She entered adolescence but did not have to dream secretly of romance for long, for a friend of her brother Amer called Hussein Qabil, who owned an antique shop in Khan al-Khalili, came and asked for her hand. He had kept her brother company up to the baccalaureate then taken over from his father when he died. Despite his youth, his manly features catapulted him into manhood early. He had a huge body, a large head, and sharp eyes, and was generous and very well-off. Unlike Sadriya and Matariya, Samira was wedded to her husband in an outer suburb, in one of the apartments of a new building on Ibn Khaldun Street. This suited her very well for she met many Jewish families, learned how to play the piano, and raised a puppy called Lolli that she would take with her on walks around al-Zahir Baybars Garden. When Amr heard about this he said, both protesting and accepting the situation, “It’s God’s will. There is no power or strength but in God.”
Hussein Qabil was wealthy and generous, so fountains of luxury burst forth in his house and Samira could gratify her hidden longing for style and elegant living. Her happiness was compounded by her husband’s good company and manners, and the fact that he addressed her as “Samira Hanem” in front of others while she called him “Hussein Bey.” Sincere patriotism and deep piety filled the man’s heart and he spread them to everyone around him, and so the 1919 Revolution penetrated Samira’s heart in a way it did not the hearts of her sisters. Similarly, her piety was the most sound of the young women because she was the least influenced by Radia’s mysteries. She gave birth to Badriya, Safa, Hakim, Faruq, Hanuma, and Salim, all of whom enjoyed a generous share of beauty and intelligence. The parents worked together to bring them up well in an atmosphere of religion and principle. From the first day she said to Hussein Qabil, “We will educate the girls along with the boys.” He agreed enthusiastically.
Samira’s glow was enough to stir jealousy among the Murakibi and Dawud families. Yet her life was not devoid of great sorrow, for she lost Badriya and Hakim and his family, and anxiety about Salim broke her heart at various points in her life. Astonishingly, she met these calamities with a strong, patient, and faithful will and was able to confront and endure them. But the forbearance with which she endured her sorrow also made her vulnerable to accusations of coldness.
“You should believe in amulets, spells, incense, and tombs. There is no knowledge but that of the forefathers,” Radia said to her. Samira secretly asked herself whether it was these that had protected Sadriya and Matariya from calamities.
Death came and Hussein Qabil died a year after Salim was born, four years after her own father’s death. He left her nothing except a depository of antiques. She sold them as the need arose and lived on the proceeds. He died just as his children were moving from secondary school to university.
“What’s left for you now, Samira?” Radia asked.
“A depository of antiques,” she replied.
“No, you still have the Creator of heaven and earth,” said her mother.
Shin
Shazli Muhammad Ibrahim
THE SECOND SON OF MATARIYA 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.”