Ahmed Khaled Tawfik’s ‘The Wall’

The Wall

From the collection Now I Understand

By Ahmed Khaled Tawfik 

Translated by Noor Sahnoun (Noor Tarek) and Melissa Krawczyk

 

 

Dear Essam,

How are you doing?  How is life over there in New Zealand’s capital city? I suspect that, over there in Wellington, you haven’t thought about Egypt for some time now. I don’t really blame you. You suffered a lot in recent years—to the point that you found yourself desperately craving escape. But homeland, well, it’s a complex word. It encompasses the land, the scent of the air, the people, the sky… Every homeland has its own stars, and its own special nighttime scent. Don’t tell me you’re tired of everything in Egypt. Don’t tell me you’re tired of me, too.

Living in your place in Agouza does provide us comfort in your absence. At least everything in it still carries your scent and touch. It’s the place where you lived alone for many years, the one that excited the imagination of so many—causing you to be accused of many things—since they forgot you were just an eccentric university professor. You’re not a murderer, nor are you debauched, nor drowning in depravity. You’re just another human question mark—and humans despise unknowns. Remember when we saw that strange insect on your balcony? Without any hesitation, we each took off a shoe and rushed to crush it. We turned it into dust and scattered it in the wind.

Was that insect harmful? Was it poisonous? Of course we didn’t know, and most likely, it was just an innocent insect, but it was… ambiguous. It was unexplained, so we didn’t like it, and that’s why we crushed it.

That is just how you are: a quirky individual that people are bound to consider a terrifying foe.

In the end, you were fed up with all of it and decided to run away. You secured an immigrant visa for the distant and remote country of New Zealand, which no one knew anything about except that it is where the Lord of the Rings movies and the Xena: Warrior Princess series were filmed. It’s clear you’re not coming back.

Anyway, my wife and I really love your flat. It’s truly beautiful and reflects your exquisite taste. Your library is still here, along with most of the furniture. Since you never married, we expected to find your place a garbage dump or a warzone, but you were excessively tidy, almost to a pathological degree.

As you know, we haven’t made any changes. But that wall, the one you built that divides the living room—frankly, the wall makes the room feel too cramped. The room was four meters long, but the wall has reduced it to a meter and a half. What’s more, you made it an isolated section without any doors or access points. In short, you created a double wall.

This was your house, and you were free to do as you please. However, now that I live here and have a contract for the property, I feel it’s fair that I know why you insist on keeping this wall. When I asked you about it, you said you’re storing all the junk you don’t want to see but can’t bring yourself to get rid of—like the cradle from when you were a baby. Stuff that you don’t want and will never use, but you also can’t bear to throw it in the trash or sell it to a sleazy second-hand dealer who might use it as a spittoon.

Like the photo collection that spans your entire life, about five boxes in all. You don’t want them, but you can’t burn them. So, you decided to store all this stuff behind the wall you built. Your terms were clear: You would sell me the property for an unbelievable price (seriously, a luxurious place in an upscale neighborhood at this price?), but we had to make a solemn promise not to make any changes.

This includes, of course, not knocking down the wall. But why this strange insistence?

Yours truly,

Mahmoud

***

Dear Essam,

As I’ve said, it’s clear you’re not willing to have the wall demolished. I swear to God I understand, but my wife does not. After a few days living in the flat, she asked me:

“How can we simply accept losing two thirds of the living room like this?”

“We agreed to these terms when we took the apartment. Some people play chess, and when they lose, they find the game pointless, dull, and a waste of time. We’re not going to be like them.”

That silenced her objections. But a few days later, she brought it up again.

I’m sure you’re familiar with the story of Bluebeard? Well, it captures a woman’s curiosity perfectly. Bluebeard presented his wife with a palace containing ninety-nine rooms, but he insisted that the hundredth room could never be opened. The result was that she couldn’t bear her life anymore, unable to take notice of anything in the whole world except that one hundredth room. Then she opened it… And well, you know the rest of the story—the horror of it makes me want to put down my pen. There’s no reason to dwell on that, but explain this concept to my wife, for God’s sake!

The problem with marriage, for someone like me, is that you never hit the target you’re shooting for. Someone always twists your wrist at the last second, or throws up a barrier, or covers your eyes. And I’m used to getting what I want.

A week ago, my wife came to me depressed and said:

“There are strange smells coming from behind the wall. I’ll cut off my own arm if your friend didn’t leave a dead cat in there.”

“I don’t know why you’re risking your arm, my dear. Losing your arm isn’t going to improve your looks, and—no offense—you’re no Venus de Milo as it is. What you’re saying is impossible.”

It’s a brick wall, with a thick layer of plaster and a coat of paint. Even if an army the size of Israel’s was lying dead inside, you wouldn’t be able to smell anything. Not to mention the fact that we’re talking about several months here, which is the timeframe in which bacteria finish their determined mission to efficiently, and without aversion, return nitrogen to the soil. In other words, after this amount of time, a body will transform into smooth, immaculately clean, odorless bones.

My wife insisted:

“Why don’t we hire one of the workers to put a little gap in the wall so we can see?”

I responded firmly:

“Because, first of all, we made a promise to our traveling friend, and because I know what will happen. You’ll make a gap, then ask to widen it. Then you’ll say there’s no need to close it up again. Come on, let’s widen it more… And in the end, we’ll find that you have actually removed the wall, against my wishes, and I will have played the role of a foolish child for the thousandth time. No, I absolutely refuse!”

In any case, I went and carefully sniffed around the wall—women have sharper senses than men, for sure. There’s no scent of death. To be precise, I’d say it smells like bean soup. It’s nothing to worry about.

You know women, my friend. My wife wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming and soaked in sweat… She’s afraid to go near the wall at night.

This wall has truly made my life a living hell.

Yesterday, she said anxiously:

“May lightning strike me if there isn’t something trapped in there. Something is scratching on the wall from inside—I’m positive. Something is trying to get out!!”

Yours truly,

Mahmoud

***

Dear Essam,

How could something be alive after all these months? There’s no entrance into this sealed room. The wall of the building itself encloses it from the back, but it’s possible that sound is playing some mysterious tricks. Sometimes, our neighbors’ voices seem to come from our kitchen sink in the middle of the night, and I can hear Mrs. Awatif arguing with Professor Mustafa because he only changed his socks once in a week. Maybe now they’re scratching the walls of their room.

My wife demanded:

“Let’s tear down the wall.”

“No.”

She pressed so hard that I remembered that Turkish folk legend of Farhad and Shirin, where people chant, “Break the rock, Farhad. Break the rock, Farhad.” And the hero responds, “For your sake, I will break it.” My wife kept repeating, “Tear down the wall, Mahmoud. Tear down the wall, Mahmoud.” And I was on the verge of saying, “For your sake, I will divorce her.”

I’ll confess something to you…

I, too, am afraid of the wall. One day, I was standing next to it, and I heard rustling. It was as if a piece of cloth were rubbing against it on the other side. The hair on the back of my neck stood up in terror, and I put my ear to the wall.

I thought I heard a fragment of conversation, but honestly, I couldn’t make out anything except the word “unbearable.” Once again, I put it down to a trick of acoustics.

I knocked on the wall a few times, but the only sound was thunk…thunk…thunk… It’s hollow behind the wall. But how can you tolerate having a room in your own home that you’ve never entered? Sometimes, I feel like this condition is your way of testing our curiosity. This test requires overcoming human nature, and, at the end of it, you’ll return from your hidden lair to reward us for our trustworthiness with a sack of coins.

Something strange happened this morning.

I found my wife kneeling next to the wall, and, when she saw me, she startled and then started to sob. I discovered she was holding a drill and intended to make a hole in the wall. She wanted to see inside. But how was she going to see without light? Did she plan to insert a fiberoptic endoscope through the opening, like they do in the tombs of the pharaohs? But she confidently pointed to a small light switch on the right wall. She said the switch used to turn on a lamp in that part of the room before it was divided, and that maybe the lamp still worked and could light up the sealed tomb for us. I turned on the lamp, and I thought I heard a scream!

There’s a creature inside that can’t stand the light! Or… was I hallucinating? I ordered her to turn off the light immediately, afraid there could be exposed electrical wires. A spark plus a pile of paper… There might not be enough oxygen inside to burn, but I wasn’t going to risk it.

I’m becoming increasingly nervous and tense because of this detestable wall. I don’t know if it’s my own nervousness or if my wife’s is contagious, but a person afflicted with tuberculosis doesn’t usually wonder much about the source of the infection, they ask for the cure. And my cure, without a doubt, is with you.

What’s in that room, Essam? I’m not talking about the photos and the cradle and the childhood memories. I mean what is actually in there?

I am begging you to answer. I feel like I’m talking to myself. Are you still alive? Or is there some remote tribe that practices cannibalism like in the old tall tales, and they’ve cooked you in an earthen oven and devoured you during an annual festival?

That would be unfortunate, but I’d like to know if that’s what happened, because that would free me from my oath. And then I would tear down the wall and know the truth. Sunlight and fresh air would soak up this damp, mysterious darkness, and we would be cured of our curiosity about what awaits us behind the wall.

Essam, please answer.

Yours truly,

Mahmoud

***

Dear Mr. Essam,

I’m writing to you for the first time. I am Mrs. Thuraya al-Qamash, the one who bought your property in Agouza.

I apologize for causing you any inconvenience, but frankly, I can no longer tolerate that wall you built in the living room. The room used to be four meters long, but the wall has reduced it to just two and a half. I know I agreed to this condition of yours, and we even went to a lawyer to sign the contract, and the lawyer had me sign a pledge afterward not to make any modifications to the flat.

But the situation is truly unbearable. The most important room in my home, which belongs to me, is too cramped. Besides, I really have no idea what you put behind that wall except for your so-called memories.

There is a constant musty smell wafting out from underneath the wall. I remember once, I invited guests over for lunch and prepared an excellent bean soup with a wonderful aroma, but they lost their appetite because that musty smell suddenly grew very intense. They were disgusted.

And the noises—there are voices speaking inside. Sometimes, I scratch the wall with my fingernail, expecting someone inside to hear me.

One time, the voices grew really loud, and I had a hysterical fit and started screaming in my husband’s face: “This wall is driving me crazy! It’s intolerable! Unbearable!!”

What’s even worse is that someone often knocks on the wall as if they’re trying to make sure there’s a hollow space behind it. Once, I was shocked when the ceiling light turned on in the living room without anyone touching the switch, and I heard a sound like a drill being operated on the other side of the wall. I screamed loudly—and the light went off again.

Dear Mr. Essam, I hate to say this, but I must inform you that I am going to have the wall demolished, regardless of any legal repercussions. I just wanted you to know because I am a straightforward person who operates transparently.

With thanks,

Thuraya al-Qamash.

***

 

Look and See: Incident Report[1]

Based on a complaint from businessman Mohammed al-Qamash to Hani al-Hafnawi, police officers went to the complainant’s flat in Agouza, where it turned out that the previous owner, Essam Mohamed Fathi, currently in New Zealand, had built a wall in one of the rooms and insisted that the new owner not tear it down. However, Mrs. Thuraya, the new owner’s wife, insisted that she smelled a foul odor through the wall and hired workers to demolish it.

After the demolition, she was shocked to discover the fully decomposed bodies of a man and a woman. It appears that the previous owner had murdered them both and entombed them in that part of the room by walling up the section himself. Examination of the victims’ documents confirmed them as Mahmoud al-Shemi and his wife. It appears the killer had invited them to his apartment under the pretext of his impending travel and poisoned their drinks. He then dragged them to that part of the room and completed the construction of a wall he had already begun. In the days that followed, he hired plasterers and painters to ensure the grave was completely concealed. It is believed that the motive for the murder was a financial dispute between him and the victims. The prosecution has ordered further investigation.

***

Dear Essam,

I believe my letters haven’t reached you—perhaps because I never sent them, or perhaps because I never wrote them in the first place. Nevertheless, I’ve come to understand a number of things, and I’m finally beginning to grasp the horrifying truth that my naivety had prevented me from seeing. I vividly recall everything that happened the day we visited your home to settle your debts. My wife is talking about how we should join you in New Zealand to rekindle our old friendship… I think I agree with her on that. What do you say?

Yours truly,

Mahmoud

Rights to the whole collection, Now I Understand, are available.

Ahmed Khaled Tawfik (1962-2008) was an Egyptian author and physician who wrote more than 200 books, many of them genre novels popular with young readers. The Netflix series Paranormal was based on his popular ما وراء الطبيعة books.

Noor Sahnoun is a literary translator.

Melissa Krawczyk is an Arabic-to-English literary translator who has studied Modern Standard Arabic (MSA) for more than twenty years and has a diverse academic background, holding degrees in Arabic Language and Culture as well as Materials Science and Engineering. She has a deep passion for languages, literature, and scientific literacy. In addition to Arabic, Melissa has studied Spanish, French, German, and American Sign Language (ASL). She avidly consumes science fiction, fantasy, and historical fiction while staying up to date on developments in medicine, science, and technology. She resides in Southern California with her family of four and is currently translating مكاكي دي أفريكا (Makaki de Africa) by Mukhtar Saad Shehata and E.S.P. by Ahmed Khaled Tawfik. Please contact her at melissaktranslates@gmail.com for a translation sample and publishing rights information.

[1] Bos WTol (بص وطل) was an Egyptian online magazine that offered a wide range of content, including cultural, artistic, and technological news, as well as articles and stories.