Rama and the Dragon (Winner of the Naguib Mahfouz Medal for Literature) by Al-Kharrat

Author:Al-Kharrat [Al-Kharrat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2004-11-14T23:00:00+00:00

She said to him: There was almost a brawl between two ferrymen on Raswa’s dock in Manzala, each in his boat and the two boats practically glued to one other. Each man held his long oar like a threatening weapon. Each one insisted that he alone would take me to Port Said, wanting to serve Sitt Fatma joyfully—“from the bottom of his eyes.” In those days I entered Port Said regularly under the name of Sitt Fatma. Once I came with a duck, another time with a couple of chickens along with peasant bread, eggs, and oranges, from the presumed house of my mother to the presumed house of my husband in Port Said. Of course, I was also carrying coded letters; once I carried, under the eggs and bread, a small load of disassembled revolvers and their ammunition, all of it bundled in a piece of local cloth. The center was in Manzala behind the Mustafa Shahin Café.

I was very convincing with my black malas overdress, my mudawarra head cover, my thong sandals, and my castor jallabiya—so much so that the Irish sergeant at the checkpoint got used to me and trusted me. We became almost friends without talking.

The cold weather had settled in. Don’t forget it was December 1956. At the dock, the boats were swaying on the shallow water as if about to capsize. I was standing on the wooden planks steaming with anger, trying to mend things between the two boatmen so my journey could get underway. The sun had set. Other ferrymen had gathered around, trying to settle the matter. Night was thickening, time was running out. All the ferrymen knew Sitt Fatma, were all comrades to some degree. I said to myself: If I allow this brawl to proceed, I’ll never deliver my message tonight, and I know it’s urgent. No point losing your head in such situations. It was obvious neither man would yield to the other. They’d figured out who I was, a journalist so they thought, covering the action surreptitiously. They never charged me anything. As you know, things go this way in our country. So I brought them small gifts saying they were from home: “The Prophet himself accepted gifts, so don’t refuse me.” After first declining, they took what I offered: a basket of oranges, eggs, a pair of pigeons, whatever was handy. The trip took the entire night; we reached the shore of al-Qawati at the peep of dawn. There we crossed a thicket of reeds and sea plants. Those boatmen know all the paths. By day, the journey was dangerous anyway, with the French bombing the lake.

He interrupted her: So you spent the night in a lake, among reed thickets, in a small boat, just you and the ferryman?

She shot him a glance and said decisively: Yes.

She went on: I had to find a way. You know the gallantry of country people. I shouted at the two of them: Is it proper to leave a woman all

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