Read Online The Fall of the Imam by Nawal El Saadawi - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nawal El Saadawi
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matted from lying in bed, and through it crept swarms of lice moving on thread-like legs; yet it shone under the sun with the bright colours of the rainbow. This place was commonly known as the House of Joy, but in the files of the Chief of Security it was referred to as the Prostitutes’ House.
From her window in the nursing school, I could not see the river or the low flat hill behind it. The huge military hospital filled the universe, blocking everything out completely except a small patch of sky which looked down at me from over the top of its walls, and a slender ray of light from the sun which reached me before it set at the end of each day.
I was not allowed to look out of the windows, for the terraces of the military hospital faced the windows of the dormitories where we slept. The army doctors leaned over the balustrades to take a look at the girls below. They smiled or nodded their heads or whistled. On their chests they displayed rows of coloured ribbons, and on their shoulders were shining pieces of metal shaped like stars. Their heads were always covered by a military cap.
At night after the final bell had rung, my sister would lean her head over the edge of the bed and tell me a story about love. Out came the photograph from under her bodice of a man in military uniform. We examined it together in the dim light. He wore his military cap squarely on the head, and on his chest shone a rounded metal disc. The jutting peak of his cap cast a grey shadow over the upper part of his face. It hid the look in his eyes and the shape of his nose. Under his nose was a square moustache carefully trimmed, which reminded me of Hitler. She would kiss the picture, push it quickly back into her bodice close to her heart, and then start to tell me her story all over again.
He had been hit by a bullet in his chest and she stood beside him as he lay in his bed. He called her ‘my tender angel’ and her fingers were gentle over his wound. She spent the nights at his side, and whenever he opened his eyes she was there, standing or sitting close to his bed. If she left him to get some sleep, a single ring of the bell would bring her back to his side. If the bell did not ring she crept back into his room on tiptoe and waited for his eyes to open. Whenever the blankets slipped slightly to one side she set them right. If he was thirsty she gave him something to drink, and if he wished, she read to him before he slept, verses from the Holy Book of God, or items from the newspapers about the war, for those were the only things which interested him. When he spoke to her it was always about the war. He had killed three men, but the fourth had managed to lodge a bullet in his chest and get away under cover of night. On Victory Day the Imam decorated him with a medal for his courage in battle. But for him all this was just a normal thing, for he had been trained to kill even as a child. He had a gun with which he killed the birds in spring as they stood on the branches looking down at him. He steadied the gun against his shoulder, took careful aim at the middle of the head before he pulled the trigger and the bird would drop with a single shot and die on the ground without a quiver.
I put my arms around her and held her tight. Her body was small and slender like a bird, and in my heart was a great yearning for a mother. I buried my head between her breasts and wept. Then, drying my eyes I said, ‘I do not want him to kill you with one of his ugly bullets.’
In her eyes was a strange glitter when she said, ‘I know he will kill me, but it will be with love, not with a bullet.’
I knew nothing about love. My heart was full of a deep yearning for two arms that would hold me in a tight embrace without causing me any pain. Every time I caught the look on Nemat Allah’s face, my eyes shone with a tender light. In the drawer next to my bed were a pile of letters which I had written to someone imaginary, but deep in my heart was a fear of
From her window in the nursing school, I could not see the river or the low flat hill behind it. The huge military hospital filled the universe, blocking everything out completely except a small patch of sky which looked down at me from over the top of its walls, and a slender ray of light from the sun which reached me before it set at the end of each day.
I was not allowed to look out of the windows, for the terraces of the military hospital faced the windows of the dormitories where we slept. The army doctors leaned over the balustrades to take a look at the girls below. They smiled or nodded their heads or whistled. On their chests they displayed rows of coloured ribbons, and on their shoulders were shining pieces of metal shaped like stars. Their heads were always covered by a military cap.
At night after the final bell had rung, my sister would lean her head over the edge of the bed and tell me a story about love. Out came the photograph from under her bodice of a man in military uniform. We examined it together in the dim light. He wore his military cap squarely on the head, and on his chest shone a rounded metal disc. The jutting peak of his cap cast a grey shadow over the upper part of his face. It hid the look in his eyes and the shape of his nose. Under his nose was a square moustache carefully trimmed, which reminded me of Hitler. She would kiss the picture, push it quickly back into her bodice close to her heart, and then start to tell me her story all over again.
He had been hit by a bullet in his chest and she stood beside him as he lay in his bed. He called her ‘my tender angel’ and her fingers were gentle over his wound. She spent the nights at his side, and whenever he opened his eyes she was there, standing or sitting close to his bed. If she left him to get some sleep, a single ring of the bell would bring her back to his side. If the bell did not ring she crept back into his room on tiptoe and waited for his eyes to open. Whenever the blankets slipped slightly to one side she set them right. If he was thirsty she gave him something to drink, and if he wished, she read to him before he slept, verses from the Holy Book of God, or items from the newspapers about the war, for those were the only things which interested him. When he spoke to her it was always about the war. He had killed three men, but the fourth had managed to lodge a bullet in his chest and get away under cover of night. On Victory Day the Imam decorated him with a medal for his courage in battle. But for him all this was just a normal thing, for he had been trained to kill even as a child. He had a gun with which he killed the birds in spring as they stood on the branches looking down at him. He steadied the gun against his shoulder, took careful aim at the middle of the head before he pulled the trigger and the bird would drop with a single shot and die on the ground without a quiver.
I put my arms around her and held her tight. Her body was small and slender like a bird, and in my heart was a great yearning for a mother. I buried my head between her breasts and wept. Then, drying my eyes I said, ‘I do not want him to kill you with one of his ugly bullets.’
In her eyes was a strange glitter when she said, ‘I know he will kill me, but it will be with love, not with a bullet.’
I knew nothing about love. My heart was full of a deep yearning for two arms that would hold me in a tight embrace without causing me any pain. Every time I caught the look on Nemat Allah’s face, my eyes shone with a tender light. In the drawer next to my bed were a pile of letters which I had written to someone imaginary, but deep in my heart was a fear of
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