The Map of Love (71 page)

Tawasi,
20 November 1997

I wait till after sunset prayers, then I walk along the edges between field and field, across the mud bridges over the canals and into the village. The women call out greetings and invitations from inside their doors and I reply but make my way to
Am ‘Abu el-Ma
ati’s house. We sit opposite each other on the Istambouli settles in his mandarah and I say:

‘Praise God for your safety.’

‘By the grace of your hand,’ he says, placing his own hand on his heart. He is washed and shaved and is wearing a clean
brown woollen galabiyya with his grey shawl round his neck and his cudgel resting by his knee. His ‘imma is white as snow but his eyes are dim. I hardly know what to say to him.

Am Abu el-Ma
ati,’ I say, ‘I know people in Cairo, a small organisation of progressive lawyers and journalists. Good people. They can raise up a case for us.’

‘Against the government?’ he asks.

‘Against the police. Unlawful detention, ill-treatment —’

‘Ya Sett Hanim, leave it with God.’

‘Ya
Am Abu el-Ma
ati, what happened was wrong —’

‘Yes, it was wrong. But it is over, by your favour.’ He shifts uneasily. He wants me to stop talking about it.

‘But how can we guarantee that it doesn’t happen again?’ I ask.

‘Nobody can guarantee anything. Can anyone guarantee his own life?’

‘Ya
Am Abu el-Ma
ati, if each one when he gets home says ‘ “al-hamdu-l-Illah” and then he stays quiet, what will make the government stop treating people in this way?’

‘And if I don’t say al-hamdu-l-Illah, I spend what remains of my life running between lawyers — and the government puts its eye on our village and it becomes a vendetta. Like this, the matter is over. And we are neither the first nor the last village to have this happen to it. And this is not the first nor the last government to terrorise the people —’

The television in the hall speaks of yesterday’s atrocity and as I leave I pause to watch the image of tens of wooden coffins laid out on the sand.

I walk through a village humming with normal life. The small store spills its bluish light on the dust road, two men sit with their nargiles in front of the counter, children play at the edge of the light. But somewhere out there I know there are men, young men, unresigned, who boil with anger and swear to avenge their villages and their people. When I think of them my blood runs cold and I clench my fists in the pockets of my coat, bow my head and hurry quickly home.

The telephone is ringing as I open the door and I rush in and get to it before the third ring. An old game I’ve always played: I hear it ring and the thought forms itself in my head: if I don’t get to it before the third ring, something will happen to the children — and I rush forward even as I chide myself for thinking ill near them, for dragging their wellbeing into my stupid games.

‘Alo?’

‘Sett Amal?’

Am Madani!’

‘How are you, ya Sett? How is your health?’ He is shouting into the mouthpiece. I hold the receiver a little way from my ear.

‘El-hamdu-l-Illah. How are you, ya
Am Madani? How are the children? And how is their mother?’

‘She’s up in safety, el-hamdu-l-Illah. She brought us a girl.’

‘Alf mabrouk, ya
Am Madani. Girls are good.’