— Don’t leave the papers lying around in front of the children, my wife screams. Why don’t you throw them away? You pile them up in the house, the children play with them and the house stinks of ink.
Even reading the papers is forbidden now. She does whatever she pleases. She chatters all day and cries all night and she’s afraid. This modern woman, who when I married her I thought I was marrying the 20th century, is worse than my mother. And I bow down before her like a he-goat who’s had his horns cut off. My father laughed before he died; I laughed when he died. Our customs are incomprehensible. A man dies, they lay him out on a bed; then the women gather round, douse his corpse with cologne and begin their lamentations and wailing. My father laughs and whispers in my ear. Really, they wait for a man to die then they have this sexual celebration right there in front of his corpse. Wouldn’t it be better if they gathered around him while he was alive? When my father died, I couldn’t conceal my mirth. He was at the center of the sexual celebration in an old neck-tie my mother got him God alone knows where, cologne all over — and under — him, and the woman ululating. As soon as I entered, the wailing intensified and I burst out laughing. The women stopped crying and looked at one another. And my mother, she started quivering with embarrassment and muttering unintelligibly. Then the wailing resumed, my father neither speaking nor moving.
The ceiling from which the woman dangles is moving closer to my head. Things are purple and the candle’s white. But the candle has a smell. The ceiling’s getting closer. And the white liquid is trickling down from my hand onto the floor and the smell is spreading. Salt doesn’t have a smell. The air was stifling. They said they could. Of course, I didn’t believe it. I have no faith in superstition and magic. But it danced. The small table hovered in the air and danced. They shut the doors and windows. We were sweating as if we’d been in a Turkish bath. Speak. I looked and saw the small table flying through the air. It was small, the size of a hand, but it flew. I was very frightened. They said they’d try the glass; the spirit of the dead would come, enter the glass, move among the letters, and tell all. I told my wife when I got back home that I was afraid. I was surprised by her sudden enthusiasm and her desire to be acquainted with every detail. I can’t, I told her. She made fun of me. I didn’t tell her that I’d turned down their offer to conjure up the spirit of one of my friends. Hani was before me. I saw him, full-bodied and tall. But I was scared by him. I came home running. The streets were full of darkness and fear and my mouth was salty. The dead and the living coexist in a remarkable way in this city. The dead have become more numerous than the living. I slept all night, at home. I told my wife I felt I was suffocating so I wouldn’t go down to the shelter. I begged her to stay beside me.
— And the children, what shall I do with them? What if a shell hits the house?
Anyway, she left me there and went down to the shelter with the children. I stayed alone, with the sound of the shells and the darkness. I said to myself, I’ll sleep in my own bed, it’s allright. But the shells whistled as though they were coming out of my ears. I got up and sat in the corridor. I said to myself, I’ll sleep sitting up. My body ducked with every shell, incoming and outgoing. I spent quite a unique sort of night. I wished I were a little child. Even our fantasies have become ridiculous. I slept sitting up, then awoke in the morning to a tremendous clamor. I don’t know what happened exactly, but the shell fell near the house.
I put the glass down on the table. Took the white candle and tried to put it down on the table. But it fell from my hand. I bent down, the floor was dirty and the candle light slanted off to the right. I took hold of it a second time and approached the woman dangling from the ceiling. She was screaming. I looked carefully: my wife’s face was white as she groped for something to clutch onto. Then, all of a sudden, I heard a terrible crash, and the ground was covered with glass. It was tiny and glittered in the candle light and my smell spread all over the house. I heard my wife scream. Then she dropped from the ceiling and started to cry. The lamp broke, she said. I’ve been stuck up there for half an hour, looking for it, and like a boor you didn’t offer any help. People are dying and you’re getting drunk. Doing nothing. The only lamp we own breaks and you just stand there. She snatched my glass away and threw it to the ground. The ’araq splashed up, white, its pungent smell spreading between the shattered glass. There was glass on my clothes. My wife came up to me and threw me out of the kitchen. Go on, get lost. I went to the balcony and sat alone. During the night, in the shelter, and amid everyone’s breathing, my wife lay beside me and breathed regularly. Then she began to sob. Crying, she moved over toward me, and I moved over toward her. When we’d finished, she told me I smelled of ’araq and that she didn’t like that smell. 2
Everything begins at eight o’clock in the morning. The employees come in quietly, greet one another. One of them opens up a newspaper, heads cluster, peer down or move away. Then the din starts. Scores of people brandishing medical forms. Kamel Abu Mahdi tries to control the lines. Keep the order, fellows, it’ll all get done in order. But no one respects the order. The rooms fill up with the smell of people coming in from everywhere. Kamel Abu Mahdi strives diligently to process the formalities quickly. He sits behind something akin to a glass window, his bald patch glistening with sweat, holding a smudged piece of kleenex which he passes over his head and face and uses to swat at the flies buzzing in the room. He puts the kleenex down, receives some medical document, records it in a big register in front of him. He’s very meticulous. Checks the doctors signature — no fraudulent form can escape the notice of Kamel Abu Mahdi. He’s come to know their tricks. They come here yelling, pushing, and shoving, and when they reach his glass window, their faces take on expressions of misery and affliction. They’re sick, or were sick. And to prove it, their faces lengthen and their eyes look down forlornly. On my honor, Mr. Kamel. But Mr. Kamel isn’t concerned with appearances; he checks everything for himself. That’s why the queue in front of his window is always slow. All the employees of the medical security department have lots of time to chat except this bald one. For he’s a man of principle, that’s what they say. But the bald one has his own opinion on the matter: he can’t, that’s what he tells his wife when he goes home in the evening, worn out. Of course, he doesn’t tell his wife that he has lots of time to chat — but that’s in the afternoons. This departments working hours are quite special; it’s the only government department that works in the afternoons. In the morning, the people and the smells; and in the afternoon — well, some people come, but the greater part of the time is spent gossiping and reading. Kamel Abu Mahdi doesn’t like gossiping. He doesn’t feel he fits in. Most of the employees are still university students, whereas he hates the university. When the employees talk about the university, he puts his bald head between his hands, his dirty fingernails showing, and stares down at the table. The same as when Wafa pesters him; she’s the pretty employee with whom Kamel tried to carry out his decision to be unfaithful to his wife, and who turned him down in an incredible way: she agreed. She said let’s meet in one of the cafàs on Hamra Street. Kamel went there, after having despaired of convincing his wife he had to visit the boss on a Sunday afternoon. He waited for three hours in the cafe, streaming with sweat for fear someone he knew should see him. Then, all of sudden, Hani appeared with the rest of the employees, all laughing. From then on, Kamel decided that being unfaithful was an even more complicated matter than the university. He looks up at Wafa talking to him with a lot of self-assurance. You’re mistaken, Kamel. You should finish your geography degree. Education is better than this dump. He looks at her, not knowing what to answer. As for her, she withholds the smile which she distributes so liberally to the rest of the employees.