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

up and the problem kept the employees busy for a whole week until, finally, they were successful and Umm Imad, pushed by the others, went to Dr. Sa‘id’s office, apologized, and kissed his head; indeed, she would have kissed his hand had he not pulled it back and declared in front of everyone, in a tone of voice indicating the opposite, that Umm Imad had stolen nothing, that he’d found the money where he’d forgotten it in the pocket of his jacket, and that Umm Imad in fact was a very decent woman, one whom he loved like his own daughter. I was present and at the moment when Abd el-Alim, the office messenger, proposed that everyone recite the first chapter of the Qur’an to bless the reconciliation, I felt that what was happening in front of me was not real, that the people seated there—Dr. Sa‘id, Umm Imad, and the employees—were all actors who were playing out a well-rehearsed scene after which they would straightaway take off their costumes and resume their original characters. This strange idea of mine must have been apparent on my face because I noticed that everyone avoided looking at me when they were speaking. I had no doubt that my colleagues hated me and longed for an opportunity to do me harm.

From my first day in the department, I had determined to despise and look down on them. Without saying anything, I knew how to let them feel their insignificance. It happened at this period that I needed glasses and I picked out round frames made of thin plastic. I felt that these gave my face a superior cast that was somehow provocative. Every morning I’d go to my office with the newspapers under my arm and a huge book that I chose deliberately as one that I knew no one in the office would ever have heard of—el-Isfahani’s Songs, or Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, or Oswald Spengler’s Decline of the West. Once I’d done with the newspapers, I’d open my huge tome and immerse myself in my reading. When the room filled up with employees and the noise level grew, I’d raise my head from the book and give those present a steady stare, without speaking. The noise would then die down right away and sometimes they’d withdraw from the room.

I resolutely refused their insistent attempts to get closer to me, to find some common factor, and when any of the employees came up to me smiling and asked me hesitantly, “What are you reading, Mr. Isam?” I’d answer him seriously and without pausing, “To tell you the truth this book is extremely specialized. You’d find it difficult to understand.” Then I’d start reading again and he’d retire, silenced.

After a month in the department, I could almost touch their hatred for me with my hands. Dr. Sa‘id treated me with caution. I could see dislike and alarm in his eyes. For him, I was something mysterious that he feared and knew was superior to him. One morning, he came to me, reproached me laughingly for not coming to see him in his office like the rest of my coworkers, and said, “My dear man, do come and drink a glass of tea with us. They’re a nice bunch and we keep ourselves entertained.”

A malicious pleasure filled me, because he’d provided me with a perfect opportunity to give him a slap in the face. I looked at him seriously, as though I hadn’t understood. Then I told him quietly, resuming my reading, “I don’t have time for entertainment.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw his face darken with anger and he said as he left the room, “Fine. Don’t come. I shouldn’t have asked. Do you think we have nothing better to do? We’re up to our necks in work.”

It occurred to me then that he wouldn’t let my slight pass unpunished and that a tough battle was inevitable. And I was right.

During the month of Ramadan, Dr. Sa‘id transformed himself into a pious believer. His long green string of prayer beads never left his hand, he covered his bald patch with a crocheted white skullcap, and on his feet he wore open sandals from which his thick swollen toes with their horny nails protruded. He spent his days between his office and the bathroom, where he would repeat his ablutions, and he kept up a flow of “Glory be to God!”s, leading the employees in their prayers with strict punctuality, and reciting the Qur’an to himself from a large copy that he kept open in front of him on his desk.

On the first day of Ramadan, I sat down at my desk, opened the papers, and started reading. As was my custom every morning, I asked Abd el-Alim to get me a cup of coffee. I noticed that he seemed reluctant and was muttering something in a low voice but I paid no attention and went back to reading. Half an hour went by and Abd el-Alim did not turn up with the coffee. When he came in on some other errand I questioned him and he answered insolently, “No coffee today. Season’s greetings. Happy Ramadan.”

Before I could respond, he went on quickly, “It’s Dr. Sa‘id’s instructions. No coffee or tea during Ramadan.”

Abd el-Alim was an aged peasant, from Minuf. He spied on the employees and passed on information to Dr. Sa‘id. Like the rest, he hated me and the pleasure he took in getting his revenge was obvious from his tone of voice, because he was a servant and servants derive an ecstatically malicious pleasure from seeing one of their masters in a position of weakness.

I looked at him in exasperation and was on the verge of calling him names and ordering him to make the coffee and let whatever might happen happen when I thought better of it, lit a cigarette, and went back to reading.

That night I stayed awake until the call for the dawn