the House
of Jasmine
the House
of Jasmine
by Ibrahim Abdel Meguid
Translated and with an afterword by Noha Radwan
First published in 2012 by
INTERLINK BOOKS
An imprint of Interlink Publishing Group, Inc.
46 Crosby Street, Northampton, Massachusetts 01060
www.interlinkbooks.com
Original Arabic copyright © Ibrahim Abdel Meguid, 1986, 2012
English translation copyright © Noha Radwan, 2012
Afterword copyright © Noha Radwan, 2012
Cover image copyright © Andesign101
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
'Abd al-Majid, Ibrahim.
[Bayt al-yasamin. English]
The house of jasmine / by Ibrahim Abdel Meguid; translated by Noha Radwan.
—1st American ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56656-882-1 (pbk.)
1. Egypt—History—1970–1981—Fiction. I. Radwan, Noha M. II. Title.
PJ7804.M323B3913 2012
892.7'36—dc23
2011049566
Printed and bound in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To request a copy of our 48-page full-color catalog, please call 1-800-238-LINK,
visit our website at www.interlinkbooks.com, or write to:
Interlink Publishing, 46 Crosby Street, Northampton, MA 01060
1
The people hauled a corpse in a sack out of Mahmudiyya Canal and no sooner had they opened the sack, than they saw an amazingly beautiful woman slowly coming back to life. Horrified, they stepped away from her, and she turned into a column of fire. They were shocked, and dropped unconscious or dead, while she began running naked in the streets, her blond hair flying behind her, and everyone who looked at her was charmed, began running after her, and was lost without a trace. . .
I had not thought about this ahead of time or planned for it. I had been wondering, ever since the bus filled up with the sixty workers and left the shipyard gate, why they had chosen me. There was no reason for me to be afraid, but at the same time I didn’t feel particularly encouraged.
The bus went down Maks Street, through Qabbari, then Kafr ‘Ashri and Basal Port, and entered Saba’ Banat Street, and all the while I neither spoke to anybody nor did anybody speak to me.
How did I fail to note the journey? It’s only a short distance, but it’s quite distinctive, for at the intersection at the end of Maks Street there is always a traffic jam, the intersection is always crowded with carts, trucks, trailers, the bus and the tram, and you can always hear a woman shouting. Suddenly the tranquility of the rest of Maks Street and the serenity of the buildings on both sides of it disappear. This serenity always makes you feel that you are walking alone and at night, but after that damned intersection, the noise never ceases to plague you. As soon as you reach al-Tarikh Bridge, the smell of stored cotton and jute assails you—a musty smell mixed with that of the grains stored in the ancient granaries of the credit bank. You see a man urinating against the wall of the granaries and another defecating by the wall with his face to the street. The road becomes rough, and the bus goes bumping over it, while the tram, which is usually running alongside the bus, rattles on. When you reach the intersection of Basal Port, where Khedive and Saba’ Banat streets meet, the air becomes refreshingly cooler, because of the height of the buildings and the width of Khedive Street, which ends at the port. There you can sleep in peace. But we have passed all this. . .
My head almost hit the roof when I stood up. I bent a little and surveyed their faces. I felt like shouting insults at them for their eerie silence. I smiled. Alexandria is usually filled with bright light at this time of the year, her sea stretching leisurely into the distance, while the windows of her houses open like a woman drying her hair in the sunlight, and the girls stroll cheerfully in the streets.
I knew that the sudden traffic jam from Sidi Gabir Station to the white palace of Ras al-Tin would not disturb the city, would not mar her appearance. And here she was: indifferent to it all. Now I was out of that traffic jam, but Saba’ Banat Street seemed to be at peace with the vehicles driving on it, with the stores on its sides open but quiet. Later I heard one of the people who had been in the traffic jam say that it didn’t last long, and I can testify to that account, for how could you otherwise explain the relaxed atmosphere of Saba’ Banat Street, as if what happened in the city didn’t concern it?
This little city is enchanted; she can rid herself of her garbage even when the garbage collectors and street sweepers don’t appear on her streets. It’s as if she had an agreement with secret ghosts to keep her beautiful.
“Of course you know that you will each get half a pound after the reception. . . ” I said.
“. . . ”
“What do you say you each take a quarter of a pound now, and then just leave?” I said, and I must have frowned, because I felt my eyes getting wider.
“You mean we don’t get to see Nixon?” one of them asked.
“It’s up to you if you see him or not,” another answered.
The driver stopped the bus when I told him to, and the workers got off, laughing. I don’t think that the traffic policeman at the end of the street cared about the bus blocking the intersection of Haqqaniyya marketplace, obstructing the tram and the pedestrian crossing.
As for my mother, who must have been in the small courtyard of the house, throwing wet bread crumbs to the chickens, I don’t think that her heart fluttered, or her chest felt tight, at the moment when her son, who had the strange name, committed a crime. . .
#
It was not yet past one o’clock when I found myself on the sidewalk in front of Crystal Café, where I had been sitting to watch. The motorcade had passed, and the crowds had slipped down the side alleys leading to Manshiyya and Raml Station. The space around me appeared white and clear, with the endless blue sea, the immense sky, and me standing alone as if I had showed up after the end of the world. I almost laughed at the thought of a new world beginning with me. Then I shivered. It would be difficult to be Adam, and more difficult to have a world empty of everybody except me.
I hadn’t noticed that the people who had lined the sidewalk along the seashore had crossed the street. Maybe they all retreated and fell into the sea. I saw a single man in the distance, where the shore curves and disappears and the pier to the castle of Qaitbay seems to extend from the tall buildings that occupy the view. Maybe the people followed the motorcade to the palace, and this man was their tail end. But enough time hasn’t passed for that. And I wouldn’t have missed it.
I pictured the president’s wide, radiant smile, and Nixon’s astonished smile, his red face and prominent cheeks, his right arm waving as if painting an endless wall. On both sides of the convertible, which was as wide as some mythical duck, there were two Americans, whose eyes were fixed on the high windows overlooking the street. Each had his hand resting on a gun at his side. Why was the one on the water’s edge looking up, when there was nothing over the sea but the open sky?
I