Morning and Evening Talk (13 page)

T
HE SECOND SON OF
M
ATARIYA
and Muhammad Ibrahim, he was born and grew up in his parents’ house in Watawit. He was good looking, but less so than his deceased brother, Ahmad. He took his brother’s place as his uncle Qasim’s playmate but did not achieve the same legendary status. From childhood, he frequented the house of his grandfather Amr and the families of Surur, al-Murakibi, and Dawud and continued to do so throughout his life, borrowing his love of people and socializing from his mother. From childhood too, attributes that would accompany him through life manifested: amiability, a penchant for fun, hunger for knowledge, love of girls, and all-round success in all of these, though his academic achievements were only average. His love of knowledge probably came from his father and it prospered with the books and magazines he procured for himself. Besides his relatives, he made friends with the leading thinkers of the day, who woke him from slumber and inflamed him with questions that would dog him all his life. Despite his burgeoning humanism, he inclined to mathematics so entered the faculty of science, then became a teacher like his father, remaining in Cairo thanks to the intercession of the Murakibi and Dawud families. He proceeded through life concerned with
his culture and oblivious to the future until his father said to him, “You’re a teacher. The teaching profession is traditional. You should start thinking about marriage.”

“There are lots of girls in the family—your aunts’ daughters and our uncle’s daughter, Zayna,” said Matariya.

He had casually courted a number of girls but did not have genuine feelings for any of them.

“I’ll marry as it suits me,” he said.

“A teacher must maintain a good reputation,” his father cautioned.

“A ‘good reputation’?” He was going through a period when he questioned the meaning of everything, even a “good reputation.” Whenever he was alone he would ask himself the question: Who am I? His thirst to define his relationship to existence was obsessive and consuming. He never stopped debating with people, especially those in whom he recognized a taste for it, like his cousin Hakim and other young men in the families of al-Murakibi, Dawud, and Surur. Later he ventured to have audiences with Taha Hussein, al-Aqqad, al-Mazini, Haykal, Salama Musa, and Shaykh Mustafa Abd al-Raziq. He did not reject religion but sought to base himself in reason as far as possible. Every day he had a new concern. He would even hold discussions and confide in his uncle Qasim and interrogate relatives in their graves on cemetery festivals.

When his grandfather Amr was carried to bed breathing his last, a nurse called Suhayr was brought to administer an injection. Shazli fell in love with her despite the grief that reigned. He helped her heat some water while his uncle Amer’s wife, Iffat, quietly observed them with a sly, wicked look in her eyes. As the 1940s approached, their love cemented. He realized he was more serious than he had imagined this time and announced his wish to marry. Matariya said frankly, “Your face is handsome but your taste is appalling!”

He responded to the rebuke with a laugh.

“Her roots are lowly and her appearance is commonplace,” Matariya went on.

“Prepare for the wedding,” he said to her.

Muhammad Ibrahim accepted the situation unperturbed and Matariya did not dare to anger her son beyond what she had said already. Shazli selected an apartment in a new building on Abu Khuda Street and embarked on a life of love and matrimony. Suhayr gave up her job and devoted herself to married life. She proved elegant and agreeable and soon won her mother-in-law’s acceptance. Shazli was unlucky with his children; five died in infancy and the only one to live, Muhammad, became an army officer and was martyred in the Tripartite Aggression. Shazli spent his life searching for himself. He would read, debate, and question, only to hit a wall of skepticism and begin the game again. He was not interested in politics, except insofar as events that invited reflection and understanding, and so did not fall under the magic of the Wafd but followed the ups and downs of the July Revolution as one might an emotive film in the cinema. Yet he was disconsolate to lose Muhammad and never recovered from his grief. “Neither of us was created for pure happiness,” he once said to his sister, Amana. He found some solace in loving her children. He was fearful of the severity and vehemence of his cousin Salim, his niece Hadiya’s husband, and found neither enjoyment nor pleasure in his conversation. Salim said to him, “Your confusion is a foreign import. It shouldn’t trouble a Muslim.”

He continued to love Qasim in spite of what happened to him. He sometimes went with him to the Misri Club, where they were flooded by memories of their fathers and grandfathers. As a teacher, he would observe the up-and-coming generations in dismay. He once said to himself: People only care about a morsel of bread and emigrating, so what is the use of suffering?

He was born and grew up in Bayn al-Ganayin, a street lined with modern houses and fields of vegetables and henna bushes extending east and west. He was the first child of Amer and Iffat, and the grandson of Amr Effendi and Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud. The income from his father’s salary and private lessons and the small elegant house with a grape trellis, guava tree, and clove bushes in the back garden that his mother owned meant the family enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle, just as it abundantly granted him, the eldest child, a smart appearance and not unreasonable pampering. Though sport was his forte he also achieved good results at school. When his brothers, Qadri and Fayyid, entered the world, sibling rivalry played its part, including fights and a contest with the parents, but the family was nevertheless regarded as cohesive and harmonious. The parents’ mutual love emitted pure breezes that promoted an atmosphere of peace and spread affection. The father’s integrity was as obvious as the mother’s endeavors to control. Shakir loved his grandparents Amr and Radia, and always displayed respect for Radia’s mysteries. Likewise, he loved his grandparents Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud and Farida Hanem Husam. He took on the Dawud family’s customary contempt for the Murakibis, which intensified after Shakira became his mother, Iffat’s, sister-in-law. He grew up loyal to his family and his inner self more than to the nation or any political party. This was something he inherited from his mother, who was uninterested because of her upbringing, though on formal occasions would profess her father’s loyalty to Adli. As for Shakir’s own father, nothing remained of his Wafdism in the family home except a faint sentiment he kept hidden and which thus made no impression on the children.

Shakir enrolled in the faculty of medicine and plunged into
his first serious emotional experience when he fell in love with Safa, his aunt Samira’s daughter. News of their romance reached his mother, Iffat, and she flew into a frenzy. There was nothing essentially wrong with Safa—she was a beautiful medical student and one of the family. However, despite a good relationship with them, Iffat considered her cousin Amr’s family beneath her; her son’s bride should rank higher on the social scale. Her anger was aroused and she did not conceal it. She made her feelings known to Samira and Amr’s families and offense was taken. At the same time, Shakir himself did not display any real opposition to his mother. Samira thus advised her daughter to sever relations with her cousin. The young girl was angry for her family honor and ended the relationship once she was convinced he was not serious about it. Shakir did not suffer particularly, though was rather annoyed at his mother. He graduated a doctor and, with his uncle Doctor Lutfi Pasha Abd al-Azim’s help, was appointed to a post in the ministry of health’s laboratories, then opened a clinic specializing in blood diseases a few years later. His mother began planning how to realize her dream of a marriage she judged to be suitable for her son. He was a frequent patron of the nightclubs along Pyramids Road and fell for a Hungarian dancer. He rented an apartment for her near the Pyramids and the relationship developed into genuine love, so he married her in secret. He did not dare reveal the truth directly to his mother, but he did tell his father. Iffat was stunned. She raised a storm that everyone heard about, and there was much gloating. The doctor moved to his new apartment and it looked like he would be cut off from the family. “Don’t grudge your son. Marriage is fate in the end,” Radia said to Iffat.

As time passed limited relations resumed. The July Revolution came and society was turned on its head. The Dawud family was stripped of its pasha rank and the value of doctors and
judges diminished. Shakir’s hatred of the new era made him a nervous wreck. He made plans to emigrate and seized the opportunity to attend a medicine conference in Chicago. He left for the United States and took up residence there, severing relations with both his nation and his family. He returned in the middle of the 1980s accompanied by his wife and children. He visited his parents, siblings, and grandmother Radia as a foreign guest, then quickly returned to his adopted country.

Her eyes opened onto the mansion on Khayrat Square with its furniture, objets d’art, and lush garden. She had the misfortune of inheriting her most important features from her father, Mahmud Bey, with no sign of the beauty and charm her mother, Nazli Hanem, possessed. She was of medium build, had a large head and coarse features, was stubborn to the extreme in her decisions, zealous in her views, and could not be moved from a sentiment. She was also deeply pious, with firm morals and urbane, refined manners. Had she been otherwise, her father would not have married her to Hamid Amr to safeguard her from opportunists. Despite the vast difference between their two families, no one in Amr’s house was enthusiastic about the marriage except Amr himself; from the moment the engagement was announced they referred to her as “Shakira Bey Ata.”

Shakira loyally loved her young husband from the first day and was completely ready to open her heart to everyone in his family. True, she was not unaware that his common tastes, customs, and conduct were a long way from her refined and urbane upbringing, but she told herself, “Everything can change!” She noticed too that his affection for her was a passing whim and that the first signs of boredom appeared during the honeymoon itself. This realization hit her like a bolt of lightning and caused
her immense pain, its poison piercing her love and pride. She did not keep secrets from her mother. “These things will pass. Be subtle and smart,” said Nazli Hanem, speaking to her as a lady of experience and concealing the anxiety in her heart. She also said, “He comes from a common environment and because he is a policeman he only ever deals with good-for-nothings.”

Hamid was heedful of his father-in-law’s power and of living among his relations, so he would not raise his voice, but instead made his words gentle yet simultaneously hurtful. Once, when Shakira was angry, she said to him, “Most people don’t know a blessing until it’s gone.”

He guffawed scornfully and replied, “Me marrying you is a blessing. You’re absolutely right!”

“Then why did you agree?”

“Marriage is fate.”

“And ambition and greed too!”

Thus began a struggle that would go on for years and end in divorce. It grew gradually more heated and one day she screamed at him, “You exude filth!”

“Didn’t they tell you about your grandfather, the pantofle seller?” he asked sarcastically.

Yet despite her fury and stubbornness, Shakira did not lack judgment, so the secrets of her wretched marriage remained concealed within the narrowest confines. Even Nazli Hanem did not know the full details. Indeed, in spite of everything, Shakira’s love for her husband did not dry up until after her father’s death. She gave birth to Wahida and Salih and dearly hoped he would change with time, but it was no use. Relations with his family fared no better; she had thought Radia eccentric before she married and now decided she was insane. The two women hated one another with a passion despite Radia and Nazli’s close friendship.

“Be careful not to provoke your mother-in-law. She fraternizes with the jinn,” said Nazli.

“I depend on God alone,” Shakira replied.

She and Amer’s wife, Iffat, also detested one another, compounding the envy and aversion between Ata and Dawud’s families. When the older generation passed away, Hamid could breathe freely. His wrath was unleashed in an atmosphere free of constraints and the matter ended in divorce. Shakira began to despise Hamid and his family deeply and her rage never subsided. She continued to curse and cut him to pieces for the rest of her life. In her loneliness religion claimed her. She performed the hajj more than once and was as bent on the rituals of prayer, fasting, and alms-giving as she was on cursing her enemies and damning them in this world and the next.

She was the second daughter of Shaykh Mu‘awiya and Galila al-Tarabishi. She was born and grew up in the old family house in Suq al-Zalat in Bab al-Sha‘riya. The hallway of the house was her playground, between the stove, well, and family sofa, where she, Radia, Sadiqa, and Baligh would congregate. There sounded her father, the shaykh’s, exhortations, and there circulated Galila’s mysteries of times past. From the beginning, Shahira showed no interest in religion or religious duties. Yet she eagerly embraced popular heritage and would add to it from her abundant imagination. In body and face she resembled Radia, though she was fairer, remarkably blunt and impudent, and eccentric to the point of insanity. Two years after her father died, one of his students, a Qur’an reciter with a sweet voice, nice appearance, and ample means, sought her hand in marriage. She was wedded to him in his house in Bab al-Bahr, not far from the family residence. She gave birth to a fine-looking son, whom his father called Abduh because he thought the name of the man whose voice he adored, Abduh al-Hamuli,
would be a good omen. The marriage prospered in spite of Shahira’s irascibility and impudence. “It’s the spice of married life,” the husband, Shaykh Ali Bilal, would joke.