Egyptian Earth

PART ONE

THAT WAS the summer I finished primary school. When I went home to my village, I heard a lot about Waseefa - whom I could not remember.

Usually the boys in the village would question me about Cairo. They would ask me to say a few sentences in English, or joke in English, or open an English book to show what the letters looked like. But this year they were all talking about Waseefa. We were loitering outside Sheikh Yusif's shop; he was the grocer, and his shop was on the main road from the village to the river.

I asked the boys who this Waseefa was.

One of them, adjusting his skullcap of grey wool, murmured:

'You mean, you've forgotten Waseefa, you mean Cairo's made you forget her?'

The boys smiled, and still I could not remember her. One boy raised his eyebrows. 'So you don't remember Waseefa who used to jump with us into the canal, all day long, four, or was it five years ago?'

And another boy, leaning on his little mulberry stick just as the older men lean on their staffs, broke in: 'She's come to the boil; she came back from the town last winter.' Then he turned to me, scratching his back, 'You really mean you don't remember her, my friend? Waseefa - your wife!' And the boys burst out laughing, and I joined in the laughter, suddenly remembering all that had taken place between Waseefa and myself.

The year before I went away to school we used to bathe in the small canal near the village, all of us together, boys and girls. We used to roll in the dust and cover our faces and heads with mud, to pretend we were demons. Then we jumped into the canal and plunged into the muddy water, our shouts mingling with the cries of ducks and geese which welcomed us with flapping wings.

One day we all met by the small canal as usual, just before the time for noon prayers. Before we undressed, Waseefa challenged us:

'For a change, let's swim in the river.'

She knew a place which was not too deep, where we could stay within our depths. For in those days we were too small to swim in the river, though we longed to do so, like the bigger boys who could even cross it.

She alone could climb the mulberry tree and shake it, so that we could eat the fruit; she alone could make necklaces from berries; and she alone climbed Abdul Hadi's frighteningly high sycamore, to come down with a handful of fruit, still green, for us to play with, or to eat. She would answer back any men who shouted at us when we played; if necessary she would insult them too. Therefore as soon as Waseefa proposed swimming in the river, we at once ran after her, enthusiastic to splash the water, and to dive into it like the bigger boys.

Near a deserted waterwheel we took off our clothes. It was easy to see that Waseefa was older than us, for her body already resembled that of a grown woman. None of the rest was more than eight, so we always examined Waseefa's body with interest. She was nearly twelve, her waist was already well defined, her hips too; the lines of her body were well formed, and we boys enjoyed touching her breasts and her back.

We piled our clothes in a heap under a tree. We then went into the water, our pride warring with our fear. Just at that moment some women came down to the river to fill their pitchers. One of them spied us. The hem of her black dress in her teeth, she rushed up and grabbed Waseefa by the thigh, screaming:

'Get out, you shameless slut! Pushing yourself like this among the boys ...'

Waseefa answered with her usual defiance:

'Slut yourself! Are you my mother or father? Be off with you. No one beats me, I am the daughter of the Chief Guard.'

At that moment another woman threw a handful of mud at her.

'What shame! You are not a baby, you almost are a woman, but already you act worse than Kadra.' Waseefa shouted back: 'What business is it of yours, you hypocrite? You have a good time yourself on feast-days!'

We were astonished by Waseefa's courage, and we stood defiantly in the water. But a third woman threatened to take our clothes to our families and leave us there naked. This got us out of the water in a hurry.

'Let's go,' Waseefa suggested, 'to the waterwheel which belongs to your cousin, Abdul Hadi. We can play in the shade of his sycamore.'

We all agreed. Waseefa got there first and leant against the trunk of the tree that shaded the waterwheel. Nearby there was a place for prayer, surrounded by a low fence. We all sat down in a group, near Waseefa, waiting expectantly to see what game she would think up. Some way off Abdul Hadi was bent over his hoe. Waseefa looked at Abdul Hadi, and under her breath said, 'Thank God, he's still at work.' She then asked the boys where Kadra was. One of them said she was with the other children, picking insects off Mahmoud Bey's cotton. Waseefa sighed, and looked at us all, and we waited to hear what game we would play - for she knew many. But this time she made no suggestion. Instead, she began to tell us about what she had seen, the day before, at her sister's wedding.

Her sister had married a man who had moved to the town and now wore a tarboosh, as well as a jacket over his gallabya. She told how, after her sister and the midwife had gone into the bedroom, she and Kadra had slipped in unnoticed. With the others she had waited for the groom. He came at last, wearing a silk gallabya, his brilliant red tarboosh was pushed forwards on to his forehead. But he was not carrying the white handkerchief which grooms should carry. And when he saw that the room was occupied, not only by his bride, but her mother, the midwife and several little girls, he drove them all out in a rage, insisting that he be left alone with his wife-to-be. Thereupon the midwife rushed out, beating her face and asking the Chief Guard if this kind of wedding was the new fashion in the cities. Muhammad Abu Suweilim rushed angrily inside and slapped the groom on his face and ordered him to use a handkerchief with his daughter, just as all grooms did with reputable girls of the village. In every way let him follow tradition!

So after a while the midwife went inside again and the groom turned the white handkerchief round his finger and again the two little girls slipped into the room.

We listened, all ears, to what Waseefa told us, and our hearts thumped, and we edged closer to her. She enjoyed her recital. Her eyes glittered and her lips parted. We nudged each other and anxiously entreated her to go on and tell us the whole story of her sister, the groom and the white handkerchief.

So Waseefa told us all, from the moment her sister screamed out, to the moment when shouts of joy greeted the white handkerchief, now stained with blood, which the groom threw to the people waiting outside. The men carried other handkerchiefs on the tips of their staffs, and went through the lanes of the village shouting, 'He's a good fellow!' while in their wake the women danced and clapped their hands above their heads and chanted excitedly:

'Tell her father, if he's hungry, to eat's all right!

His noble daughter's honoured us tonight!'

Waseefa left out not a single detail.

When she finished, we were silent. Some of us then began to hunt for a shady place under the tree.

Waseefa suddenly looked at the prayer-place.

'What about playing at weddings now?'

She chose the players. She herself would be the bride; she needed a girl to play the midwife, it was a pity that Kadra was away picking the worms from the cotton, and could not be with us; a smaller girl had to make do. For the groom, she chose me, because of my city connections, all my brothers being away at school in Cairo, where I would soon join them. For the bedroom Waseefa chose the prayer-place. First she went in, then the midwife, and last of all, myself. The other children stayed outside, the girls making the traditional cries of joy, while the boys took little sticks and waited.

But the game did not reach its climax, though I, as groom, was ready. For at that moment Sheikh Shinawi arrived. The Sheikh was the village mufti, the preacher at the mosque, the teacher of the children, the adviser of the old. A tall, stout man with a bull neck and a large stomach, he was a man who enjoyed fiestas and every opportunity for eating. We children believed that if he wanted, he could swallow a cow whole. He was popular, someone to joke with, though nearly everyone had been beaten by him in school. Now, from behind our 'bedroom' wall, the children's songs suddenly hushed, and their frightened shouts mingled with the sound of running feet. 'Look out! Sheikh Shinawi ... What a disaster ... Run off before he gets you ...' And at the same time we heard the authoritative voice of the Sheikh himself. It reminded us of the way he intoned the Koran when we had written a passage on our slates at school. We heard his voice (he was now on the bank by the sycamore tree) telling the children to be off, to keep away from the place of prayer, and not defile it.

The children's voices receded. We heard the click of the Sheikh's beads and his voice intoning some verses of the Koran. He blew his nose, spat in the direction of the children, took off his shoes, and stepped into the place of prayer.

We were taken utterly by surprise, Waseefa, the midwife and myself; we crouched against the wall of mud and reeds, trying to conceal ourselves in the folds of the mats. But in...