Chapter Twenty-Five

It gushes forth, a storming cataract. The bogs, though, have done their best to block its course. Intent on sucking its waters dry, they try to consume it within themselves, to transform it with their sluggishness into a stagnant pond. But the cataract’s depths are recalcitrant, colossal, raging, and deep. And the bogs are ancient, sedimented over their many years of existence, crouching in quiet defiance over the land of Egypt. Confident that their stagnation speaks rather of calm strength, the dark-green surfaces glint under the sun’s rays.

And beneath the glittering surface lies the swirled mud.

The cataract sweeps the bogs along in its path, and swallows up their water in its own. The cataract transforms their stagnant presence into a youthful, impatient ebullience. And in the depths of the cataract, the mud dissolves. The cataract moves forward, stubborn, impassioned, deep, to the end of its chosen course.

And at the end sits a dam, a wall of solid rock. But under the weight of the cataract’s tread the dam collapses. The solid rocks shatter.

The telephone rang and rang in Mahmud’s apartment all morning; no one answered. Layla was at the school, Sanaa at the nursing center, and Mahmud at a military training post. When Layla returned to the apartment, as soon as the announcement that school was cancelled came, the telephone was still ringing. Her hand shook with the key as she opened the door and the sound of the uninterrupted ringing reached her ears. It must be her father or Ramzi, she knew. She put down her suitcase near the door and walked slowly over to the telephone. She put her hand on the receiver. And she heard herself say, “All right, Papa. As you wish, Papa.” She took her hand from the receiver, moved quickly away from the telephone, and practically ran into the room that Sanaa had given her, shutting the door. She sat on the edge of the bed, as the ringing of the telephone pierced the closed door.

No. She did not want to hear that voice ordering her to come home, dragging her back to Cairo. She did not want to leave her life in the hands of her father and Ramzi for them to do with her as they wished, as if she were a stone that one would kick away with the tip of his shoe at the slightest whim. She did not want to return to Cairo. She would not return to Cairo. She must confront her father, and Ramzi as well. She must say no.

She stood up, ready to answer the telephone. She walked to the shut door and put her hand on the knob. A cold shudder went through her body. She saw her father coming toward her with short, mechanical steps, face stiff and frame rigid, a weapon trained on her, coming nearer and nearer, slowly, to crush her. She saw Ramzi shaking his head, his face stiff and closed, saying, “It’s no use.” And the telephone rang and rang. Even the sound of the air raid siren was lighter and easier to bear than that ringing. For it did not go on and on, heavy, insistent, throttling her. The siren went on only for a few moments; then the response always came, decisive and stern, shaking the building, shaking your heart. The Egyptian anti-air missiles rose from every side as if the earth had exploded with lava. You could gaze out the window as far as you could see, moving your gaze across the sky, and with every shot you would hold your breath and wait. Then the blood would erupt in your veins as you heard people cheering and caught sight of an airplane suddenly transformed into a torch, falling to earth or into the sea. You would hold your breath and wait again.

The telephone rang, rang, rang; the sound grew louder minute by minute. Layla clutched the doorknob, her whole body shaking with her powerlessness, her loathing, her refusal. The ringing inflamed her nerves and pounded in her head, carving out holes there that grew bigger minute by minute, leading her to madness. She burst out screaming, pushed the door and left the apartment at a run, panting. When she reached the street and the ringing no longer resounded in
her ears, she breathed a sigh of relief, covering her face in
her hands.

Mahmud was late getting home that night. Sanaa was in the kitchen, about to cook spaghetti for supper. Layla was waiting for her brother in the front room. He sat down to take off his army boots, obviously in pain from standing on his feet for such a long stretch of time.

“What news?” asked Layla.

Mahmud’s eyes flashed. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He flipped his palms upward; that was the only way he could express the feelings he held inside. He took a deep, relaxed breath and finally was able to speak.

“All’s well with the world, Layla.” He settled back into his chair as he went on. “A twelve-year-old boy! He came into the training center wanting to get training. I told him, ‘You’re too young.’ He gave me a look and said, ‘I’ve grown up in the past couple of days.’” Mahmud struck his hand against the chair. “And I realized that it wasn’t just him who had grown up. We all have, in the past few days. All of us, no exceptions.”

The water boiled. Sanaa dropped the spaghetti into the pot and turned up the flame. Layla turned involuntarily toward the phone. A sense of shame and embarrassment flooded over her. She had not faced her father or Ramzi, after all. Mahmud started talking again.

“The whole town has become one giant military camp, all abuzz. A train arrives every hour, full of volunteers.”

Layla’s face lit up. Mahmud bent over, picked up his boots, and got to his feet as he spoke. “Guess who arrived today?”

Layla blushed. “Husayn?”

“No, of course not. He’s in Sinai.”

“Then who?”

“Guess.”

Layla laughed, to hide her confusion. Mahmud said, triumphantly, “Isam.”

“You’re kidding! That’s unbelievable.”

“What’s so unbelievable?”

“And my aunt? How could his mother let him go?”

Mahmud turned his palms upward again, a boot still dangling from each, and distended his face, showing his amazement with theatrical exaggeration. Layla burst out laughing. He shook his head lightly as if something had happened that defied all explanation and belief. He went toward his room, and at the door he turned to face Layla, speaking in a soft voice.

“Didn’t I tell you, Layla? We’ve grown up.”

He was almost whispering as he said, “This is the miracle, Layla. The miracle.”

And they heard the air raid siren again.

Day after day the time between siren warnings shrank until there were no spaces left. Then the sirens stopped altogether, for the raids were now one constant attack. The anti-aircraft guns exploded so often that they were on the point of melting, and behind them crowds of people gathered to cheer. An old man with snow-white hair stood among the throngs, behind the customs battery.

“Keep it up, Muhammad!” And a burning airplane fell into the sea. Another suddenly swooped down, almost touching the heads of those who stood there, and directed its fire at the gunner. Muhammad bent double, howling in pain. A soldier jumped up from behind him, wanting to take his place. But Muhammad straightened up in position and with bloody hands fired his cannon at the airplane before it could vanish. He crept back among the crowd, leaving his place to his buddy, and lay on his back, his eyes fixed on the burning plane. When that plane reached the water, Muhammad smiled weakly and closed his eyes.

Five days later the guns were quiet. Now the airplanes had begun to flatten the city. The populace buried their dead, dressed the wounded, and waited. When the parachute troops came down in al-Gamil, al-Raswa, and Port Fuad, they found people waiting for them. The battle had joined, that was very clear; things had taken a new turn. To evacuate the remaining women, children, and elderly folk in Port Said became urgent. Yet all the roads out of town were blocked—all but one.