‘The Interpreter’ is the English version of Arabic novel ‘Al Tarjuman’, authored by Ashraf Aboul Yazid, an eminent writer and poet of Egypt

“The country is ours, the paper is ours, and the seal is ours.”

Mrs. “Fawz” had become accustomed to seeing me every day when I visited you, my esteemed teacher, in your room at Hadi Hospital. I spent the few minutes allowed with you in the room, which I entered after sanitizing my hands with the disinfectant placed by the nurses at the entrance, and wearing a medical mask.

I would stand next to your bed, read a few verses for you, and pray for your recovery, then I would step outside to sit next to the room, perhaps for an hour or a bit longer, reflecting on the kindness you had shown me since you first set foot in the institution. Even if I lived my entire life serving you, my esteemed teacher, I would never repay you, as you were the one who supported and taught me, enabling me to live in the wilderness among beasts.

Mrs. “Fawz” would greet me whether she was entering or leaving, and I never saw her miss a visit to you. At first, I thought I was your relative, but I said to her, “Even more so.” She sighed and responded:

“People like you two are rare these days!”

A week after you were transferred from Hadi Hospital, I received a call from her inviting me to visit her at her house here in Al-Jabriyah. She gave me the opportunity to see you again, my esteemed teacher, to read Quranic verses to you, and to speak to you, just as I am now.

First, I thank God for your acquittal regarding the apartment issue, my esteemed teacher. I prayed for a long time and called upon Him day and night, hoping that the veil would be lifted, and that nightmare would end, a nightmare rejoiced in by creatures like “Shaden,” “Mustafa Sanad,” “Muhyi Saber,” “Hamoud Al-Mudhifi,” and “Lafi Ibn Lafi.”

“The darker the night, the more we must believe in the coming of the light.”

This was one of your phrases that you never tired of repeating to me whenever I came to you, despairing of the harm someone was plotting against me. That light has indeed returned to the institution through your successor, who has taken your seat, almost as if he were infused with your kind spirit left behind in your office. Yes, Mr. “Ahmed Abdul Majid,” whom Dr. “Salman Al-Ibrahim” appointed recently, has become quite fond of you, even though he never saw you face to face, but only heard much about you:

“You know, Adham, I have come to love the translator, your esteemed teacher, perhaps even more than I would have if I had met him first or dealt with him before. The people who have interacted with him here are divided about him, some love him, and others hate him. Perhaps that’s because they dealt with him according to their own intentions and judged him based on their own abilities and souls. But I met him through his writings, without any filters. I saw him in his raw form, and this brilliant being, glowing with creativity, revealed himself in his true nature.

The translator surprised me one morning as I was reviewing his works, that he writes poetry. At first, I thought they were just translations of poems because they had that cosmopolitan sensibility, so I was confused, wondering if these creative works were his or someone else’s. But the defining accuracy of his work made everything clear to me. He is very meticulous about details, stating what he authored and wrote, and documenting what he translated, whether it’s poetry, stories, or plays.

Perhaps the aspect that has been overlooked by everyone is the satirical tone in his writings, which I believe he never intended to publish. Instead, he was addressing himself. Once he wrote under the title ‘Madame Cichwar’:

‘She was a regular guest at all conferences, although no one ever knew her true role in any conference she attended. Sometimes she was a guest of honor, sometimes an award recipient, sometimes a researcher, other times a coordinator, and sometimes the entire evening belonged to her. Since she would constantly attend even multi-day invitations, you had to get used to her presence and not ask about her role.

She would beat you to the breakfast buffet, linger at the lunch table, and order a meal at midnight in her room, enough to feed a family that doesn’t believe in family planning. But when she spoke, she complained about unhealthy breakfasts, cold lunches, and dinners that didn’t satisfy or fill one’s hunger.

But all of that is bearable. What isn’t bearable is what the ‘guest of honor’ would do. At every hotel she stayed at, she would take a souvenir from the place: a bath towel, a pillowcase, a window curtain, sleeping slippers, a bedside lamp, an ashtray, a can opener, a wall painting, massage soap, hair shampoo, office pins, a TV remote, a telephone set, a room rug, a tissue box, a ceramic plate, a teapot, a glass, a clothes dryer, office envelopes, a prayer mat…’

She proudly boasted during the return flight that she had kept a souvenir khateer (a “dangerous” souvenir), something that would remind her of the place… very much so!

As for the origin of the nickname we gave her, it was an incident like no other. We were preparing to leave the hotel when the hospitality staff informed us that the plane would be delayed for two hours and that we should rest in the reception area instead of waiting at the airport. The spectrum of colors began to flicker across our friend’s face.

After a while, a staff member came to her saying: “It seems you’ve forgotten something in the room!” The professor stammered, stood up with him, and went back upstairs to get her bag. We secretly thought that she must have forgotten the bed and was going to pack it up. In fact, she had “cleaned up” the bathroom, even removing the blow dryer from its place, as it would serve as an electric souvenir.

Since then, as the news spread, we started calling her “Madame Cichwar” (Madame Blowdryer).

Whenever we traveled with her, we kept our hands on our hearts, trying to make sure everything in the hotel was as it was when we left—the sign, the reception, the chandelier—who knows? But she would laugh on the plane and tell a story that proved her rare wit:

“The hospitality table set was amazing. I just grabbed six forks, six spoons, and five knives. And if I find out who kept the sixth knife, I’ll kill them with it!”

The next time we left the hotel—with her—we’d feel our hearts race like the ticking of a Big Ben clock, glancing back at the hotel door before the car moved, as the chef might come out looking for his cookware, or the pedicure girl could be searching for her chair.

But when she wasn’t with us, we’d wonder who would take her place. The truth is, everyone fails the test. They’d get distracted by collecting conference papers or books that were gifted to them—so many of them. She used to say about those books that they were “trivial” and that knowledge is “in the head, not in the notebook.” She never once carried any conference books in her bag, which was always filled with souvenirs. And when books were gifted to her, she’d tear out the dedication page and keep it, then throw away the contents of the book—gifts from every writer and poet who thought she would spend the night with their words, exchanging sighs with them.

And she never forgot to tell a story on the plane about the charm of the novel someone gifted her or the beauty of the poetry collection from someone else. She’d say to them, coyly:

“But one page, page seventy-one, my Mon Chéri that really made me read it over and over again.”

The honored writer would blush at her comment, as that page could have been just the title of a new chapter, a blank divider, or even a table of contents!

The funniest time we saw her practicing her hobby was at a conference held by a wealthy man who wanted to add his name to the ranks of writers by force. This wealthy self-proclaimed intellectual thought she was the perfect face to host the final seminar, especially since it was being broadcast live. Madame Cichwar sat in the middle of the speakers—two on the right and two on the left.

After introducing the distinguished speakers, the first one began presenting his paper. As soon as he finished, Madame Cichwar moved his microphone in front of her. She did the same for the second, third, and last speaker. When the session ended, and in the rush of people leaving, we heard shouting and astonishment. The microphones with the names of the broadcasting channels had disappeared, along with, of course, Madame Cichwar.

What Madame Cichwar didn’t know at the time was that one of the cameras was still recording. When the director played back the footage, Madame Cichwar’s skill was revealed as she picked up her bag from the floor and placed the four microphones side by side at the bottom of her souvenir bag. The director was able to retrieve his microphone, but the other three were lost to the incident.

One time, Madame Cichwar didn’t find anything to carry, and it seemed that her fame had preceded her, and everyone avoided her. We could see the frown on her face as she left the place, with empty bags. She had failed to find any neglected or forgotten souvenir, and we waited for her at the airport for a long time, but we ended up flying without her. Days later, we learned that she had stayed there with him! When she couldn’t find anything to carry from the hotel, she married the reception clerk and told her friend over the phone while congratulating her on the wedding:

“By God, he turned out to be a souvenir khateer!”

And the strange thing, Adham, is that he is a professor of correspondence literature and keeps the letters he sends or receives via email, dating back for years.

At first, I thought reading all of that would be an invasion of his privacy, but I looked at it from another perspective. What if these literary lessons, in both creativity and translation, are evidence that can benefit others, leaving his knowledge on earth as an enduring light?

“I did not find, Adham, anyone in the institution who loved it like you do, and you will not find anyone who appreciates the translator except for me. Therefore, I thought, as a form of gratitude for his past presence and in appreciation of the pen that wrote and translated, that we should collaborate to publish that creativity and dedicate its proceeds to his daughter or his family.”

The truth, my dear professor, is that I found it to be a great idea, and I sat with Professor “Ahmed Abdel-Majid” for days, sorting through those writings, which we found to form four groups. The first consisted of stories and poems you wrote, the second represented similar creative works you translated. The third group formed a book about caricature portraits, while the final group contained articles that seemed to be your preparations on the art of translation. Professor “Ahmed Abdel-Majid” and I thought that these represented a new manifesto for the world of serious translation, especially since you had attached to them a comprehensive vision for Arabic translation as a whole, through institutions similar to the Arab Translation Institute, and how they should coordinate to make the necessary cultural leap that you wrote about, stating that this would not happen without the intersection of ideas and dialogue between cultures.

I was immersed in your creativity, particularly in your story that deeply moved me: The Azhar Tunnel, as if you were predicting what you would become. You had great hopes, but many obstacles stood in the way of reaching them:

The Azhar Tunnel | A Short Story

By: Mohsen Helmy

I finished the call quickly and continued putting on my clothes. I had to reach the “Amerikin” café in less than half an hour. This would not have been possible if I had gone from my home in “Nasr City” to downtown via the 6th October Bridge. The traffic had become a fact of life, and everyone had grown accustomed to it, whether taxi drivers or private car owners. Traffic that consumes gasoline, wastes time, and frays nerves. The solution was the Azhar Tunnel, the only way that would get me to my destination on time.

The young journalist, “Amal Montasser,” promised me she would get there before me, accompanied by the photographer from the newspaper she worked for. The interview about my newly translated book, “The Caesarist Suppression”, was due today for the weekly edition. She had just told me two minutes ago that she was on her way to Talaat Harb Street with her colleague “Mohamed Aboud,” the most skilled photographer in the cultural section.

After 7 minutes of driving, I had reached the middle of Salah Salem Street, where on my right, I could see the Police Mosque and the Police Celebration Hall, followed by the Traffic Administration Street, then the street leading to the Egyptian Fatwa House, and now here begins the Azhar Tunnel. The first part of it was shaded by a canopy of concrete beams that filtered the natural light through the front window of the car into the artificial light that battled the darkness inside the tunnel.

I was surprised to find that my car was the only one in the tunnel. At this time of day, just before noon, there should have been more cars. It was strange that I was alone. Where were the taxis? Where were the motorcycle riders? Where were the half-trucks? Where were the private cars?

I told myself this might be a rare opportunity that I should seize to clear my mind with some contemplation instead of filling it with tension. The journey would take only a few more minutes after I exited the tunnel, reaching the Old Opera Square, then turning right onto Republic Street, then left onto 26th of July Street, heading towards the Court of Cassation, and before that turning left towards Talaat Harb Street. I would park my car in the garage across from the Cairo Atelier, a place that always reminded me of friends in literature and art, and then walk to the “Amerikin” café.

The sound of music from the car’s radio completely disappeared. It was normal because there was no signal in the Azhar Tunnel to play music or broadcast at all. Telecom companies had promised to install devices to enhance the signal, and there were plans to set up a network to receive radio broadcasts, but these were later removed for security reasons.

I felt a strange sense of optimism when I saw in the rearview mirror that another car had entered the tunnel behind me. I needed to keep my tension at bay. I should focus on the interview only. The white car behind me, which looked like a giant refrigerator on four wheels, wasn’t just any vehicle. It was a hearse. My face turned grim. The only car accompanying me in the Azhar Tunnel was carrying a coffin. This was not a promising sign. My optimism faded.

The tunnel lights began to dim. There was no longer that bright light that welcomed me upon entering. The remaining lights barely sufficed to guide me forward. Instinctively, I slowed down. The car next to me slowed down as well. It felt as though the coffin inside it was waiting for me.

From the heart of the darkness enveloping the walls on both sides of the tunnel’s track, I started to see scratches, almost like primitive drawings. They resembled shapes moving like graffiti drawn by children with chalk on the walls. I looked more closely as my heart rate quickened, and I slowed the car even further. The drawings… They were crowds of angry people emerging from the darkness, holding signs. I stopped completely. I felt an intense fear. I moved again. I sped up. The crowds were on my right. The hearse was on my left. The Azhar Tunnel seemed endless.

The phone rang. It must be “Amal,” and it seemed that reaching her wasn’t going to be soon. When I pressed the answer button, her voice came through, anxious. I looked at my watch. Time had passed quickly. When I started to respond, my voice failed to leave my throat. I screamed, but the sound remained just a painful gasp. I would send her a short message. When I began to type the letters on my phone’s screen, the letters appeared on the signs the angry crowd was holding on the wall. Words, phrases, and expressions began to form. At first, the sound of the angry crowd was just murmurs, but now it began to rise, and the chalk began to change colors. There were now colored drawings, covered with patches of chalk the color of blood.

The Azhar Tunnel had transformed into a circular road, with no beginning or end. I thought about returning to Salah Salem Street, but the damned car with the coffin didn’t allow me. It seemed to read my thoughts and started to follow me instead of staying beside me. I felt like I was being pursued. It sped up whenever I did, slowed down when I did, and stopped completely when I stopped.

I thought of getting out of the car. If doing so was madness in a tunnel, the greater madness would be to continue forever.

The phone rang again. Half an hour had passed since the last call. My voice still wouldn’t come out. The letters scattered again as they had when I tried to send the text. I looked at the papers, photos, and books on the seat next to me. I decided to leave the tunnel on foot. Perhaps the problem was with the car. I turned off the engine completely. I freed myself from the seatbelt. I gathered the papers, photos, and books and hugged them to my chest with my right hand, then opened the door with my left.

The sound of the crowd emerging from the walls was loud. Suddenly, the person driving the abhorrent car stepped out. He was wearing a yellow suit with brass buttons, and he had a turban on his head, but his face was featureless. He had no mouth, no eyes, and no nose. Only his ears, which carried the turban, and his smooth face that resembled the head of a chess pawn.

The man opened the side door of the boxy car, revealing the wooden coffin. I understood his intention. For a moment, I thought of throwing what I had in my hands at him and running. Moments passed before the angry crowd, having left the walls, began to move towards us, stepping down into the tunnel. The graffiti-like crowds started shouting in the face of the faceless man. My chance had come. I turned from behind the car and got lost in the crowd, distancing myself enough from the car as I quickened my pace towards the end of the tunnel.

The phone rang for the third time. I answered, “Amal,” and heard my own voice after a long silence:

“I’m coming!”

This last sentence, my dear translator, short story writer, and esteemed poet, gave me hope, and perhaps the wish came true. Mrs. “Fawz” approached me with something I consider will be a turning point in the coming months.

She told me she was preparing to transfer you for treatment in Germany or Paris, and in order to carry out this step legally and socially, she decided to go ahead with what you had previously planned — to marry you.

I know it’s hard to believe, and it may seem impossible to carry out, but she has taken care of everything. I will be proud to sign your marriage contract as a witness, and my name will be linked to my esteemed professor’s name on the most important paper in a person’s life, after their birth certificate.

Mrs. “Fawz” didn’t want us to tell anyone, not even Dr. “Salman Al-Ibrahim.” She told me that the officiant would be Sheikh “Mohamed Al-Atrebi.” I told her I knew him — that man who wears a turban larger than his face, and I reminded her that you were with me when we prayed behind him during the Taraweeh prayers last Ramadan, when we visited a colleague near that mosque in the east.

Perhaps you don’t remember him, but I remembered him well, not just because of the size of his turban, but because he was efficient and didn’t prolong the prayer. As for the second witness, it is your doctor, Dr. “Medhat,” and Mrs. “Fawz” told me that he loves you dearly.

Mrs. “Fawz” arranged with Sheikh “Al-Atrebi” to have the contract registered on a date that matches your stay in Egypt. It so happened that it was about twenty months ago, so if anyone wants to check, they’ll find that the marriage contract is valid and that you were indeed in Egypt at that time.

Sheikh “Al-Atrebi” told her that he could pay a fine through the officiant’s office for the delay in registering the contract, though he would try to pass it through without any complications. As he put it:

“This is our country, the paper is ours, and the seal is ours.”

Tonight, when I return, I will pray the Istikhara prayer, asking that this be a big step forward. Perhaps you will return soon after a successful treatment journey, to find one or two of your works published. Who knows, maybe we’ll celebrate both your return and their publication together — and as the Kuwaitis say, it will be two Eids, my esteemed professor. (Continues)

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Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"