The Queue Read online

  He was supposed to have followed the orders he’d received before mobilizing toward the hospital, orders to stand on the mark the Commander had drawn on the ground, just like his fellow guards, and keep a safe distance from the sick ward. They told him not to abandon his post, under any circumstances, for any reason, but his lust for this woman had overpowered him. He was young, after all, and these things happen. Mahfouz was spotted later that day with his head hanging low, his bushy beard brushing against the hair on his chest. He groveled at his Commander’s feet, saying again and again: “Do what you want with me, ya basha, I’ll obey, sir, I swear.” But Mahfouz was mahzouz—lucky—that it didn’t go to trial and he wasn’t summoned to the Gate. The woman wanted to protect her reputation, and in the end she didn’t submit an official statement. Shalaby smiled, remembering that just a week after this incident Mahfouz survived that horrible accident, when their transport vehicle caught on fire and eleven of his fellow guards died. And then when the barracks collapsed with everyone inside, Mahfouz had emerged from the building without a scratch. But luck had betrayed him that final time during the Events, and now he lay like a stone at the bottom of the river.

  Um Mabrouk lamented the loss of the young man and comforted Shalaby, patting him on the shoulder as tears filled her eyes. She had a sense that such a tragic situation was the perfect opportunity for her to tell her own story, about her daughter, and thereby win a bit of sympathy, but Ines seized her chance with an outburst, objecting to Mahfouz being called a martyr. She found herself opening her mouth without thinking again, and casting aside all virtues of silence, caution, and restraint. It was as if she’d left them all outside the classroom door and sauntered back into her Arabic lesson, where she’d always commanded attention.

  Mahfouz had begun the attack and so he was to blame, said Ines. He’d killed someone first and paid a fair price. And what’s more, the people who commanded him to kill should be punished too. Didn’t people have enough to deal with every day, with their sorrows and troubles, and the anxiety of waiting, without people’s lives being lost, too? And for what reason?

  Um Mabrouk warily tried to silence her—you were never safe these days, not even from your own brother—and when she didn’t succeed she edged away, said goodbye, and started to fiddle with her things. Ines continued her speech for a moment and then stopped, surprised with herself. For the first time in her life, she was speaking her mind in front of others, on a subject besides the lessons she taught her students. She was secretly pleased with what she’d said, and began to play it back to herself, word by word, carefully weighing up the meaning. Yes, she was confident in everything she’d said. Shalaby had provoked something in her, that ignorant fool who thought he was the only one among them who understood anything. He spoke as if his cousin were a gallant knight at war with evil, and not a hapless soul plucked from his land against his will to serve in the security forces, when no one even knew what his unit did. Yet even so, Um Mabrouk was right. If anyone had heard her, or if Shalaby was well connected, he could report what she’d said to an inspector or the courts right away. She could be fired, not just reevaluated, and at that point not even the Certificate of True Citizenship she’d come for would be enough.

  Shalaby turned on her like a lion, and would have slapped her across the face were he not so shocked. He could barely process everything he’d heard. No one had attacked Mahfouz’s story before; the whole town remembered him proudly and considered him a hero for God and the Gate. People began to call Mahfouz’s mother “Mother of the Hero,” even “Mother of the Martyr,” and she’d quickly adopted her new name. Shalaby spoke about Mahfouz every chance he got. “Oh, bless him,” some would say; others would offer to help his family, and others shared his grief for his cousin. Still others praised Mahfouz’s courage, bravery, and willingness for self-sacrifice, and some even cursed the men who had hounded him. But this woman standing before him understood nothing. Was she so ignorant that she didn’t know the difference between a filthy criminal and an honorable man? Even if Mahfouz had made a little mistake here or there, he didn’t endanger the country or its people like those rioters did. He’d sacrificed his life for it, and he was brave, maybe braver than all the other guards put together. He’d been a real man, while the man he’d killed—probably without even intending to—had been just a troublemaker, a saboteur, out to frighten people and make their lives more difficult than they already were. That man had ground the country to a halt, he and others who shut down the streets while so many honorable citizens were just trying to earn their daily bread. All of Shalaby’s cousins, and everyone he knew, had come home to the village and were now unemployed.

  If he’d been in Mahfouz’s shoes, he would’ve done what Mahfouz had done and more, and if Ines had been defending the nation in his place, she’d know how to obey orders. She would’ve learned that when you’re given an order there’s no discussion, no question, and barely enough time to carry it out—and even if there were time, the Commander wouldn’t let you waste it with stupid questions. If he’d ever heard the things she said from one of his men, he would teach him a thing or two and then lock him up. If this woman had any honor, she would know that to obey your Commander was to obey God, and that insubordination was a sin greater than any mortal could bear and would lead to her own demise. But she was probably corrupt, morally and otherwise—no scruples, no religion, not even wearing a respectable headscarf; he could see a strand of hair hanging down beneath that pitiful scrap of fabric on her head. Yes, she was definitely one of the people the Commander had warned him about, just talking to her was dangerous, she might mess with his mind, try to brainwash him. If she wasn’t one of them, why was she defending them and insulting his cousin, why was she happy that he was dead? She wouldn’t agree that Mahfouz was a martyr, didn’t think his family deserved to be compensated or that he was worth anything at all. It was possible that she had participated in the Disgraceful Events, too; he’d heard rumors that there were women saboteurs.

  CELL SERVICE

  Nagy discovered that Ehab knew much about life’s mysteries from his work as a journalist and connections to people from all walks of life. Meanwhile, Ehab discovered that Nagy was a well-seasoned veteran of debates and clashes from both his university days and afterward, when he found a job. A long conversation unfurled between them as they told both the notorious and the unsung tales of their lives, exchanged thoughts on the latest developments in the district, and debated what they expected the Gate to do next. Of course it would open, they agreed, but when it did, it would become even more oppressive, and they wouldn’t be rid of it anytime soon. Ehab was guardedly optimistic, while Nagy had long been burdened with an overwhelming sense of futility. In the course of their conversation, he brought up Yehya’s ordeal and mentioned a few details, but not his friend’s name or any information that might reveal why he was in the queue.

  But Ehab began to act as though he had put two and two together. He started following Yehya around and checking up on him from time to time, even though his behavior aroused suspicion and Yehya tried to avoid him whenever he saw him coming. Eventually, Ehab convinced Nagy to reveal the rest of the story, thinking that he and Yehya might somehow need his help. From the moment when he understood the whole situation, Ehab refused to leave Nagy alone; he became single-mindedly focused on finding out when Amani was going to Zephyr Hospital. He knew how difficult her mission would be and smelled a story for the paper that was worth the risk. Obtaining any document from that place was like plucking a piece of meat from the mouth of a hungry lion, he said, and the odds of her failure were double those of success. His presence as a journalist could provide some backup and protection, he argued, and besides, he could be more tactful when he needed to be.

  An evenly matched debate ensued, Ehab using his journalistic skills to convince Nagy, who resorted to the philosophical arguments in which he was well versed. Nagy didn’t want to expose his friends or add a new level of complication, and he
wasn’t sure how Amani would react to Ehab. Nagy insisted that it was useless for Ehab or any journalist to go with her. He knew how capable Amani was (she could pluck the X-ray out of anyone’s mouth—never mind a lion’s) and knew she could do it herself. But despite Nagy’s insistence, Ehab wouldn’t stop pestering him until Nagy agreed to tell him the plan.

  Um Mabrouk spread out her mat and began to sleep there most nights. Her son Mabrouk visited almost every day, and the queue delighted him with its potential for fun and games. He started to stop by after school, and soon he spent his weekends there. Away from their musty apartment, his health improved slightly; he gained weight, and his kidney attacks weren’t so severe. One day he brought Um Mabrouk a message from his older sister, who rarely left the apartment these days, asking her mother to send her latest health report. Mabrouk said that she needed it immediately to attach to a job application for a position working at a Booth. Their expenses had doubled since Um Mabrouk had stopped working in the two additional homes, and instead divided her time between the Gate and the office where Amani worked.

  From the sack she pulled a pile of papers, all in disarray, and stared at one page after another, but she couldn’t find the report her daughter needed. Ehab was drawn to the commotion and offered to help. He crouched next to her and put the papers in order, by date: reports and patient certificates to one side, and examinations to the other. He was nearly finished and had just picked up the last few papers when he read the title on the first page and suddenly paused. His eyes widened, and the page trembled in his hand. On this yellow piece of paper, which didn’t resemble the one before it, he’d found a short conversation. It had seemed familiar at first glance, though he didn’t know where he’d seen or heard it. Then suddenly his memory breathed life into the words. It was a phone call he himself had made a couple of days earlier to a colleague at the newspaper. “Saeed, things have gotten strange here. There are more and more people, the Gate is closed, and I’m hearing weird tales and stories. Let’s meet next Saturday, I’ll have written it all down by then.”

  In the bottom left corner of the page, he read three words in thick red ink: Important—Follow-up. He turned the page and saw his own personal information, dead center, detailed and clear. There were more discussions and conversations in the following pages, but they were other people’s, identified by names written on the back of every page.

  Um Mabrouk noticed the sudden change that came over Ehab’s face, and since she herself couldn’t read, she asked if the report was really that bad. She wanted to know if her second daughter would die soon, just like her first, but he didn’t answer her. He remained silent as a shade of red crept across his face and neck, and then his voice emerged, sticking in his throat, asking her where the papers had come from. He didn’t understand anything she said; there were too many hospitals to count, and labs for analysis, and X-rays, and doctors in clinics and in centers, and health insurance; she told him there had been other papers but an official had taken them from her at the Booth right before she came to the queue, and then she made him swear to tell her the truth about her daughter’s condition and why he was so alarmed.

  He gave her the report she needed, and assured her that his reaction had nothing to do with her daughter; she’d just accidentally taken some other papers and he would return them to those to whom they belonged. Um Mabrouk clung to the pages and begged him not to lie to her, she’d endured so much and just wanted the truth, she told him, and her son began to cry. She wouldn’t let him leave until he took the report, read it, and explained it to her in simple terms so she could understand. He promised to tell her the truth, and said she needed to finish her paperwork so she could do the surgery and save her daughter. His hands still trembling, he took the yellow pages, folded them carefully, and put them in his pocket. As he left, Um Mabrouk called after him with all the prayers she could remember. He headed to a place filled with scattered tree stumps and scraps of old cars, a place he would go whenever he wanted to write. He took out the papers and began to read them, patiently and deliberately, pausing over every word.

  There were five pages in front of him. One was about him, another was about Ines, and the other pages concerned three people he didn’t know, not their names, and not whether they were veterans of the queue or had never been there. He went back and watched Ines from afar. She was in her usual place. Um Mabrouk was rolling out her mat, Shalaby stood next to her, and a dish of fuul beans and a handful of pickles were sitting on a page of newsprint in front of them. Um Mabrouk offered Ehab some food as he approached, introducing him to Shalaby, but he shook his head, thanking her, and walked past them to Ines. He introduced himself, but she said she knew who he was—he was well known in the area, and she’d heard of him even though they’d never spoken.

  He asked her if she could spare a few minutes so he could explain something important, out of earshot of the others in the queue. They took a few steps away from her mat, but she kept her eye on it, afraid that some opportunist might steal her place. Ehab took out the paper, told her to stay calm, and asked her to read it. Curious, she took the page. The conversation was long but she clamped her hand over her mouth when she read the first two lines, suddenly on the verge of tears.

  “I’m really sorry, I’m sorry, I swear, I didn’t mean anything by it, they’re just words, I didn’t mean to—”

  He cut her off, saying there was no need to be sorry. He was in exactly the same position; there was a record of one of his phone calls on another page. Ines stopped crying and opened her mouth, but this time no sound came out.

  “But I didn’t talk to anyone on the phone today, or yesterday,” she said suddenly, shocked. “I was talking to Shalaby, who was standing behind me.” Holding the page tightly, she looked back at the others. “Shalaby, excuse me, do you have a minute?”

  At first, Shalaby didn’t understand what they were saying. Ines accused him of passing on what she’d said, but took it back when Ehab explained the situation. Shalaby hadn’t listened to Ehab’s phone calls and couldn’t have passed them on, too, Ehab reasoned. Shalaby himself confirmed what Ines said—she hadn’t spoken on the phone at all, nor left his sight since their conversation. He was telling the truth, he added, and this had nothing to do with how wrong she was about him or his cousin the martyr. Um Mabrouk interjected, too, swearing that Ines was a highly respected teacher. She had morals, her students learned a good deal from her, and she definitely hadn’t said anything behind Shalaby’s back.

  THE SECOND DISGRACEFUL EVENTS

  Hammoud locked and bolted the door to the coffee shop and shouted into his cell phone, which hadn’t stopped ringing since he’d refused to serve the queue again. He wasn’t coming back to work, he insisted, until the clashes around the coffee shop were dispersed and everything calmed down. The news spread through the queue within hours, and soon everyone knew that the Events had flared up again. It was the microbus drivers who began to keep people in the queue updated on the latest developments, although it wasn’t easy for them to deliver news. According to new regulations, vehicles weren’t allowed to drive alongside the queue anymore. The drivers had to leave their buses at the corner where a soldier stood, and then walk the rest of the way to the queue itself to pass on what they heard on their daily routes.

  Most drivers continued to share updates that way, free of charge, for as long as the Events lasted, simply out of a sense of community. A deep-rooted friendship had grown between the drivers and the people waiting in the queue, and now it bore fruits of solidarity. No one expected the fighting to continue like this, and they wagered that life would soon return to how it had been before. Eventually, they told each other, the soldier would get used to them and allow microbuses to drive on the sidewalk again, as they’d been doing since the street had filled with people waiting in the queue. But their bets were lost in the blink of an eye. A big sheet-metal hut with two square windows appeared in the middle of the intersection one day, blocking the road, and not even
the smallest cars could pass around it. The soldier was stationed inside it now, behind a sign with the phrase NO ENTRY FOR VEHICLES and the same signature, Abbas.

  People who witnessed the Second Events described a battle that raged at the edge of the main square, but no one could tell exactly who the people involved were. There seemed to be different factions, but just like during the First Events, the combatants wore no uniforms and bore no symbols. No one involved would answer questions, and they ignored everyone else. Eyewitnesses disagreed over how many were injured and killed, and though the wails of ambulances were heard, no one saw anyone being transported away. Here and there, people noticed deep, wide puddles of blood, but only rarely did they see someone bleeding. A grizzled, stubble-chinned driver swore to a group of people in the queue that with his own eyes he’d seen a barefoot young man so wounded that his leg was about to fall off, his hand fiercely clasped around a clear plastic bag. Inside, the driver said he could make out small silver pellets, covered in a dark red liquid. The driver said that a plainclothes officer had offered to buy the bag and everything in it, but the young man had grimly refused. A violent struggle had ensued, which ended with the officer stealing the bag and sprinting away with it before he could be stopped. The young man tried to chase after him, but his leg failed him, and he sat down on the ground and wept.

  The Youth Channel presenter cried too, deeply affected by the events in the square. Her voice blared out of a radio inside a parked microbus, around which people from the queue had gathered. A well-known and respected psychologist was invited onto various news programs to explain and analyze the situation. He assured listeners that there was a very rational explanation for what was happening: the hot weather, which naturally leads to excitability, anger, and uncontrollable behavior. During one of these interviews, his explanation was interrupted by a news brief, which stated that officials were investigating the possibility of placing parasols near places of heavy traffic, to calm citizens’ nerves and reduce their irritability.