‘A Taste of Bitter Tea’, by Mohammed Alnaas

The title here is borrowed from the French edition, Un goût de thé amer, which was translated by Sarah Rolfo, while the Arabic original is titled العراك في جهنم. This satirical novella is set in a Libyan village called Hell and is a retelling of events our narrator claims took place there in the 1990s.

From A Taste of Bitter Tea

By Mohammed Alnaas

(Chapter Eight)

Translated by Nashwa Nasreldin

 

A week had passed since the exploding gas canister that destroyed Hajj Emmhemmed’s palm tree. It had been a relatively calm week. This, of course, we don’t dispute, but ‘relatively’ here implies – correctly – that the explosion wasn’t the only incident of note. Take, for example, Hajj Emmhemmed discovering that the gas canister that made its way from Cinque’s house to destroy the colonel’s barracks, was, in fact, one of his own, and that one of Jamal’s loyalists had thieved it while the Hajj was sleeping. This ignited the fury of the Hajj, who’d been rendered incapable of even cooking for himself a bowl of pasta despite his renown in his rebellious days as a talented chef. But he didn’t utter a word of this to anyone, and neither did he complain to the colonel, given he had started to hold a grudge of sorts against him, if what Jamal had told him was true.

Soaad’s husband returned from the desert and beat her the one time she forgot to add salt to his meal. No one cared whether the husband was in the village or not, and so, other than this fleeting reference, we likewise won’t waste any more of our story on him. Especially since he left at the end of the week (although not before fucking his wife multiple times) to extract black gold. The black gold he would sell on to companies run by the colonisers – the same colonisers who were once known for their brutality, but not since they’d traded in facism for the capitalist dream. This would later be exemplified by Silvio Berlusconi (Rome’s Caesar) kissing the hand of the Leader in front of large crowds, ten years after the start of the feud.

Jamal’s business almost perished, which had little to do with the dispute, but rather to a malfunction in one of the bokha spirit factory operations, which he failed to catch in time.

The restive young men continued to meet every day as usual, just before noon, to discuss the feud. Their self-appointed storyteller had informed them that a little birdie had whispered to him what a cat had told her, which another cat had passed on, which she’d heard from a third cat who had been spying on some locals’ kitchens. And that was that the colonel’s family had, for an entire week, been enjoying a lavish fish meal – every single day, with each dish more elaborate than the last. There was no doubting the other animals’ testimonies, all of them being naturally trustworthy, since animals have no capacity for cunning nor brains capable of concocting lies. The storyteller also added that our hero – the hero of this tale who we may not meet until the very end – was rallying the people of his own village, to help the dear sons of Jahannam reap double the vengeance. Now this is precisely what we would call: ‘external interference in our private affairs.’ Which is totally unacceptable of course, since we must always protect our land from the enemy, no matter how much we may hate each other, and no matter how much we may also hate the village.

This was the mood amongst the village youth this past week. As for Hajja Mabrouka, she was the only one still loyal to the cause, smuggling cigarettes for her petty, cowardly, despicable son, and relaying the news of the village to the colonel.

Other than that, nothing much happened in the village to rouse interest, apart from the ongoing blazes and some verbal altercations between the two sides. And there was some stalking, littering, attempts at mobilising supporters, or accidentally slicing into the guts of a passing spectator to the brawls. But that’s just how things play out in conflict and skirmish in this foolish world.

Is there any need now, after this summary of the week’s highlights, to introduce another character into th story? Maybe it’s time… and so let’s meet the Association Secretary, who is also, as agreed by the villagers, the Secretary of the Popular Committee of Jahannam: Mr. Mahmoud, the Plump. Mr. Mahmoud was sitting in the Association office, smoking al-Riyadi cigarettes and pouring himself mint tea, when Hajj Emhemmed walked in with only one thing on his mind – tea. This is because (and following on from the previous week’s events) the Hajj had not drunk a single cup in that time. Rather than accepting the situation as a form of rehab for his addiction, his anger was roused as he recalled his last visit and tea session at Jamal’s home.

“Hajj Emhemmed, how blessed we are with this visit!” said Mr. Mahmoud, who wasn’t really any kind of ‘master’, since the Leader informed us all that we are in an era without master or slave. But still, everyone always refers to him this way. For he, and due to the great significance of the fact and the shortcomings of the state, was the only villager who had completed his education, graduating from the Higher Institute of Comprehensive Professions, where he trained in Agriculture. Now, before you start passing judgment and accusing me of deriding Mr. Mahmoud, because I’m linking his opportunism to the fact that he held two positions for which he had earned no qualification or experience, and noting his peasant origins – a point which may suggest that I’m somehow imparting an edge of western capitalist hostility towards the downtrodden classes – I must clarify for your sake and all those whose brains function similarly to yours, that I am nothing but a messenger; I simply transport the truth. And the truth is that Mr. Mahmoud graduated as a farmer and then was handed the job of Secretary of the Association and of the Popular Committee of Jahannam. So, where’s the problem? Clearly, the problem lies in you.

Now that you have delayed the narrative, thanks to your extraordinary intelligence, we will return to our story. Mr. Mahmoud addressed the Hajj, having stood up and heaved his belly over to the counter of the Association, the counter which separates the workers from the rest of the people, a barrier separating the mobs from the wealthy, of which the Secretary of the Popular Committee boasts throughout the Jamahiriya. Mr. Mahmoud didn’t extinguish his cigarette respectful of Hajj Emmhammed’s age or seniority, just as he didn’t hide the cup of mint tea, but rather placed the cup down on the counter. The Hajj stuttered and grew increasingly furious, which rendered him speechless.

“How can we help you, Hajj? Yesterday, two boxes of Zeena and Nahoul biscuits arrived. Maybe you’d like to tuck some away for the grandchildren,” Mahmoud said, making  a show of sipping the tea and clearing his throat indulgently.

“I…I…I’d like some tea. That’s all I want,” the Hajj said, sounding defeated.

“Of course, Hajj! Give me one minute.”

Mr. Mahmoud disappeared into the kitchen then returned with a glass.

“With mint or without?” he asked the hajj, as he stood at his teapot, which he left on the coal fire to crackle as it pleased.

“Without,” the Hajj said. He was overcome, so he leaned on the wooden table and waited for the Association Secretary’s prized gift. Although he had come determined to take his share of the tea that the Leader had brought over from Sri Lanka, his desperate need to savour the black liquid had left him defenceless. He preferred, at the very least, to drink his tea without mint, adding some resonance to the story.

“Tell me, Hajj, what brought you to the Association? We never see you anymore.”

“It’s this fighting,” the Hajj said, losing himself to the pleasure of the tea permeating his veins, as his blood began to pump faster.

“Are you all still at loggerheads?” Mr. Mahmoud asked. It was clear from his question that he was either ignorant of the reality of the village he was in charge of, or, and this seemed much more likely, he wanted to put on the guise of the Leader and act as the sarcastic sage of his time. The Hajj contemplated Mr. Mahmoud’s words. What he wanted was to punch him, but he remembered that he had sworn, since the death of his son in his own brawl with Hasan the Rumi, that he would never again extend his fist at another human being, no matter how much they deserved it.

“Yes, they stole my gas canister and used it to bomb the colonel’s house.”

“Did you file a complaint at the police station? You have to file a complaint. A bunch of vagrants robbed the Association a few days ago. The denigrates stole nothing but tea, can you believe it? I had saved a packet of the luxury brand for you, Hajj, and for every house in the village. I filed a complaint and I’m still waiting for the results of the investigation. In fact, I have an appointment with Effendi Salem in half an hour. I was hoping you’d come with me.”

“Effendi Salem doesn’t listen to anyone. Just like the government,” the Hajj replied, suppressing his anger at the Association Secretary’s remark about the tea. “Yes, yes, I filed a report about the fight to the General People’s Congress in the seven regions, but they don’t care about us.”

“No one cares about Jahannam.”

“I care about Jahannam! Of course, our Jahannam, not the Jahannam which God created for the infidels.”

“May God curse them,” the Hajj said. He emptied his glass, and the Secretary was generous enough to pour him more tea.

“I have been thinking, for a while now, about changing that name. What do you think, Hajj? I don’t like the name Jahannam. I’d prefer to call it Afia.”

“Afia? The one where the infidels get their skin slayed?!”

“Ha-ha-ha, you always make me laugh, Hajj, but I mean Afia, the way the levantines mean it, for good health.”

“Jahannam is a good name for the village. We never thought there was anything wrong with the name.”

“But the name isn’t politically correct, Hajj.”

“What? What is this political correctness? You know I don’t like to talk about politics.”

“Yes, what does that term even mean? I have no idea. It’s as if someone placed the phrase on my tongue.”

“Sometimes, mysterious things happen on one’s tongue, but then everything becomes clear in another age.”

Yes, what the Hajj had said was correct, since I had personally placed the sentence on Mr. Mahmoud’s tongue, so that you may learn, and understand, that we live in a new era, one in which we need to be woke, so to speak. But let’s move on and return to our story. The conversation between Mr. Mahmoud and the Hajj concluded by discussing the incident relating to Haitham, the strongman, beating our hero, Issa Al Arabi, whose updates we aren’t yet privy to and who may even be dead by now for all we know. Mr. Mahmoud was the one who started this particular conversation, explaining to the Hajj that the colonel had crossed all the red lines, as the feud was no longer peaceful. The Hajj wanted to ask when feuding had ever been peaceful, but Mr. Mahmoud shut him up with another cup of tea, until the Hajj felt like he had been drugged and pleaded for a chair to sit on. Mr. Mahmoud saw that resolving the fighting peacefully should now be considered one of the seven legends, after the ghoul, the phoenix, the loyal friend, Arab unity, the return of the Rightly Guided Islamic Caliphate, and the death of the Leader, for of course he is always alive in our hearts – those being Mr. Mahmoud’s words, not mine. The problem, as Mr. Mahmoud said, lies in the balance of power.

“Do you know what balance of power means, Hajj?”

“I only ever studied at the Kuttab. In the days of the Rumis, we didn’t go to schools because we didn’t want to turn into Rumis. In the days of Sidi Idris, I worked in a city soap factory so that my wife could live at my expense, may God have mercy on her.”

“God rest her soul, Hajj. Balance of power means that our brother Jamal and Colonel Boudabbara are equally strong opponents, and they know that. And that is why they work on rallying supporters to defeat the enemy. So how do we overturn this balance?”

“I don’t know? Should the government intervene and end this farce?”

“No, the government doesn’t care about solving our trivial problems. It has more important matters to deal with, like connecting the great man-made river to all of the Shaabiyat of the Jamahiriya, and confronting the global colonial and imperialist powers embodied by the actor, Reagan.”

“I don’t think Reagan is the president of the Americans anymore.”

“That’s what they want you to believe. Reagan is a trivial actor, and the entire matter might all be a charade. More importantly, the government is busy. And even if it wasn’t preoccupied, did you not hear the words of the Brother Leader: the people must govern themselves by themselves?”

“I did.”

“So we are the ones who must drive one side to victory. Now, if you’re interested in logic, then I would lean towards supporting the Colonel. But if you wish to follow the heart, then we must support our brother Jamal. He is one of us after all…”

“But I came to you because I wanted some tea.”

And this is how the Hajj concluded our joyous introduction to the worldview of the Association Secretary and Secretary of the Popular Committee of Jahannam, Mr. Mahmoud the Plump. The Hajj is owed his just deserts from God, and what he deserves is tea. But at the end he left empty handed, with only the Association Secretary’s promise that he would be the first villager to receive tea as soon as it was delivered.

He took his leave from the Association Secretary so he could tune into the radio broadcast, since the Brother Leader and Guide of the Revolution was currently inciting the masses to prepare for the fight against the imperialist enemy and breaking the global blockade. As he turned away from the Association, he bumped once again into Hajja Mabrouka, near the poster of the Brother Leader, which had been spared the flames of the fighting. He stopped to talk to her.

“There’s no tea at the Association, Hajja.”

“Says who, Hajj?” she sneered.

“The Association Secretary.”

“Do you believe everything the Association Secretary tells you, Hajj Emmhamed?” she tutted, leaving Hajj Emmhammed stunned as he watched her march into the Association to seize her due.

Special thanks to freelance editor Robina Pelham Burn and Spectre Editorial Director Ansa Khan, for their superb edits of the first 500 words which they graciously shared with our audience at English PEN Editorial Slam last month.

Nashwa Nasreldin is a writer, editor, and a translator of Arabic literature. Her book translations include Shatila Stories, a collaborative novel by nine refugee writers, which was longlisted for the EBRD Literature prize, and After Coffee, by Abdelrashid Mahmoudi, which was a Fiction Finalist in the International Book Awards. She is also the co-translator of Samar Yazbek’s memoir, The Crossing: My Journey to the Shattered Heart of Syria.

Also read: another excerpt from the novella translated by Rana Asfour.

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