The House of Jasmine Read Online Free Page A

laughter while playing backgammon with Hassanayn, Magid, and ‘Abd al-Salam. I didn’t want to tell them anything about this. Al-Dakruri had come into my office, looking even paler than usual.
    â€œPrepare yourself for the Labor Day celebrations. I have recommended you because you know Cairo and Hilwan well.”
    It took a tremendous effort to keep my surprise from rising to my face. I had never visited either Cairo or Hilwan, and I was also trying to hide my anxiety long enough to find out the whole story. Al-Dakruri said that some cowardly worker had sent a letter to the president, claiming that the shipyard’s chairman of the board was preventing the workers from traveling to join the President in celebrating their day. Al-Dakruri also mentioned that he was upset that the letter was written in terrible handwriting—I had used my left hand to write it, then mailed it from the main post office in Manshiyya.
    The president’s office had mailed the letter back to the shipyard with “We received this letter” written on it.
    â€œSo they haven’t asked for anyone to travel to Cairo?”
    He gave me a sarcastic smile, wished me a good trip, and left. I could hardly believe it.
    #
    I stood for a while watching the workers arrive, each carrying a small lunch bag even though the administration had promised to give them lunch and a bottle of the rare Spatis soda. The square bustled with movement as sunlight spread over the place and the ground glistened, still wet with dew. I was excited. The drivers of the Peugeot taxis were yelling: “Cairo, Cairo!” I was thinking of the two hundred workers. Each one was supposed to receive four pounds for the trip, but I was going to give them two. Out of the four-hundred-pound profit, I was going to give a hundred to each of the drivers and keep two hundred, which I could throw in the sly, pock-marked face of ‘Abdu
al-Fakahani.
    A pleasant feeling of security came over me. I love this city, which drifts from winter into summer as if it were floating in an enchanted universe. There was not a single dark cloud in the sky. Only a few white clouds, like children strolling in the open space. Thank you, Lord, for not forsaking your son, Shagara Muhammad ‘Ali, whose strange name has given him trouble during his childhood and youth, and is still distasteful to some of your impatient worshippers. Oh, Lord, please finish my act well, and don’t disappoint me by killing my mother.
    The two buses started down the road, which was shining with dew. The fog had lifted off the road but lingered in the fields to its sides. In a few spots, green trees appeared to be floating in a wide sea of white. There were many pigeons lazily hopping on the side of the road, but I was gazing at the tops of the casuarina and camphor trees looking for crows, ibix, or hoopoes. I could see that Usta Zinhum was looking at me and chuckling. We had decided to spend the day in Tanta. . .

3
    There is not a single person in Dikhayla who does not know Hajj ‘Abd al-Tawwab. He owns the largest fleet of vehicles trans-porting building stone from the mountain quarries. He is a good man who goes on the pilgrimage every year and never misses the ‘Umra during Ragab and Ramadan. God granted him a son after thirty years. One day, at the break of dawn, the people were startled by the screams of his wife, who was running barefoot down the Mosque Street and jumping in the air. Since God had granted him a son, it was the habit of Hajj ‘Abd al-Tawwab to spend most of his nights in prayer to God and repetitions of His name. That night, he went on chanting, “Ya Latif, Ya Latif,” not listening to the warnings of his wife. “Ya Latif” is one of the names of God which has an immediate universal effect, or so said one of the clergymen who later commented on the incident.
    The ceiling of the room was cleft in two, and down came a large radiant white bird, which