Chapter Six

It rushes forth, a clear, bubbling spring. The bogs, though, have done their best to block its passage. Intent on sucking that lovely running water dry, they try to absorb it into themselves, to consume it completely, to transform it with their sluggishness into a stagnant pond. The spring is still young, nevertheless, buoyant with life, excitable, and deep; and the bogs are ancient, sedimented over their many years of existence, crouching in quiet defiance across the land of Egypt. Confident that their stagnation speaks of calm strength, the dark-green surfaces glint under the sun’s rays.

But beneath that glittering surface lies the swirled mud, ready to dam the spring’s flow. The bubbling, ebullient water slowly carves a bed from the resistant mud, losing some of its crystal swells to the voracious throat of the sodden earth, but pounding on, roiling, alive, molding its destination. Yet there, at the end of its way, sits a dam of solid rock.

The bogs lie in sure wait, chiding the stream. There is nothing to be gained by pushing on, young friend, no use in rushing ahead. The stagnant stillness of those glinting patches speaks for itself: quietude is partner to good judgment. The brackish surface glistens; the bogs wink beneath the rays of the sun.

 

Mahmud and Isam announced their decision to the two families the evening before they were to travel. Each one had to face his own family before he could face the enemy. The manner in which their news was received differed according to the style in which each family conducted itself, but it was a divergence more apparent than real. For in essence their styles were one, infinitely multipliable depending on the needs of the moment: an appeal to reason and careful deliberation; a stern invitation to avoid foolishness or any manner of hasty behavior; and finally a bid to end such impetuous action, such a snap decision—now by threat, now through appeal to a man’s emotions.

In the home of Muhammad Effendi Sulayman the two families came together in a bloc to face the peril. On the settee sat the two sisters, Saniya Hanim and Samira Hanim, indistinguishable for their equally wan demeanors. On a chair to their right perched Sulayman Effendi, and to their left sat Gamila. Facing them on the opposite settee were Isam and Mahmud, and hovering behind them in the space between settee and window stood Layla.

The news had shaken the two sisters, so fearful of losing their only sons. Paralyzed to the core by her dread, Samira Hanim could not dispel the tormenting fever that gnawed at her head. How? How could Isam have deceived her? He had never concealed anything from her; then how had he hidden this news so completely for so many days? Samira Hanim felt exactly like a beloved and loving wife who, with the sudden discovery of her husband’s infidelity, is benumbed by the shock. Stripped of her usual skill—of her array of weapons—she could not but resort to her sister, who had immediately placed the entire burden on the shoulders of her husband. For Sulayman Effendi was smarter and wiser, Saniya thought in relief, more able to resolve such a situation, the like of which her family had never witnessed.

Sulayman Effendi crossed one leg over the other with great deliberation. He told Mahmud and Isam that he would make no attempt to force them to withdraw their decision. They must have the first and last word in that. He wanted simply to discuss the matter. To talk about it as one man to other men. Calmly, reflectively. With intelligence and wisdom. He was no less patriotic than were they, after all; but he had the benefit of more years and greater wisdom; he had a broader understanding of the way things truly were. He did not rush blindly after his emotions as they did, but rather contemplated them with his rational intelligence. And his mind told him that the government was not seriously committed to its position. The army, for example—it had not taken part in the battle. And there were turncoat elements throughout the Palace administration, throughout the parties, and within the government itself. Spies—Egyptian spies—saturated the Canal Zone. Provisions were smuggled to the British troops in full view of the government, and since this had become a focus of public discussion, the government could not possibly be unaware of it. What did they think any amount of courage and heroism could accomplish when weighed against such factors? What could a handful of volunteer fighters possibly achieve, facing a British army lavishly stocked with the latest thing in armaments?

No, indeed. It was a situation that made him despair. It would bring ruin, he declared, ruin alone, on the country. If there were any hope, he would have been the first to encourage them to go. In fact he would have joined them in person, if he were accepted into the commandos’ ranks. But there was no point in rushing into this. There was no rationale for such impetuous behavior.

For their part, Isam and Mahmud were mesmerized by the serene voice, the unruffled, composed features, and the judicious logic of Sulayman Effendi. They dove trustingly into the discussion—man to man—each taking up one of Sulayman Effendi’s arguments and rebutting it in turn. The popular wave of volunteer activity was more than sufficient to force the government to take decisive measures; if it did not, it would surely fall. The same crest of popular action was enough to reduce the King to silence and wipe out the treasonous elements. Moreover, the struggle would not long remain limited to a handful of guerillas. Little by little it would spread, growing until it comprised the army and the people, all of them. Army officers had threatened to resign—yes, they really had. They would join the commandos, they said, if the army did not join battle.

Sulayman Effendi’s voice assumed a new timbre, the honeyed tone vanishing as portents of anger reshaped his features. Mahmud and Isam now detected that they had been deceived. The discussion had not been an innocent or disinterested one as had been claimed, but rather was a veiled attempt to prevent them from traveling. And so Sulayman Effendi was obliged to come out in the open. He shifted the discussion to the purely personal aspects of the issue; there was a new edge to his voice. Only Mahmud answered him now.

“Why the two of you?”

“Why not us?”

“Why my son? Why precisely mine, not the children of other people?”

“What if everyone forbade his children to go and so no one went at all?”

“And your studies?”

“They can wait.”

“Of course—what do you care? Your father works to the bone and sweats and perseveres so that your Excellency can become a full human being—”

“There are many things more important than education.”

“And what are they?”

“What is the point of becoming educated if one remains a slave?”

“Here’s your father, alive and well and getting on just fine, and your grandfather before him—are they slaves?”

Mahmud lost his self-control, and his voice was as cutting as his father’s. “Yes, of course—of course they were slaves. Every soul who fails to struggle and fight in order to liberate himself from imperialism is a slave.”

His father’s face flushed blood-red. He rose to his feet and began flinging epithets at Mahmud—he was a good-for-nothing, he was an insolent cur, he was badly brought up. Then his tone turned to sarcasm.

“Your honor thinks of himself as a hero—right?”

“I’m not a hero, I’m a man. A man who is defending his freedom.”

“You’re no man. You’re a child—a child they’ve fooled.”

“Nobody has fooled me.”

“You’re a sacrificial lamb, just a dumb beast to be slaughtered by the government, so it can convince people it’s a nationalist, patriotic government.”

“I don’t care what the government’s aim is. What concerns me is my own goal, and the people’s.”

“The people! Will you be serving the people when you fall there, on the first day? When you fall down dead?” His father was barely able to hold back tears, and a wail rose from the vicinity of Saniya Hanim and Samira Hanim. Mahmud averted his face so that no one would make out how deeply this affected him, and fixed his eyes on a distant, mythical horizon as he spoke.

“I know that. I know, and I’m prepared for that possibility.”

Layla turned to stare out of the window. Her father, maddened by his rage, was screaming. “Of course it doesn’t concern you. What does concern you? You will die a hero, and your mother and father will be destroyed, and so will your sister.” Mahmud’s face went ashen and a layer of tears welled up over his eyes. His voice dropped to a tone of entreaty. “Please, I beg you, please try to understand. I beg you, Papa, try to understand that I have to go, I can’t not go.”

His father shook his head, too overwhelmed by his despair to speak, and stalked to the door. There he turned around, his face stiff and still. “If you do go, then you are no longer my son and I do not know you. You may not cross the threshold of this house again.” His lips trembled. “If, that is, you return at all.” And he went rapidly to his room.

*

Umm Mahmud walked over to her son. She stood for a moment, silent, leaning toward him, her hands planted on the round table that separated the two of them.

“Use your brain, for my sake. For the sake of your poor mother.” Mahmud’s face went hard and still as he looked the other way. She turned to Isam in supplication.

“You’ve always been sensible, Isam, dear. Make him see sense, son.”

Isam brushed his hand across his face. His own mother was fixing him with her gaze, her face deathly pale. Her mind was spinning. Impossible—it was simply not possible that Isam would go. Anyone, everyone, but not Isam, her son, her beloved, her man. She could not live without him—not for a day, nor a single hour. What could she do? How could she stop him?

Umm Mahmud was pressing Isam again. “Why aren’t you answering, Isam? Talk, son.”

He would not look at her. “What am I supposed to say, Aunt?”

Her arms dropped limply to her sides. “Make that madman see sense.” To judge by her voice, Mahmud’s mother no longer had much hope in anything; perhaps she said the sentence merely because it had formed in her mind.

Samira Hanim laughed bitterly. “So is there any sense left in Isam? I think Mahmud has sent it all flying out of him. Mahmud brings such blessings.”

The blood darkened in Umm Mahmud’s face as she turned to her sister. “I know—you always put the blame on Mahmud.”

“Isam’s always been sensible. Your son is the one who’s been wild all his life.”

Mahmud turned to Layla, behind him, and smiled. Isam stood up and walked slowly toward where his mother sat. He stood before her, his feet planted apart, his voice shaking with anger. “I’m not a child, and Mahmud has no control over my mind—do you understand?” He was fighting to control his voice, trying to modulate it. “And you had better understand, as well, that I am leaving tomorrow. Whatever you do.” His mother raised her face to him. He lost the battle to contain his voice; now he was almost screaming. “I’m going, I am going. Understand?”

His mother jumped to her feet and threw herself onto him, clinging in a mad embrace. “I can’t . . . Isam, I can’t, I just—” Her mouth was contorted, her tongue moving, but as if she had lost the ability to pronounce words. Isam averted his face and gently tried to disengage himself from her arms, but they clung to him all the harder, bracelets made of steel. Roughly, he freed himself and backed away. Umm Isam dropped her head and hid her face in her hands. Gamila ran to her, embracing her from behind, crying. “Shame on you, Isam, for shame!” Her wailing was the only sound to disturb a long spell of silence.

Isam’s mother raised her head but her hands still covered her face. Erect, she dropped her hands. Her face was transformed. Those soft features had hardened into a stern rigidity, the worried eyes had settled, unblinking, and the customary soft droop of her mouth had vanished into a razored line. She stared at Isam, as if sizing him up.

“So that’s it, Isam?—your final decision?”

He nodded without speaking. Isam’s mother disengaged herself from Gamila’s arms forcibly and rushed toward the window. For a moment, everyone in the room was too stunned by their terror to move, though Gamila’s shriek resounded through the apartment. Then Layla careened over to her aunt as the woman was clambering onto the window frame. Layla gripped her shoulders.

“Leave me alone, all of you,” shouted her aunt. “Let me die by myself, I don’t want to live.”

Isam had followed Layla. He pushed her to one side, yanked his mother down from the window and dragged her back into the room by her shoulders. He pulled her around to face him, bringing her face close to his, and narrowed his eyes on hers. After a few seconds she closed her eyes; the blood seemed to be pumping into her face again, and her muscles relaxed. She returned to the center of the room, her step light and her head high, her face tranquil. Gamila grasped her mother by the arm and said to Isam, “Come on, let’s go home.”

Isam followed his mother and Gamila out the door.

At eleven o’clock that night, Mahmud was packing his things when the maid brought him a folded note from Isam. After reading it he tossed it to Layla, who sat on the edge of his bed. “Have a look, ya sitti.”

Layla read.

My mother has been in a faint for three hours. I sent for the doctor but he has not yet arrived. Mahmud, what can I do? I cannot possibly leave my mother when she is in this state, and after all she has done for my sake and Gamila’s. It is not possible, Mahmud. You understand, don’t you? When she improves I’ll do my best to join you. Go in peace; my heart is with you—with all of you.

Isam Hamdi.

Mahmud flung a woolen undervest into his suitcase. “So what are we supposed to do with his heart? What good will that do us?”

Layla wasn’t listening, and her eyes held a vacant look. Abruptly, she focused on Mahmud as he perched next to his suitcase. “Mahmud, do you think Aunt Samira is really and truly ill?”

Mahmud stared at her dully for only a moment before he bolted from the bed, his pupils dilating. “No—can’t be! That’s crazy.”

Layla hid her smile and nodded. Her narrowed eyes gave her a cunning look, as Mahmud came nearer. “Are you trying to say that she’s playacting?”

Layla shrugged, and laughed bitterly. “Why wouldn’t she act? Did she do a poor job pretending to commit suicide?” Mahmud stopped brusquely, dumbfounded. Layla’s bell-like laugh came again. “Mahmud, do you have any inkling of what she did when I came up and tried to pull her back as she was throwing herself at the window?

“What? Layla, what did she do?”

Throwing back her head, Layla mimed what had happened, speaking in a faint voice as if talking only to herself. “She winked at me and pinched my hand.”

Mahmud looked bewildered. Layla just laughed. “See—exactly as if she were telling me, ‘Don’t worry, it’s just playacting.’”

Mahmud slapped his palms together and Layla saw in her mind an image of her mother, seated in the front room. “My sister Samira is very clever. She knows exactly how to keep her children tucked under her wing.”

Dawn. Their mother sat in the front hall, facing the door, silent, grayish, stiff. Across from her sat Layla. Mahmud was bent over his suitcase, trying to close it. A light knock sounded on the door. Mahmud straightened and went to answer. It was Isam, in his bathrobe. Mahmud relaxed visibly, looking pleased to see him. The presence of Isam—of anyone outside their little family—would make the ordeal of saying goodbye easier to handle, simpler and quicker to say.

His mother’s eyes rolled. “Isam isn’t going?” Her voice was flat and lifeless. Isam’s was apologetic. “What can I do, aunt? Mama is ill, very ill.”

Mahmud’s mother broke down crying, trying to suppress her sobs to keep their echo from reaching their father, who had shut himself into his room. Layla stood up and went over to her mother, patting her shoulder softly as she spoke. “It’s all right, Mama—anyway, it’s not like Isam was going to be keeping guard over him.”

“But why him?” wailed her mother faintly. “Why him, going all on his own?” Mahmud let out an exasperated sigh, and it was Layla who answered her mother, avoiding Isam’s eyes. “When Aunt Samira gets better, Isam will go.” From her mother’s gesture it was clear that she did not believe Layla, but she subsided again into silence, only shaking her head now and then. Isam looked at her, startled, having just realized that she had not inquired about his mother—her own sister—even though he had declared that she was very sick.

With Isam’s help, Mahmud finally managed to close his suitcase. He stood up, already grasping the handle. This paleness suited Mahmud’s face, Layla could not help thinking; and, wearing his military uniform, he already looked more dignified. But in fact what showed on Mahmud’s face was confusion; the case thudded to the floor as he ambled over to his mother awkwardly and kissed her on the forehead. He turned to leave but then went back to her and seized both her hands, bringing them to his mouth and kissing them with warmth. Her tears ran unchecked as he straightened and went over to Layla. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her, and then hurried to the door, suitcase in hand. Layla ran after him onto the stairs. He turned round to face her and shook his head.

“Layla, no. I don’t want you, of all people, to start crying.”

She wiped tears off her face with her sleeve. “I’m not crying, Mahmud. I’m not crying.”

“Do you understand, Layla? You do, don’t you? You know why I’m going?”

Layla nodded, her face clearer, her eyes glistening.

“Knowing there’s someone who understands, someone dear to me, will make me feel a lot better.”

Layla smiled. “I understand, Mahmud, and tomorrow, all of them will. Goodbye, and be careful.”

Mahmud set his bag down, hugged Layla, gave her a kiss, and started down the stairs a second time.

“We’ll be waiting for you!” shouted Layla after him. “We’re waiting for you to come back, Mahmud.”

She heard Isam’s voice somewhere behind her. “Goodbye. So long, Mahmud.”

Without looking back, Mahmud raised his hand in a wave that embraced them both. Isam stepped back to let Layla pass in front of him, and started to follow her into the apartment. Once inside, Layla turned to face him; he was still outside the door. She put her hand on the door to shut it, as if preventing him from coming in.

“I’d like to come in and see Aunt Saniya.”

Layla shook her head wordlessly. She saw Isam’s face change.

“Not right now, Isam. Not now. Go on upstairs to your mother.” She closed the door, Isam still standing there in front of it. She stood there for a moment, her face against the door, listening to Isam’s steps receding slowly, up the stairs. He had disappointed her, failed her. Failed her?—how could that be? But he had. There was no doubt about it.

Her mother’s wail rose, a hammer pounding inside her head, threatening to destroy her with its incessant knocking, and leaving her utterly incapable of thought.