The Pistachio Seller

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99 6 In London, it was a sunny, bright, and beautiful day. The moment of confrontation between Ashraf’s mother and his father, Dr. Mahmoud Daawood, had come. When tension already reigned in the traditional English-type household , when any sound, however faint, was enough to excite the raw nerves of those present, Laila, Ashraf’s mother, exploded at the dinner table at her husband: “Stop eating. Look at me! Look at me for once!” “I don’t want to see you, Laila,” her husband hissed between his teeth. Ashraf finished his meal as if he had heard nothing. He was used to his mother’s eruptions and his father’s hatred of her. The whole situation was no longer his concern. “Who is she this time? A nurse as young as your children?” “This time I’m going to marry her, Laila. I don’t have a lot of time left,” he stated coldly. Ashraf dropped the spoon and looked at his father intently. He saw the hysterical look in his mother’s eyes as she screamed, “I will destroy you and destroy this marriage, Mahmoud!” “It’s already destroyed.” “When I first saw you with this decadent English girl, I decided to say nothing. That was for the sake of my darling Ashraf!” she shouted as her tears mixed with her makeup and her gray hair flew all over. “Exactly,” he said defiantly. “It’s been over since that day.” “May God take you to his side and relieve me of you.” “Enough of this backwardness,” he interrupted her contemptuously. 100  T h e P i s t a c h i o S e l l e r She grabbed his shirt. Ashraf, who was standing up, saying nothing, had never seen her reacting so strongly. “Me, backwards? You pathetic womanizer!” Ashraf never liked such scenes. This one was particularly disgusting. So he stood between the two and said firmly, “That’s enough! Let’s go, Father.” He dragged his father out of the house. They’d walked together a few steps when his father said calmly, “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t tolerate your mother anymore. Don’t believe every word she says. She’s imagining these things. Your father is a respectable man.” Ashraf nodded in agreement. As he looked at the dark street, at the asphalt that was everywhere, and at the puddles scattered along the way like foundlings, memories crossed his mind of Lubna, his flat in Zamalek, his aunt, and maybe even Wafaa, as well. He closed his eyes as he listened to his father. “I wasn’t joking. I will leave your mother. You’re a man, and you know what I mean. This is the first time I’ve talked to you man to man. I have tolerated a lot, son, for your sake. All her madness and jealousy. She is a liar. Don’t believe a word she says. You are my only hope, Ashraf. You know, I was thinking about buying a new car for you. Do you need a new car, Ashraf, darling? Why aren’t you saying anything?” Ashraf was busy dipping his shoe in the small puddles left by the rain on the street. It was something he used to do as a child, watching for the change in the color of the shoe after it got wet. “What car do you fancy Ashraf? Tell me: Do you have a girlfriend now?” He shook his head, absorbed with his wet shoe. “Are you still thinking about the Egyptian journalist?” He shook his head once more. “You are the most valuable thing I have, darling. You don’t want to see your father humiliated in this way. Do you see how your mother treats me? I have tolerated it for years, just for your sake.” He said nothing. But suddenly he heard a voice, that of a young man, maybe sixteen: “A light, please.” “Piss off!” Mahmoud said with contempt. F u t i l i t y  101 Only a few seconds later, the skinny young man reappeared, accompanied by five others. They surrounded Ashraf and his father. The young man had a big stick. He landed one single blow on Ashraf’s father’s head. Ashraf struggled with one of the gang, and he managed to throw him to the ground. Their eyes met. Ashraf expected to find hatred...