Friendly Fire by Alaa Aswany (best e book reader TXT) 📗

continued until the paper had been turned into little bits, scattered everywhere, which I gathered carefully in my hand. I then went into the kitchen and threw these out of the window that gave onto the light shaft in the center of the building and watched the breeze scatter them everywhere. Afterward, I exchanged a few ordinary words with my mother, left her, went to my room, and slept.

That evening, my mother woke me up and said, as she offered me a glass of tea, “You father wants to see you.” I wasn’t thinking about anything specific and said to myself I’d drink my tea, smoke a cigarette, and then wash my face and go see him.

The evening session was in full swing as usual and I was greeted by a thick cloud of smoke and the piercing smell of hashish. My father’s bloodshot eyes showed me that he’d been smoking for a while. Uncle Anwar sang out his welcome.

“Hello, Isam! Where’ve you been?”

My father invited me to sit down, so I sat, and Uncle Anwar held out the goza to me, but I declined because I had to study, to which Uncle Anwar responded, as he put the mouthpiece into his mouth, “What of it? Is that any reason not to? You can do your best studying when you’re stoned. Did you know that when I was in Secondary I’d roll my usual couple of cigarettes, settle back, and then the biggest bitch of a math problem wouldn’t take me a second?”

“Which would explain why you made such a mess of school, you loser!”

So cried Muhammad Irfan before bursting into laughter, and other low laughs issued from those present. I sensed that the atmosphere was strained for some reason and it wasn’t long before I realized that my entrance had interrupted a heated discussion between my father and el-Ghamdi.

El-Ghamdi was over fifty but seemed younger. He was good-looking, with wide green eyes and well-defined strong clear features. His chestnut hair was combed carefully back and he had a light rosy complexion. I found something off-putting about the man, the same thing I often find in Arabic language teachers—a meekness of spirit and a hateful clinging nature. El-Ghamdi smiled and said in a clear voice and measured tones, as though he were a professor delivering the lesson of the day to his students, “Your problem, Abduh, is that you’re an optimist. Too much so. You have to be aware that art and literature in Egypt are completely dead. We need at least half a century before the Egyptians can recover their interest in the arts, before a real public for the arts can be formed—with all due respect to the colleague who sent you the letter.”

He smiled as he spoke and stared with his trusting green eyes into the faces of those around him. It was clear that he was having an effect on them and that they were convinced by what he was saying. My father seemed agitated and bursting to express his disagreement. He squirmed in his seat and sighed. Then he said, his words rapid and staccato, “All the same, Ghamdi, you have to make allowances. A few individuals are enough to make a start.”

El-Ghamdi cried out in tones of histrionic disagreement and it became clear that he was determined to carry my father’s defeat to the bitter end.

“What start, my dear sir? Wake up! All this fuss because one admirer wrote you a letter, and you want to convince us that there’s a public for art in Egypt? Go down into the street and then you’ll get it! Make a tour of the bus stops! Look at the people’s faces! You think those people could give a damn about art? Those people? When people like that go to sleep all they dream about is finding chickens at the co-op!”

El-Ghamdi laughed and so did everyone else. I didn’t, though, and nor did Uncle Anwar, who busied himself cleaning the goza, though he did seem to be following the conversation with interest. El-Ghamdi bent forward where he was sitting and said with the air of one putting an end to the discussion of a trivial subject that has gone on too long, “Listen, Abduh. Let me set your mind at rest. What did you tell me the writer does for a living?”

“He’s a teacher,” mumbled my father in a low voice.

“I know, but what does he teach?”

My father said nothing for a moment and then he answered, “An art teacher, but….”

“But what? An art teacher and he’s not supposed to understand art? At least he’d have the basics that he studied. An art teacher, who interests himself in the progress of art? My dear fellow, that’s you! And you think that that’s a sign of artistic awareness? Give me a break!”

El-Ghamdi made a dismissive gesture with his hand, laughed, and looked at the others, like a chess champion who makes a final masterful move that brings the match to an end in his favor. Then he turned back to my father and said in dismissive tones oozing sarcasm, “My dear Professor Abd el-Ati, you’re giving this business of the letter more importance than it deserves.”

My father cried out to interrupt him, appearing for the first time to be starting to doubt his own opinion, “No! It’s got nothing to do with his being an art teacher! I sensed from what he said that he’s someone who understands.”

“Understands? Someone like that understands?”

El-Ghamdi posed these questions and let out a sarcastic

laugh, the malign intent of his words clear to all, since how could anyone who liked Abd el-Ati’s work understand anything. My father’s face clouded with real anger and he muttered fervently, “Yes, Ghamdi, he understands. I’m certain he understands.”

My father looked around him as though he was searching for something. Then he saw me and said, “Isam, go get the letter from inside.”

I looked at him and found myself rising slowly and turning toward the door. Perhaps interpreting my