The House of Jasmine by Ibrahim Abdel Meguid Page A

black eyes, strong as a wall, manhood running thick in my veins, almost bursting out of my skin, turning my blood into fire, and pouring out effortlessly. I have an apartment and more than five hundred pounds in my bank account. I have no relatives, and both my parents are dead. I, Shagara Muhammad ‘Ali, cannot find a woman. Isn’t there one single girl courageous enough to come forward and end my loneliness? Isn’t there one of my colleagues who could present a friend or a sister that I could marry? Why have women given up their historical role of trying to secure a man for themselves? And they want me to participate in Begin’s reception? Shit! I will receive Begin and Begin’s mother! I will make the employees like him. I won’t steal any of their pay this time. I will sit at the café near the train station, and leave them in the street, in the square in front of the station, where the buildings are far apart and the sunlight scorches the ground without a single spot of shade. I will carry out this dirty mission to the end.
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    The door bell rang, and I opened it to find Hassanayn standing there with his arms open and his face as flushed as ever. I was very happy to see him.
    â€œI received my B.A.,” he said. It was the first time that any of my friends had visited me at home since my mother’s death. We hugged, and I wasn’t sure whether I was hugging him because he had received his degree or because he was visiting me.
    â€œI’m happy for you and for myself,” I said. “For your graduation and for your visit.” We were standing in the empty hallway, so I led him to the balcony, where there was an old chair, and I brought another chair for myself.
    â€œIt’s true that we haven’t been very good to you,” he said with real sorrow in his voice.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” I said. “Congratulations on your B.A.” He was looking at my thick beard, the dark circles of exhaustion around my eyes and the swelling beneath them, which was due to insomnia and excessive smoking.
    â€œI will shave for your sake,” I said. Then I went to the bathroom, shaved, and returned to find him with a big smile on his red face. He must have been wondering at the way I behaved.
    â€œBetween you and me, I think it’s worthless,” he said.
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œThe B.A.” We both laughed, then he went on: “I’m thirty-six, and my salary now is higher than that of any new university graduate. The important thing is that I’m through with wars and conspiracies, with studying history.”
    We laughed for a few moments. He seemed to be refreshed by the view of the sea before us. I asked him if he wanted something to drink, and he said no. Then he asked if we could go to the café.
    â€œI went to the café more than once, and didn’t find any of you there,” he said.
    â€œWhy didn’t you go see Magid at the pharmacy or come here?”
    He looked as if he were at a loss at how to answer, and he blushed, then said, “I don’t know.”
    We got up to go to the café, and I said, “We no longer function according to the same secret clock.”
    But shortly after we arrived at the café, we saw Magid coming. Hassanayn looked as happy as a small child, and he cried, “Here we are again, getting together without any plans.” Hassanayn seemed to be truly overjoyed, nothing like the person ‘Abd al-Salam had once described as permanently contented, enjoying the bliss of contentment and avoiding all of the more powerful emotions.
    â€œMany people like to stick to smooth roads, even if they don’t lead anywhere,” ‘Abd al-Salam had once said. “The important thing isn’t where they lead, but that they are smooth. Maybe it’s also a matter of age, because after thirty the level of ambition decreases and people’s lives fall into a pattern, which they