Utopia (2 page)

‘Maybe I’m a lecherous pig,’ I said as I stretched out my leg on the table in front of me. ‘It’s not my fault. It’s hormones.’

‘If only that was the case, but I really can’t imagine you feeling pleasure or desire. You’re doing it out of boredom, that’s all.’

‘Maybe I
am
bored,’ I said in the same tone. ‘It’s still not my fault.’

What can you do in this artificial paradise? You sleep, you take drugs, you eat until food makes you sick, you vomit until you can recover the enjoyment of eating, you have sex (it’s weird that you notice how boredom makes your sexual behaviour aggressive and sadistic). If you knew another way for a person to live his life, I’d be happy if you could tell me about it.

But I’ve found a way.

I’m no longer a child, as I told you. Ramy went hunting and he had a wonderful time. Shadi did it. Akmal tried it and couldn’t keep anything from us. He showed us the souvenir he’d brought back from there. He seemed to have been under the influence of hashish, that vile drug they used to take at the turn of the century. Of course, in the year 2020, phlogistine has become the name of the game.

I decided to try hunting for myself.

It’s Utopia, where looking for a way to pass every minute of your life consumes you.

I know why Rasim did it.

Sixteen years old, and centuries of accumulated experiences. Like the Roman emperors, there’s nothing I haven’t tried and nothing I haven’t experienced. There’s nothing new to stimulate your curiosity or your enthusiasm in Utopia. Nothing changes. Sometimes it seems to me that we are prisoners, and the people outside are the free ones. It reminds you of the Nazi concentration camps you see in war movies.

Utopia, the isolated colony that the rich created on the North Coast to protect themselves from the sea of angry poverty outside, and that now fences in everything they might want.

I can show you its landmarks: the giant gates, the electric fence, the security patrols run by SafeCo Inc., a company mostly staffed by former Marines. Sometimes one of the poor tries to sneak in without permission, and the helicopter hunts him down and kills him – just like it did in that scene I can’t get out of my head.

Beyond that there’s the Garden District, which has been set aside for schools – to convince parents that they are still ‘those kind of people’ – and for houses of worship, with its scattering of
mosques, churches and synagogues. Some people here still insist on praying to a supreme being they can’t see. Anyway, the younger generation has got rid of this habit. I think the adults cling to all that because they’re afraid of losing everything in an instant – of losing their privilege, of finding themselves on the outside. They still don’t feel that they deserve the life they’re living, whereas the younger generation has come into the world believing everything is theirs by birthright. Anyway, the adults have given up advising their children to follow in their footsteps.

In my opinion, there is another important reason: the adults are crazy about combining the traits of wealth and piety. The idea that wealth and piety go together has seemingly been carved into the brains of Egyptian parents since time immemorial. It’s that image of
Hajj
Abdul-Sami getting off the plane returning from the Hijaz, his expensive
abaya
on his shoulders as he hands out money left and right with a dignified, stately smile on his face, with the scent of his costly cologne, and his golden prayer beads. It seems as though that image is really carved into our parents’ minds.

I’ve read a little about religions and, in my mind, piety is linked to the idea of renouncing the world. But all this piety won’t convince me that the pious aren’t addicted to liquor and aren’t continually raping the women – and men – of the Others. They made their money from the Others’ flesh – from their dreams, their hopes, their pride and their health. So the things they do seem weird to me. But it’s their business anyway.

The Malls District. This is where you can buy phlogistine unofficially from some of the police. Next you see the mansions: the mansion of Alawi
bey
, the iron king. The mansion of Adnan
bey
, the meat king. The mansion of my dad, the pharmaceuticals king. Then the private airport: the airport is there, of course, so
that you won’t be forced to go outside. In the past, my people were obsessed by the notion of having to flee to the airport if the Others on the outside revolted – the trip to the airport would be difficult, terrifying and dangerous. The Others would block the path of their cars and rip their passengers to shreds.

I know these things because I read a lot. There are a lot of stories, beginning with the French Revolution, when mobs roamed the streets of Paris and stuck the breasts of the Princesse de Lamballe on pikes, and ending with the Iranian revolution in the 1970s, when the director of SAVAK – if I remember correctly – found his car carried on the mob’s shoulders, with him in it, and then could find no way out of the situation except to stick his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. My God! Even as I write these words, I can feel a shudder of delight! A gun in your mouth … cold metal … and a squeeze that ends it all!

Afraid of this trip to the airport, my people decided to build their own private airports inside their communities. As time passed, there was no longer a danger of revolution, but the airports remained where they were, as a luxury.

When you’ve crossed the farthest boundary of consciousness, you realise that consciousness expands to include within itself other boundaries, ruled by habit, boredom and monotony. Even pissing in the kitchen sink seems reasonable and boring.

The council hall. A thick cloud of tobacco smoke. The giant office in the Association Building, and the look of wisdom in the eyes of the adults. The ticking of the clock. Words. Words. I’ve heard them so often they no longer mean anything.

We are one family
… blah, blah.
We’re not like the Others
… blah, blah.

Blah, blah, blah for the thousandth time.

Check out Rasim pretending to look like he’s paying attention. He’s combining it with a look of shame and remorse. I challenge a single emotion to find its way to that dead, imperturbable face. Two dead eyes that remind you of the eyes of killers in that outside world when the camera lens zeroes in on them. A man kills his wife and her lover, then takes a seat at the coffee shop. A woman kills a child for the sake of an earring worth no more than 100 Egyptian pounds, then her picture appears in the tabloids. You’ll see she has those eyes.

But he – Rasim – is also talking. The idiot is talking. ‘Really, I don’t know what came over me, to make me …’

For the millionth time.

The chief judge is talking in a resounding voice that he no doubt personally enjoys: ‘We don’t involve any outside party in our problems. Azzam
bey
will take it upon himself to pay the cost of …’ – blah, blah, blah – ‘Your son is my son, and vice versa …’ – blah, blah, blah.

And Azzam
bey
solemnly undertakes to pay the cost of … as he plays with his gold prayer beads.

Family court brings prominent people in Utopia together, because this community has carved out its own separate laws and courts. There is a young man in court who did something wrong or did something to make the adults angry with him. Here, what gets you into trouble is when you destroy or break into the personal property of someone else from Utopia. Rasim had had too much to drink and destroyed part of the Elite Mall that belongs to Mustafa
bey
. Maybe he stole something. No one needs to steal, but you need the excitement, the tension and the shame of stealing. Kleptomania is the cause of most crimes here; the rest take place in a moment of drunkenness, a moment of madness among friends who are no longer friends.

These cases are settled in courts like this one. There is usually a mutual understanding on hand, and plenty of willingness to appease. No one wants disputes to leave Utopia.

Excitement.

Crime.

Assault.

Breaking the rules.

Provocation.

Violating taboos.

Disorderly conduct.

Misdemeanor.

Destruction.

Tension.

Adrenaline.

Change.

Disobedience.

Dissolution.

Shock.

Privilege.

Astonishment.

That’s the name of the game.

For reasons like those, and on a night like this, Rasim lay down submissively and let three of his friends do what they wanted to him.

For reasons like those, they’re always conjuring up spirits. Those aren’t spirits, you idiots! It’s your subconscious mind fooling you through something called the ‘ideomotor effect’. That’s why the glass on the Ouija board moves – because you want it to.

For reasons like those, they fool around in cemeteries at night. Akmal talked about necrophilia, but I didn’t find the idea tempting, and I imagine you would agree with me.

For reasons like those, no girl resists your advances here for more than three days. And when she gives in to you, you won’t believe how eager she is for it out of sheer boredom. But that doesn’t blow your mind.

When you’ve crossed the farthest boundary of consciousness, you realise that consciousness expands to include within itself other boundaries, ruled by habit, boredom and monotony.

For reasons like those, I want to try the greatest experience of them all.

I wake up. I take a leak. Smoke a cigarette. Drink coffee. Shave. Fix the wound on my forehead to make it look terrible. Have sex with the African maid. Have breakfast. Pour some milk on the eggs and beat them with a fork. Throw the disgusting mixture in the trash. Yawn. Laugh. Spit. Wolf down some roasted meat. Stick my finger down my throat. Enter Larine’s bedroom to puke on the carpet. Laugh. Stick my finger in my ear. Grab a bottle of whiskey from the bar and take a swig. Dance. Stagger. Stand on the couch. Fall down on the carpet. Read the paper, which is nothing more than Utopia’s society pages. Every colony has its own newspaper but there are also public newspapers you can’t read because they have so much crap in them. I take out a tube of phlogistine and pour some drops on my skin. I get high. See the green flames. Laugh. Walk naked in the living room. Put on my clothes. With a charcoal pencil, I draw slogans on the wall, saying:
Kill Whitey
. I don’t know what that means, or who Whitey is, but that’s what they do in movies. I put on some orgasm music – the new rhythm that came out last year. Adults think it’s nothing but insane screaming, and they look back fondly on the refined sounds of heavy metal and death metal, which nobody listens to any
more. I dance. Puke. Eat some more. In one hour, I’ve done everything, and there’s nothing left in life that interests me or that I want!

In Utopia, your mum is still your mum. You can’t get rid of her.

Larine, coming back from the mall, carrying several bags containing what we need. Things that are eaten, drunk, smelled, rubbed under your armpits and painted on fingernails. I know that most of what she’s bought we don’t need. We could get rid of most of it. It’s because of boredom. It’s because of frustration. I don’t know much about her sex life, but I think Mourad hasn’t slept with her for ages. He must have bored her so terribly that even Libidafro no longer works with her. When no one has sex with you, you buy things you don’t need. When no one has sex with you, you secretly take drugs and drink heavily. When no one has sex with you, you meddle in other people’s business. She said something about the vomit on the carpet and asked the maid to clean it. She said phlogistine would kill me. She said I’m wasting my potential. She said … She said …

Apropos of nothing, I told her, ‘I want to try hunting.’

(She gasped.)

‘Is there anything you don’t have?’ she cried, her eyes growing wide in alarm. ‘You have enough money to buy all of Utopia—’

‘—and everything around it.’

‘You have enough girls to satisfy a virile sultan from the Arabian Nights—’

‘—and boys too.’

‘You have enough sources of entertainment to make a troop of crying orphans happy—’

‘—and their grandchildren too.’

‘So what’s the problem?!’

‘The problem is all of it. I have everything. Now it’s time for the one thing I haven’t tried and I haven’t yet got.’

‘If you ever bring this subject up again, I will tell your father!’ she said hysterically.

Mourad wasn’t here. He was in Switzerland going over the numbers in his bank accounts. In any case, I highly approve of this activity, since it means he’s increasing the amount I spend on phlogistine. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t waste his time, and just send us cash from abroad.

‘Mourad doesn’t get involved in my business,’ I said to provoke her. ‘He’s too smart for that.’

‘For the thousandth time,’ she scolded, waving her finger in my face, ‘as far as you’re concerned, his name is Papa – not Mourad. I let you call me by my name rather than Mama, so that we can remain friends, but there are limits that you must not cross. I won’t allow it.’

But you instantly know that she isn’t serious.

All these years, his name has been Mourad. She can’t change it in an instant just because she’s decided to play the role of the strict mother.

Larine won’t allow it because she wants to pretend that she doesn’t allow it.

Mourad won’t allow it because he ought not to allow it.

So what?

When the graves are open and demons fly out

When the skulls of children lie scattered about

When angels’ wings are stained with gore

When Cinderella becomes a whore

When Beelzebub says the time has arrived

Only then can I close my weary eyes

And die

–
Orgasm Songs

The car carrying Rasim, Shadi and Riri races with mad speed. It races, then comes to a halt with a surprising slam on the brakes that makes it spin around on itself like a top.

Mahi’s Ferrari races towards it. If they were to collide, Rasim’s car would split in two. But Mahi pulls the handbrake at the last moment, so that the Ferrari spins around itself with a squeal that all of Utopia can hear. Good girl, Mahi! Rasim revs his car engine and races, and is just about slam into one of the Others who works here, but the idiot jumps up on the kerb.