The Mirage (4 page)

“It serves you right! It serves you right!” she said in an agitated tone. “This is what happens to people who disobey their mothers. God will forgive us for anything except defying our mothers. This is what it’s like to play with other children. So, how was it?”

I wasn’t pained by the beating half as much as I was by my defeat before her. Lying, I assured her that I’d been the one at fault, and that I was the one who had attacked the other boy first.

I found it strange that my mother herself didn’t mix with people very much, and that we rarely received visitors in our house. Vexed by her isolation, my grandfather would urge her constantly to spend more time with people as a way of cheering herself up. Then God Himself decided to send her some company: my mother’s sister and her family came to stay as guests at our house. My aunt lived with her husband, who worked as an Arabic teacher in Mansoura, and they’d come to Cairo to spend a month of their summer
vacation at our house. Suddenly I found myself in the midst of six boys and a girl, and despite my mother’s best efforts, things slipped out of her control. The eldest of the boys was ten while the youngest was still crawling. The quiet house was transformed into a circus hopping with monkeys and other wild creatures. I frisked and frolicked till I was nearly delirious with joy. We played al-gadeed, hopscotch, choo-choo train, and hide-and-go-seek.

When we got tired of being in the house, we’d take off for the street, and I could hardly believe my good fortune. My mother wanted to prevent me from going out with them, but my aunt would object, saying, “Let him play with the other children, Sister! Even if he were a girl, it wouldn’t be right for you to confine her too soon!”

The two sisters had distinctive temperaments despite the many ways in which they were similar. My aunt was exceedingly plump and was the cheerful sort that likes to joke and laugh. She didn’t cause herself misery by worrying unduly about her children, and when my grandfather left the house, she would sing with a lovely voice in imitation of Munira al-Mahdiya. As for my mother, she seemed to be the very opposite of her sister. She was thin, reclusive, full of fears and worries, and almost abnormally attentive and affectionate. The circumstances of her life had frayed her nerves, and the minute she found herself alone, she’d be engulfed by a cloud of melancholy. She may not have been entirely pleased that her sister stayed with us that month, not due to any lack of affection toward her but, rather, because her sister’s children had monopolized my time and attention, thereby spoiling my undivided allegiance to her. Once she complained to my aunt of her fear that I might be hurt while playing in the street. My aunt just laughed nonchalantly
and, in a slightly reproachful tone, said to her, “So is your son flesh and blood while mine are made of steel? Be strong and have more trust in God!”

As for me, so overwhelming was my bliss that I forgot all my mother’s instructions. I gave myself over to fun and enjoyment for that entire month, which had broken in on my monotonous life like a happy dream. I flung myself into the arms of diversion the way a starving man falls upon a long-awaited meal, and not for a single moment did I feel bored or tired. When we came back to the house at night, I would put my uncle’s turban on my head, mimic the way he talked, and burp the way he burped. Following the burp I would mutter, “Oh, pardon me, please!” to the delighted laughter of everyone around me.

That month was like a dream. But dreams don’t last, and like a dream, it came to an end. I found myself looking on dolefully as bags were packed and piled up near the door in preparation for their departure. Then the time came for the inevitable parting with its embraces and goodbyes. The carriage picked them up and bore them away as I bade them farewell from the balcony, tearful and disconsolate.

My mother said to me, “That’s enough playing and running around in the street for you. Settle down now and go back to the way you were before, when you didn’t leave me and I didn’t leave you.”

I listened to her in silence. I loved her with all my heart, but I also had a yen to play and have fun. Some time after this my mother brought us a young servant girl whom she allowed to play with me under her supervision. She was better than no playmate at all, at least. She was a homely girl, but she was better for me than the aging chef and old Umm Zaynab.

My mother performed her prayers regularly. I began imitating her when she prayed, and it seems she saw in this a fitting opportunity to teach me the principles of our religion as she understood it. She started out by teaching me about heaven and hell, thereby adding new words to my vocabulary of fear. This time, however, they were accompanied by sincere emotion, love, and faith.

T
his state of affairs between my mother and me led to a delay in my school enrollment. I got to be nearly seven years old without having received the least bit of education. Finally, though, my grandfather intervened. He called me one day as he sat on the porch on that long seat of his that rocked back and forth. He tweaked my ear playfully, then said to me, “For a long time you’ve wanted to be able to join other boys your age. Well, now God has set you free, and we’re going to let you share their life for a long, long time. You’re going to school!”

I listened to him in bewilderment at first, since I didn’t know a thing about school. Then, realizing that he was granting me my freedom, I looked at my mother questioningly, not knowing whether to believe him or not. And great was my amazement when I saw her smile at me encouragingly with a look of acquiescence on her face.

Nearly bursting with joy, I asked my grandfather excitedly, “Will I play at school like the other children?”

“Of course, of course,” replied the old man with a nod of his hoary head. “You’ll play a lot and learn a lot. Then later you’ll become an officer like me.”

“When will I go?” I asked impatiently.

“Very soon,” he said with a smile. “I’ll register you tomorrow.”

Autumn was upon us, and the next morning they dressed me up in a suit, a fez, and new shoes, which brought back happy memories of the holiday. My grandfather took me to Atfat Qasim, which wasn’t far from our house. We went into the second building we came to on the left, which was Roda National Primary School. The school, which had been chosen due to its proximity to our house, consisted of a medium-sized courtyard and a one-story building with three rooms: two classrooms and the principal’s office. The principal—who was also the owner of the school—received my grandfather respectfully and even reverently, and in his presence he treated me with kindness, complimenting me on my cleanliness and my new clothes. Consequently, I felt friendly toward him and expected good things from him in the future. Within minutes, I’d been enrolled along with the other students in the school. My grandfather paid the fees, and we headed home.

As we left the school my grandfather said to me, “Now you’ll be an excellent pupil! School will start next Saturday.”

My mother announced her satisfaction with the new development. However, she wasn’t able to conceal the melancholy she felt. Seeing this, my grandfather was annoyed with her and said to her somewhat sharply, “What will you do if, once he’s seven years old, his father reclaims him?”

“Over my dead body!” she cried, gaping at my grandfather with horror and anguish.

On the appointed Saturday, my grandfather took me to school, then returned home. As he was about to take leave of me I clung to his hand, feeling a sudden pang of fear that caused me to forget how I’d longed for this very moment. I even suggested that he take me back home with him, but he simply laughed that resounding laugh of his and, pointing to the other pupils, said, “Meet your new family!”

I stood near the door feeling more flustered than I’d ever felt in my life, and a feeling of regret came over me. Looking timidly and apprehensively at the pupils scattered about the courtyard, I hoped no one would notice me. But my smart new clothes caught people’s attention, and I lowered my gaze feeling agonizingly shy. How long will this torture go on? I wondered.

However, a boy came up and greeted me, then stood with me as though we were friends. Then he asked me for no apparent reason, “Did your father bring you?”

Since I considered my grandfather both a grandfather and a father, I nodded in the affirmative.

“What does he do?” he asked, “and what’s his name?”

Even though conversation was a cause of distress for me, I still welcomed this question in particular, and replied proudly, “Colonel Abdulla Bey Hasan.”

The boy told me that his father was So-and-so Bey too, though I’ve forgotten his name now. Then, as though he’d grown weary of my quiet, stuffy manner, he left me and went to join some other buddies. Feeling lonelier than ever, I wondered: Will I be able to fit in with these boys? Will I really be able to play with them, or will the disaster that befell me in our courtyard at home be repeated here too? My heart was gripped with fear, and if I’d had the courage to retreat and go home on the spot, I would have. Then the
bell rang, delivering me from my thoughts, whereupon they stood us in a line and brought us into the classroom. It hadn’t occurred to me up to that point that school was anything but a huge playground. However, when I sat down at one of the school desks and the elderly teacher began the new school year with the traditional instructions having to do with maintaining order and not moving around or talking in class, I was certain that what I’d entered was nothing less than a prison. Perplexed and disturbed, I thought: Did my grandfather make a mistake, or did they deceive him? My imagination went soaring home, where I pictured my mother sitting alone. Do you suppose she’s forgotten me? I wondered. At around this time she’ll be overseeing Umm Zaynab as she sweeps the rooms and dusts the furniture. Hasn’t she thought about me? Can she bear to part with me for the entire day?

When the first lesson ended, I hadn’t heard a word the teacher said. And it was no wonder, since I’d decided that this first day would also be my last. During recess I saw the principal passing by the classroom door, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Not having forgotten the kindness he’d shown me when I came to enroll with my grandfather, I approached him without hesitation. As I came up to him timidly, he turned toward me with an uncomprehending look on his face. Then he cast me a harsh, quizzical gaze, and I thought he’d forgotten who I was.

In a voice that was barely audible I said, “I’m Colonel Abdulla Bey Hasan’s son.”

“And what do you want?” he asked in astonishment.

Gathering up my courage, I said, “I want to go home.”

“Get back to your desk, damn you!” he thundered in my face.

Stunned by his shouting, I returned to my place, nearly swooning from fright and anguish. From that moment onward, I stayed put, terrorized and distraught. As the day dragged on I started to feel I needed to go to the bathroom, but I was so afraid, I held it in. Not once did I think of asking the teacher for permission to leave the class. Even during recess, I was so apprehensive, I couldn’t bring myself to ask someone to show me where the toilet was. I started fidgeting and writhing like someone who’s been stung, pressing my knees together in torment and anguish. The time passed heavily and miserably until, when the bell rang at last, I took off as fast as my legs would carry me. I reached the house in a matter of seconds and ascended the stairs in leaps and bounds. In the flat I found my mother waiting for me, and when she saw me she exclaimed, “Welcome, light of my eyes!”

But when she happened to glance at my trousers, a look of distress came over her and she murmured softly, “My Lord, you’ve wet yourself!”

As for me, I burst into sobs, saying, “I’ll never go back to school! Grandpa doesn’t know anything about the place. I hate the principal, the teachers, and the pupils. Tell me I don’t have to go back, and I’ll never leave you as long as I live!”

Drying my tears and undressing me, she said gently, “Don’t say things like that. You’ll get used to it and like it. After all, how can you stay at home when all the other boys are in school? And how will you become an officer like your grandpa if you leave school?”

I kept up my crying and my importunate complaints as she spoke soothing words to me in an attempt to alleviate my distress. However, she warned me not to let my grandfather
hear me complain lest he be angry with me and look down on me. So, for the first time in my life, she turned a deaf ear to my laments.

As a way of encouraging me to persevere in my new life, my mother decided to escort me to school every morning. We would arrive there together, after which I would go into the schoolyard while she stood on the opposite sidewalk. Once inside, I would stay glued to the fence, exchanging glances and smiles with her through its iron bars as melancholy descended over my heart and angst gripped me about the neck. I loathed school and everything about it. Nevertheless, I was forced to go, and neither defiance nor tears got me anywhere. Hence, I knew for a certainty that I’d been doomed to a long imprisonment. For the first time I found myself envying adults their freedom, and housewives the luxury of staying at home.