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

in anger this time, “I said give me a ride!” Then he tried to jump up and get on and we both lost our balance and almost fell over.

I don’t remember what I was thinking right then but something propelled me toward him and I found myself helping him onto the bike. He leaned his weight on my shoulder and the crutch and after several strenuous attempts was able to raise his body up high and then get his sound leg over to the other side of the bike and sit on the saddle. His plan was to hold his artificial leg out in front to avoid the pedal and at the same time to push the other pedal hard with his sound leg. This was extremely difficult but, in the end, possible. Izzat settled himself on the bike and with my hand on his back I started to push him forward gently and carefully, and when the bike started to move and he began pedaling, I let go. He lost his balance and wobbled violently but quickly recovered his poise, straightened out, and started to control the bike. He had to make a huge effort to pedal with one leg while keeping his balance but moments passed and the bike proceeded slowly and Izzat passed first the big tree and then the canteen kiosk and I found myself clapping and shouting, “Well done, Izzat!”

He kept going in a straight line until he had almost reached the end of the playground where he had to make a turn, which scared me. But he made the turn carefully and skillfully and when he came back the other way he seemed confident and in complete control of the bike—so much so that he changed gear once, and then again, until the rushing air made his hair fly.

The bicycle was charging ahead at great speed now and Izzat passed down the pathway that extended between the trees, his form appearing and disappearing amid the crisscrossing foliage. He’d done it, and I watched him as he leaned back on the bike, which was flying like an arrow now, raised his head, and let out a long, loud cry that echoed around the playground—a strange, drawn-out, cracked cry that sounded as though it had been long imprisoned within his chest. He was shouting, “See! Seeeeeeeeee!”

A little later, when I ran over to him, the bike was on its side on the ground, the front wheel still spinning and whirring, and the dull-colored artificial leg, with its sock, shoe, and dark, hollow inside, lying separated from his body at a distance, looking as though it had just been cut off or was a separate creature with its own independent life. Izzat was lying face down, his hand on the place were the leg had been amputated and which had started to bleed and make a stain that was spreading over his ripped pants. I called to him and he slowly raised his head. There were cuts on his forehead and lips and his face looked strange to me without the glasses. He gazed at me for a moment as though gathering his wits, then said in a weak voice, with the ghost of a smile, “Did you see me ride the bike?”

Dearest Sister Makarim

IN THE NAME OF GOD, the Merciful, the Compassionate, from whom we seek help, and praise and blessing upon Our Prophet Muhammad, Lord of All Mankind, and upon his kin and companions, one and all.

To continue:

Dearest sister Makarim,

We long so very much to see you, my dear sister. I swear, my dear Makarim, our thoughts are with you always and just yesterday I woke with a terrible start in the middle of the night to the sound of someone weeping—it was your sister-in-law Batta. She was awake and crying hard and she said to me, “Hasan, I just can’t bear the thought of Makarim all on her own over there with Mum.”

Our hearts are with you, dear sister, and all of us—me, Batta, and the children—pray to God, Mighty and Glorious, that He inspire you with patience and steady your heart. You have proved yourself, my dear Makarim, a true daughter, and anyone who knows what you’ve done for our mother in her illness can testify to that. You must know, my dear sister, that your care of our mother will not go unrewarded, for a single prayer from our beloved mother will open wide to you the gates of Paradise, God willing.

My beloved sister, I have shown our mother’s x-rays and tests to the doctors here and they all confirm that the growth—and I’m so sorry to have to tell you this—is in the tertiary stage, meaning that surgery will not help and the only solution is chemotherapy. Makarim, you are a Believer and have been raised to obey God and submit to His decree and you know, dear sister, that sickness and health, life and death, are in the hands of the Creator, Glorious and Sublime, and that the children of Adam have no say in them.

I imagine, my dear sister, that you would like to know of my welfare. I swear to God, my dear Makarim, that the last thing I’d wish to do is add to your worries. You have enough to deal with. Since Batta and I got back from our last pilgrimage we’ve had nothing but troubles, praise God for all things. Last month, I felt a terrible pain in my right side and it got so bad at night that I fell out of bed onto the floor, weeping like a child. They did tests at the hospital and the doctor told me my left kidney had huge stones in it and they’d have to do an operation. To cut a long story short, my dear sister, I had the operation and they kept me in the hospital for three weeks. I swear by the Almighty, my dear sister Makarim, the whole thing—operation, tests, and