Artwork by Dimosthenis Gallis
. . . but more to the point, my dear sir, allow me to tell you of a trivial event drawn from my own experience, in which you may — who knows? — find something acceptable to your self-esteem and high status, something that will bring to your noble lips a smile of the sort that a powerful and highly important person such as yourself might on occasion bestow on a lesser mortal such as me. It is not my intention simply to entertain you or to give you pleasure (should you, that is to say, be kind enough to permit me to do what I propose); rather, it is my hope to see you chuckle a little too at the realization of how beautiful, how highly respected, and how compassionate you are, and at the vastness of your capacity to empathize with the foolish, the poor, and the impotent.
Last night, I was on my way home, racking my brains as though ‘multiplying fifths by sixths.’ Or at least I don’t know exactly how a true Arab is supposed to rack them when in dire straits but such was my state immediately before the incident that befell me on Army Street
Picture the scene! You’re walking down the street thus occupied, head bowed, when a hulk, as wide as he is tall, with the body of an athlete, wearing an elegant expensive suit and necktie from Paris and exuding a bewitching perfume, suddenly first tells you to stop where you are, then grasps you by the shirt collar with his thick right hand, opens wide the palm of his left, and starts wagging his long finger elegantly in your face, repeating the while in a voice like that of a crow in full caw, “Stand and deliver, pretty boy!”
Seeing that I am short, slim, and of an obliging nature, not to mention that I was at the time at the mercy of his powerful hand and terrible gaze, which he had trained upon me from on high, I played the fool in an attempt to preserve my self-respect and standing. Knowing full well that my pockets were not merely empty but as well scoured as a washed pot, I nevertheless calmly thrust my hand into the side pockets of my trousers, then into the back pocket, extracted my wallet, and went through it carefully without uttering a word of complaint at the thickness and heaviness of his hand upon my shoulder.
Following a lengthy display of loutish prevarication on my part and of dignified silence on his, I said, in a low voice and beside myself with embarrassment, “I’m afraid I simply have nothing on me at the moment.” Without batting an eyelid nor removing his hand from my collar, our friend continued to stare at me with stern countenance, while I . . . yes, well. . . while I was in no way, I swear to God, scared of him, I had nevertheless surrendered to that certain feeling of impotence and powerlessness that overcomes me if ever I find myself unable to offer help to others.
I am a man generous by nature. Giving is my greatest pleasure and that pleasure becomes positively orgasmic at the sight of another transported by joy and happiness at what I have bestowed upon him. Inability to do this creates in me a sense of cataclysmic catastrophe for, in eliminating my capacity to give, it detracts from my own personal pleasure. The fact is, my friend, that, in circumstances such as this, one feels himself to be a desert without oasis, an expanse of land yielding no crop, or even, if you’ll forgive the expression, an old can full of garbage.
With displeasure appearing on the face of this magnificent creature as he stared at me, I felt utterly crushed. I said to him, “I apologize” and asked for his forgiveness. He let go of my shirt collar and smiled that wonderful smile that emanates from those who feel pity for the poverty, weakness, and defects of others, that glorious smile that lends so much power, influence, authority, and, in no small measure, contempt, to the face. The man — and here we praised the Lord — seemed to have accepted with equanimity my pitiful situation and my submissiveness. Suddenly, however, a gleam appeared in his eyes and he uttered two words which it would be extremely improper for myself to repeat and which I shall therefore place, instead, on his tongue . . . or better still replace with dots. He said, “Repeat, ‘I am a … or a …’”!
“For shame!” I said. “For shame and for shame again! I am an Upper Egyptian.”
His hands descended to my pants, intent on pulling them down, and he laughed; it would seem that he wanted to be sure that he had described me accurately. But with the descent of the crotch of my trousers and the rising of the man’s gales of mirth, I lost all control and screamed that the People would not permit themselves to expose another inch of their nakedness, repeating hysterically, “We’ll never take it all off! We’ll never take it all off!”
The man adjusted his elegant expensive tie and, laughing loud and long at my expense, departed — to hell, it may be hoped, and in a hand basket too.
Originally published in Arabic in Al-Ahram, November 20, 2009
