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Truth be told, nothing is more painful to me than the matter of my family’s simplicity.
#Bato rabbits free
Though I shall add a hint of magic and refinement to our relationship, and though I shall play free with the truth when talking about my family, if I want to raise their standing in his eyes, I shall have to make a point of the simplicity of country life. Your daughter was a colleague in the Department of Oriental Languages and we graduated together. The Pasha reclined in the bosom of my mind. He lit it with a practised hand and went on telling the story of some trip through Imbaba. It is from this bastion that I come to you, sir…īut I shall wedge a few up-to-date phrases in there: Inflation Development The Spirit of the Age A Sense of Being, of Individuality The Modern Conscience The Guardian The Times Figra… Figaro. So you wouldn’t describe him as a man with his finger on the world’s pulse? As you know, Your Excellency, these farmers are the true cornerstone of the economy and Your Excellency is surely aware that the countryside is the bastion that preserves our traditions and morals. No, I shan’t say peasant: My father’s a farmer from Upper Egypt. And your dad… I mean, your father? My father, sir, is a peasant from the south. Well then, you must know Professor Nasr Dous? Yes, I know him and oddly enough, Your Excellency, Professor Nasr Dous happened to be a teacher at Dairut Secondary. Yes indeed, and I had been involved in uncovering the crime.Īnd before Bank Misr where had you worked? I was a teacher at a foreign school that closed its doors eight years ago. His Excellency the Pasha naturally inquired if I’d been working there when it was defrauded of 495,00 pounds. I work as a translator at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and before that I was head accountant at the Doqqi branch of Bank Misr. I was making my way towards a critical test, me: Nobody, son of Nobody, of the family of Nobody. The clouds were scattered and colourful, the weather pleasant and mild. I leant back and could no longer see him. The taxi driver, whose features closely resembled those of Farouq Abbas, a wealthy colleague from work, observed that all people were bastards and then-having solicited my opinion of his stance on traffic cops-proceeded to lose himself in a forest of highly detailed complaint. Would it be better if I smoked in front of His Excellency the former PM? Should I initiate the conversation? I waved down a taxi, making sure that it looked neat as possible.
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My watch begged to differ and ticked past nine a.m. And now, early one morning in Haram Street, here was my exhausted frame, fighting fatigue, unable to move. I chose a tie, a suit, socks, picked out words and insinuations, times when I would hold my peace. If I was going to fret over this she’d be forced to quarrel with me.Īll night long I wrestled with my demons tried to pull myself together. Her father was just her father, she whispered, and I must shake off these thoughts. This done, she stood up vaguely, stretched out her arm and handed me a smile. For a moment she let her eyes rove over me then lapped up water droplets with the edge of her tongue. My sweetheart laughed and gestured for water. I gazed into her eyes and my voice a whisper, underscored my point: It’s not a father I’ll be meeting, it’s a former prime minister… Nevertheless, I was not going to meet her father. Her efforts, I said, were deserving of my fullest admiration.
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She (fingertips tickling my chin) cared for nothing in this world but me. She (she laughed) had paved the way: all that remained was to charge. Her father, she said (like any father) loved his daughter and she (my sweetheart assumed an air of gravity) had cleared all obstacles for this encounter. She had tweaked my ear, brought her eyes closer, caught her breath for an instant, then laughed. I’d told my sweetheart, the evening before, that I was terrified of meeting her father. I donned the dark suit, the tight new shoes and leapt into the street. Mustajab was prolific but remains largely untranslated, though perhaps his best book ديروط الشريف ومن التاريخ السري لنعمان عبد الحافظ which combines a novella written in 1983 and a short story collection produced a year later, has been translated by Humphrey Davies with the title Tales from Dayrut. A short story by Muhammed Mustajab from his collection القصص الأخرى (Madbouli Bookshop, 1986).