The Pistachio Seller

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17 2 He sighed, relieved and comfortable in the apartment he had rented in the Zamalek quarter, Cairo’s upper-class residential district. It had been a difficult week, but it was over, and his life in Egypt could finally start! Tomorrow he would start work. He would contact the leasing company that was handling the two apartments that he had bought in London to rent out, with a mortgage underwritten by his employer. One day he would sell them; it would be one of his great deals. He had been endowed with a sharp mind that attracted money like a magnet. How beautiful money is; it can make one a prince or even a king. As long as one has money, one does not need a magic wand or a magic lamp like that of Aladdin , nor does one need to rely on nepotism. Ashraf was lucky. He had money and he had looks. Of course, he had not been able to work out much over the past few days. He had not been going to the gym to lift weights, but he would get back into it. His aunt’s food may have packed on a few pounds, but he would soon start running along the Nile. He loved to work hard and to play hard. He smiled at himself as he eyed his jeans. Levi’s was sure to have a branch in Egypt. He loved the look of white shirts and jeans, especially Levi’s, but he figured that it was time to go to the gym. Tomorrow he would contact Lubna Thaabit. He had not forgotten her, despite his busy schedule. Who was she, really? It had not taken Ashraf long to join what he called the “semicultural, semipolitical group” that Lubna hung out with, which was composed of four journalists, including Lubna. They met daily after work in a café, 18  T h e P i s t a c h i o S e l l e r where they would occasionally fight and argue and fail, in most cases, to agree on anything. What they distinctly shared, in Ashraf’s eyes, were anger, ambition, and a frustrated energy, or maybe a love of Egypt. He was not sure, for he had never felt angry on account of a public cause or issue. When he had discussions with others, he preferred either to persuade them or otherwise to bring the discussion to an end. But this group debated and argued endlessly. None among them succeeded in convincing the others of anything. He had no idea what had brought him to Lubna’s circle other than his strong desire for her as a woman. He had never been a patient man, nor had he been interested in politics, but he felt that he was fighting an undeclared war against Lubna and her ideas. It did not take him long to discover that she was a communist. That made him want her even more. Once a member in her circle said, “Democracy is the solution. We need to give the people back the self-confidence that has been usurped from them for thousands of years.” Another added, “We need to stop patronizing people.” With fake calm Lubna said, “Every country has the system that befits it. In Egypt there is a class so rich it’s obscene. It must be done away with, and social justice must be established. We have talked a lot about it in the past, but we have never tried to implement it.” “Communism,” Ashraf answered, “is impossible in a country that sanctifies religion, whether Islam or Christianity.” “But communism is an ideology that may be applied anywhere at any time. It may also be placed in a religious context and modeled according to society’s needs,” Lubna said. “Were we ever for peace with Israel?” someone asked suddenly. All fell silent. Then Ali, who had been somewhat quiet, said, “Yes, but now is not the right time. The peace was sudden, like a shotgun wedding. Everyone was angry because the invitations had arrived too late, and so everyone boycotted the wedding.” They roared with laughter, then one of them rejoined, “We needed peace; it is a lot better than war, Lubna.” T h e J o u r n e y  19 “Our war is within; what we need is social justice,” Lubna said. Ashraf was becoming fed...