The Day the Leader Was Killed by Naguib Mahfouz
“A new oil dig or the discovery of an unknown river in the desert,” mused Fawwaz.
“Or the outbreak of a revolution,” said Elwan.
“Does revolution mean more than just added destruction?” surmised Fawwaz.
“To make matters even worse than they are!” cried Elwan sarcastically.
They know nothing of revolutions. They haven’t even heard of them. The hired storyteller has told them a false, untrue story. The poor teacher begins his lesson with the treacherous question: What were the causes of the failure of the 1919 revolution?
Goddamn bastards! Have you no drop of decency left? Prison guards … worshipers of Nero … There goes Elwan waving to us as he goes by. Off he goes, burdened by his own disappointment and that of his generation.
“Let’s watch the celebrations,” said Hanaa, switching on the television set.
The general atmosphere is one of immense joy. The President walks by, surrounded by a luminous halo like that of the Night of Fate, clad in his commander’s uniform and the king’s scepter in his hand. Hordes of dignitaries follow.
“He’s ever so pleased with himself,” said Hanaa innocently.
“Today’s his day,” I said.
“He’s happy and deserves to be so,” said Fawwaz. “He’s lost so much since September fifth,” he added sorrowfully.
A ground and air parade all at once: a rare sight, not likely to happen again.
“We would see the army only on Mahmal Day,” I said in a voice echoing from the past.
“Look, Father, that’s a whole other world.”
“His face is all pink as though he’s smeared it with rouge,” said Hanaa with a laugh.
The army units go by and so does time. I start to feel lethargic and sleepy. Then suddenly I wake up at a strange point in time. History and time corner me, saying: That is how the events you skimmed through in history books took place. And now it’s happening right here in the living room. The television screen becomes blurred and an unusual commotion follows: voices are heard and then a blackout.
“Fawwaz, is there anything wrong with the television set?”
“Nothing wrong with the set. I don’t know what happened.”
“Something odd. I don’t feel comfortable,” said Hanaa in a worried tone.
“Me too,” added Fawwaz.
“Is …?” I asked.
“God only knows, Father. Pretty soon we’ll know everything.”
“God protect us!” I said from the bottom of my heart.
Elwan Fawwaz Muhtashimi
Let this be a festive occasion and let’s forget our worries for an hour or so. But how when there are a hundred chinks in the door? What is the River Nile trying to intimate? And the trees? Listen carefully. They’re saying, Elwan, you poor fellow, trapped within four walls, Randa is coming back to you in the guise of friendship and small talk, in the guise of undeclared love resting on twin pillars of steel and despair, and shrouded in vague dreams. No persecution from family, no hope, and no despair! March at a brisk military pace, for today is soldiers’ day. The café is packed with wordmongers. Here there’s no satisfaction and no action. A transistor radio, brought along for the occasion, is placed on one of the tables between us. Just like on the day the late President broadcast his defeat in June 1967. The late President was greater in his defeat than this one in his glory was the first thing I heard. This reminds me of what my grandfather once said: We are a people more given to defeat than to victory. The strain that spells out despair has become deeply ingrained in us because of the countless defeats we have had to endure. We have thus learned to love sad songs, tragedies, and heroes who are martyrs. All our leaders have been martyrs: Mustafa Kamel, martyr to struggle and sickness; Muhammad Farid and Saad Zaghloul, both martyrs to exile; Mustafa al-Nahhas, martyr to persecution; Gamal Abd al-Nasser, martyr to June 5. As for this victorious, smug one, he has broken the rule: his victory constituted a challenge which gave rise to new feelings, emotions for which we were quite unprepared. He exacted a change of tune, one which had long been familiar to us. For this, we cursed him, our hearts full of rancor. And, ultimately, he was to keep for himself the fruits of victory, leaving us his Infitah, which only spelled out poverty and corruption. This is the crux of the matter.
We were caught up in the heat of arguments as the loudspeaker and transistor radio broadcast the details of Victory Day celebrations to whoever cared to listen. And, as usual, time got the better of us until, suddenly, strange voices could be heard.
“The traitors … the traitors,” cried the broadcaster’s voice.
Tongues grew paralyzed and eyes were averted as heads crowded around the transistor radio. The broadcasting of the celebrations came to a sudden halt, and then some songs started to be broadcast.
“What happened?”
“Something unusual.”
“He said: ‘The traitors, the traitors, the traitors!’ ”
“An invasion!”
“Of whom?”
“Honestly, what a stupid question!”
“The songs being broadcast indicate that …”
“Since when has logic meant anything?”
“A little patience!”
We had no desire to go back home. We all just huddled up in an urge to remain all together in the face of the unknown. We had a quick meal of macaroni for lunch and then sat there waiting. Following a brief but violent period of time, the broadcaster announced that there had been an abortive attempt on the President’s life, that the President had left, and that the security forces were in full control of the situation. And, once again, there were songs on the radio.
“This, then, is the truth.”
“The truth.”
“Think a little.”
“Certain facts cannot be concealed.”
“But they can be delayed.”
“Who are the assaulters?”
“Who but those involved in the religious movement?”
“But he was sitting in the very midst of soldiers and guards.”
“Listen, they’ve started to broadcast national hymns.”
Suddenly, there was a new broadcast announcing that the President had been slightly injured and that he was getting full medical attention at the hospital. Our hearts leaped up at the thought of increased chances of new possibilities. Time came to a halt, changed its tune, and emerged with a brand-new look on its face.
“The man has been injured. What then?”
“Get ready for prison.”
“A definite return to terrorism.”
“He’ll survive and seek revenge.”
“Will we be hearing the Quran after the hymns?”
We whiled away the time that was weighing heavily upon us. Jokes were cracked and then the recitation of the Quran began. At first, we turned pale. It’s true then. Amazing! Actually true!? The man’s finished? Who would’ve believed? Why do we sometimes get a feeling that the impossible is actually possible? Why do we imagine that there exists a reality other than death in this world? Death is the true dictator. The official announcement comes to us like a final statement. I wonder what people are saying? I’d like to hear what is being said around us in the café. I pricked up my ears. There is no power or might save in God. To him alone is permanence. The country is in obvious danger. He doesn’t deserve this end, whatever his misdeeds. On his day of glory? A plot. Surely there’s a conspiracy. No doubt. The hell with him! Death saved him from madness. Anyhow, he had to go. This is what happens to those who imagine that the country is nothing but a dead corpse. No, it’s a foreign conspiracy. He doesn’t deserve this end. It was the inevitable end. He was a curse on us. He who kills will ultimately be killed. In a split second, an empire has collapsed. The empire of robbers. What is the Mafia thinking about right now? I returned to my seat, torn by conflicting feelings of despair, fear, and joy. Vague hopes hovered overhead, hopes of unknown possibilities, hopes that the prevailing lethargy and routine would, at last, be shattere
This blow has rocked an empire and shaken fortresses.
By evening, I realized I had started dozing off. All this talk had exhausted me. I felt like taking a walk. There’s a trace of death on every passerby. Suddenly, there I am in front of Gulstan’s villa. Anwar Allam’s car is parked there, awaiting its owner. Sexual desire of every sort takes possession of me and, with it, an irrepressible urge to kill.
Randa Sulayman Mubarak
How awful! Is killing the only way to do it? What do his wife and daughters have to do with it? I’m not for him, but he doesn’t deserve this end. It jolts me back to a reconsideration of public problems after having been so long engrossed in my own, private problems. To kill is hideous and God frowns upon it.
My mother sobbed like one untouched by politics. The living room was gloomier than usual at that particular time. I wanted to know what my father thought about all this.
“My opinion will certainly not revive the dead,” he said.
He peered at me with faded, tired-looking eyes and went on:
“The country is sick with fanaticism, Randa. Where are the days of ‘Why am I a heretic?’ They want to drag us fourteen centuries back.”
He kept quiet for a while and then added:
“I know you don’t entirely agree with me, so suit yourself. However, we do agree on the principle that it is wrong to kill.”
This is as much as we can agree on. I wonder where you are, Elwan? You didn’t like him. So are you happy that this is how he has ended?
Suddenly, quite unexpectedly after so long an absence, Elwan burst into our flat with a boldness that showed that he was quite disturbed. When we were alone in the dining room, I asked:
“Where were you when it happened?”
“Forget about that! Nothing new there. Randa, listen to me carefully,” he said, markedly perturbed.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“This evening, I found myself in front of Gulstan’s villa. Anwar Allam’s car was parked there. Uninvited and quite spontaneously, I burst into the house. He was the first person I saw. He greeted me and said: ‘Come in … I’m glad you just decided to drop by casually.’ I suddenly cried unconsciously: ‘You filthy man!’ and punched him violently in the chest, whereupon he reeled and fell on the floor. At that point, a scream revealed Gulstan’s presence. ‘Stop beating him!’ she cried firmly. I helped him to get back on his feet and led him to her bedroom. I stood there stock-still, almost unconscious. She disappeared for a quarter of an hour and then returned, her face pale and a bewildered look in her eyes.
“ ‘You crazy fool, what did you do? You killed him!’ she muttered. I just stood there, staring at her.
“ ‘You crazy fool, what did you do? Why did you kill him?’ she mumbled as her eyes filled with tears. Then, exhausted, she collapsed on an armchair and rested her head in her hands as I began to regain consciousness. I was beginning to realize the enormity of my deed.
“ ‘Call the police. It’s my fate,’ I finally said.
“She did not move. As for me, I had the strongest urge to disentangle myself from the situation.
“ ‘I shall go off to the police myself,’ I said.
“She made an obscure gesture of the hand and whispered:
“ ‘Stay put where you are.’
“Time weighed heavily on me, wracking my nerves like a bulldozer.
“ ‘No point in waiting,’ I finally said.
“ ‘Wait,’ she whispered. She bent her head, averting her eyes from me.
“ ‘He had a chronic heart condition,’ she whispered again.
“What is she thinking about? Doubt and then a glimmer of hope.
“ ‘But it was I who …’
“ ‘There’s no trace of blows,’ she said calmly, indicating that her troubled mind had begun functioning anew.
“With this statement, she became a partner in the crime. I scrutinized her face in bewilderment, amazed at that aspect of human nature which would, under ordinary circumstances, have forever remained concealed. What a woman! But my joy at the life belt thrown at me was like that of a desperate, drowning man.
“ ‘Nothing can be concealed from the doctor,’ I said.
“ ‘That’s none of your business,’ she said with utter confidence.
“We exchanged a conspiratorial look.
“ ‘Of course, you understand why I’m trying to save you?’ she then said.
“I nodded and lowered my head in disbelief.
“ ‘Can I trust your word of honor?’ she then asked.
“I gave her my word of honor.”
“Why are you telling me this secret?” I asked when he had finished.
“There are no secrets between us, Randa.”
“You committed a crime incensed by what had happened to me. You deserve to be saved,” I said bitterly.
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course, I can’t possibly condemn you.”
“Actually, I haven’t told you the whole truth, for after I left the villa, I became thoroughly disgusted with myself, despising the decision I had made. In my state of confusion. I came over to you to confess everything,” he said, much moved.
“I understand your feelings very well, but I don’t blame you for the decision you’ve made!” I said compassionately.
“But I won’t have it,” he said stubbornly, as my heart went out to him.
“That’s madness!”
“So let it be.”
“Miracles of this sort won’t happen again,” I pleaded desperately.
“Even so.”
“No time for regret.”
“I will never regret anything.”
“I’m not guilty of what you imagine.”
“I shall go back to her to clarify everything,” he said.
“I don’t think you should.”
Muhtashimi Zayed
After Elwan’s disappearance, I am reduced to utter loneliness. As for the world around us, it is aspiring to new hope. How courageous Randa turned out to be: going to court to defend the young man—and with such decency and dignity. It was lucky that the crime was interpreted as beating that resulted in death. Years will go by and then he will leave prison having mastered some skill or other. He will then be in a better position to meet the challenges of life and to realize his hopes. I do not think I shall see him again. But he will find my room vacant and will be able to have it and get married to his sweetheart. Have I perchance lived too long? And have I, unknowingly, played a part in aggravating his problem?
The time has come for me to join the ranks of those who dedicate themselves to the glorification of God in anticipation of eternity in the realm of the All-Exalted.
BOOKS BY NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
ARABIAN NIGHTS AND DAYS
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THE BEGINNING AND THE END
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CHILDREN OF THE ALLEY
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ECHOES OF AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
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THE HARAFISH
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MIDAQ ALLEY
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WEDDING SONG
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The Cairo Trilogy:
PALACE WALK
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PALACE OF DESIRE
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SUGAR STREET
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Naguib Mahfouz, The Day the Leader Was Killed
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