself, he said to the others out loud:
“I’ll ask my father for a pound. He’ll send it.”
He turned to them nonchalantly. This confident gesture set off and precipitated the moment that had been planned. Farag gave the signal to Hindawi with a wink. Farag’s father worked as a servant with the village omda. His own father was a teacher, well provided for, a man of position and influence in the village. Hindawi was offended by having the sum of money handed over to him. Perhaps he too had doubts about his having stolen it from him. Hindawi leapt at him. The metal dish fell from his hand and spun round and round before coming to rest, while Hindawi threw him to the ground on his face and seated himself with his full weight on his back, his own back toward his head. Hindawi savagely twisted up his legs, grasping each foot in a powerful grip.
It was as though some sudden catastrophe had befallen him. He did not utter. Not a muscle stirred in resistance. Farag rained down blows with Hindawi’s thick, solid yet supple stick on the soles of his feet that had been brought close together. He struggled, with desperate movements of his legs, against the powerful grip on them in an attempt to stop the stick from falling on the veins of the soles of his feet. In a fearful inner silence his tears flowed. He wanted to scream out in protest, in assurance, in entreaty. He made up his mind not to do so. His younger brother never did so when his father was angry with him. He would not say “Ow,” though he knew what the result would be: further blows until he did say it, this placating “Ow” that brings deliverance. He abandoned his resolution. He moaned. A few more blows rained down, then the beating stopped without a word. Hindawi rose to his feet, picked up the stick, and examined its end which had split and become frayed. He immediately left the room.
Getting up, he tried to stand on his feet. They hurl him. He shuffled across to his own mattress in the corner. He sat down on its sacking. He hid his face between his forearm and upper arm. His resistance collapsed into sudden, hysterical weeping. He heard, through his weeping, the labored breathing of Farag, tired from the beating he had given him and seated relaxing on the edge of the bed. He sensed that darkness was on the march, that the sun was dropping behind the horizon, the blood-redness tarnished by black night. He sensed Farag’s movements, heard them, anticipated them. Farag got up and took off his clothes, changing them for his house gown which was on the clothes hanger.
The pain had stopped but the swelling in his feet remained. He pressed down on them so as to be able, though with the utmost difficulty, to walk. Scowling, he dried his tears. He thought. He found no word on his lips, discovered no course of action in his head. He sat down again, gravely silent. It came to his mind that as he was taking the cigarette he had had a sensation of stealing. The sensation had flowed out from the tips of his fingers to the wallet, to the waistcoat, to Hindawi, and thus it was that he had looked as though he had had his eyes half-open. The sensation had flowed out into the air of the room. It had transmitted itself to the landlady, and she had come along after him and had stolen, as the saying goes, the camel and its load.
But you, Farag, what has all this got to do with you? Your father and mine are the reason. Were this not so you would not have sided with Hindawi against me. It’s who your father is, and who’s mine. Or is it that you’re as frightened of Hindawi’s vicious nature as I am?
Raising his head, he looked at Farag. He was sitting with his shoulders and back supported against the edge of the bed. He was smoking with greedy enjoyment and eyeing him with a sly smile. He belched contentedly.
Everything he saw depressed him. Making an effort, he got to his feet and walked in the direction of the corner where the books and turbans were. He threw aside the old shawl and began to demolish Farag’s turban. First of all he unwound it, then removed the tarboosh from the middle of the shawl, and then the pins; he even straightened out the special folds in the shawl.
Farag laughed, “So what. . .”
He answered not a word, so Farag added, “You’ll do it up again by yourself.”
“Never. It won’t happen.”
Farag laughed. “We’ll see,” he stated.
He turned his back so as to sleep for a while. He remained alone, isolated, humiliated to his very marrow. He went and stood by the window, watching flocks of pigeons circling in the air and fluttering their wings in formations that danced, formations of farewell to the light of day.