B (2:50)
Okay, just finally chosen a passage from close to the beginning of the book. The doctor who is the central character in the novel has just arrived in this remote village in Upper Egypt to run a clinic that's been closed for several months. It's quite run down. He himself has just been released from prison for political activity as a student, and he's been more or less banished to this remote station in in the south of the country. So it's he's just arrived, the caretaker has shown him to his quarters above the clinic, and he's it's because it's been closed for months, it's dirty, there are rats, he's very uncomfortable, and the caretaker has just left him to sleep the night. So we'll start from there. He muttered a few words I didn't catch, backed away, then left the room and shut the door quickly behind him. Exhausted, I sat down on one of the chairs, no more stable on its legs than I was myself. I could hear the rats gnawing at the bottom of the door, trying to find a gap to squeeze through into the room. I examined the door nervously. The lower part of it was reinforced with a sheet of metal, which the rats would not be able to chew through. That reassured me a little, and I began looking around. I left the lamp lit. I didn't dare put it out, and threw myself on the bed and closed my eyes. For the last few months I had been used to sleeping on a damp floor with nothing between me and it but a blanket. Just a blanket full of holes and only fetid, stale air to breathe. I had accustomed myself to that, like the maggots of the earth, and like all the other maggots inside the cramped cells, there were long days in which I lost all hope, waiting for whatever torture would be visited on me at any time. It wasn't just my body that was worn out. My soul was also under assault. The sounds of the night provoked mortal terror in my inner being. Inspections, insults, violent kicks. I closed my eyes and tried to drive all the images of abuse from my mind. I don't know how I got out of that miserable swamp. Some kind of rare miracle. One of those random pardon orders, just as random as the original detention order, pushed me out of the darkness of that prison, clutching my papers, my birth certificate, my graduation certificate, and the permit from the doctor certificate. Doctor Syndicate Sorry to practice medicine, but all of that still wasn't enough for me to be reappointed to my old physician. The clerk looked at me from behind his desk, stacked with files, all these papers are not sufficient. The most important paper has to come from downstairs. You need to go downstairs to obtain the approval. I hadn't known there was a downstairs. I went down there thinking I was going to the archives. But this downstairs was different. It was much cleaner and grander than the other floors. The red carpet, potted plants, strange paintings on the walls. It was as if they were expecting my arrival. The state security officer who received me had my personal file in front of him. From his position downstairs, he held sway over all the upper floors. Every decision made in this building had to pass across his desk and was subject to his approval. He was civil and firm. He leafed through my papers and spoke concisely. It was the people closest to you who gave your way. That's why we're sure of our sources. He didn't name any names, but these few words robbed me of my trust in everybody, even myself. I looked at him carefully as he took my papers from me and said, you were a troublemaker. As a student, you never let a demonstration or a symposium or a wall newspaper go by without taking part. You announced your sedition openly. Prison was only a mild punishment, but your soul is in our hands now. I remain silent. I felt as though, with his arrogance, he really did have custody of my soul. He shuffled my papers with the amusement of someone playing with a person's fate. We'll let you go for now. We'll send you far away, but you won't be out of our sight. Upper Egypt is the land of reform and correction for all troublemakers. It's almost like a prison. He laughed coarsely. But I needed a new land, a different place to plant. My feet silenced out my papers, but kept them in front of him and spoke again. The first time we give a warning, but the second time we strike. Take your papers and go to your posting. And remember that we've granted you a second chance. I took my papers and ascended to the miserable offices on the upper floors, where instead of red carpets and potted plants, there were asthmatic old functionaries. I signed all the papers they presented me with and all the pledges of good behavior. And I went off to find out how to get to this village where I came in search of a world that held no trace of my old memories. Without any hope of return or any certainty of landing on my feet, my wearied body refused to relax, as if I had simply been transferred to a new cell. In the distance, lone wolves howled and the dogs responded with the hysteria of barking. Between monaster spirits of the dead. The night wore on, and I tossed and turned on a dusty bed, couldn't tear myself away from that pervading darkness. The dark of the prison was mixed up with the dark of the village night. There were no dreams, but there were nightmares. I opened my eyes with a start and looked around, trying to recognize where I was. The lamp light was fading, the mantle turning a dark yellow on the point of burning out, so I quickly extinguished it. The dawn gloaming revealed details of the place. I went out onto the balcony. A gray luminance delicately steeped through the fog that lay on the fields and enveloped the tall palms. Despite the overall stillness, I could make out the figures of villagers leaving their low houses and heading for the fields. They walked in groups, one after the other, men, women, and behind them, the children and the animals. The men carried their mattocks and hoes, the women carried bundles of food, and the animals walked with bowed heads, knowing that the long day of toil lay ahead of them. At the end of the procession were the elderly, some of them leaning on sticks and struggling to walk like newly resurrected dead. They all shuffled along at the birth of the light, as they had done for thousands of years, a mythical ritual performed with a glory befitting the first moment of creation. I watched them in wonder, unable to move, and they proceeded, one group after another, in tune with the movement of the world, a cycle completing its revolution through a distance and history. Not one of them turned in my direction. No one saw me. From my experience of life, I knew what kind of food was in those bundles, nothing more than bread and pickled turnip. Even a piece of cheese would appear beyond their means. How did they stay alive year after year on these meager rations? I stood there until their living column disappeared and dispersed among the fields. The grainers receded and the folk took on a padded red as the gray melted away and the sun's rays began to spread from behind the trunks of the palms. My first day was beginning.