Free That Smell and Notes From Prison by Sonallah Ibrahim Page A

black sitting cross-legged on a bed in the corner. One rose and
came to me, saying, Who are you? I recognized my grandmother. I spoke my name in
a low voice and she embraced me and kissed me on the cheek. Sit down, she said.
I sat on a wooden chair by the door. My grandmother pointed to the younger of
the two women. This is your aunt, she said. My aunt rose and kissed me on the
cheek. Then she pointed to the other woman. This is my aunt, she said. I rose
and picked up my chair and brought it closer to them, setting it down next to
the bed. My grandmother’s aunt said, This neighborhood is falling apart. My
grandmother said, As soon as I saw you, I knew it was you. My aunt said, We were
just saying we could meet the two of them on a bus and have no idea. My
grandmother picked up the transistor and said, It’s story-time. A somber voice
on the radio announced another episode of “The Shadow.” The episode began with a
young man’s voice saying tearfully: How can I live when I know my father is a
murderer? I sat and listened in silence. All the women gazed at the radio.
Fifteen minutes passed, the episode ended, and my grandmother got up to pray.
Some children came into the room and my aunt said to them, This is the son of
your aunt, may God have mercy on her. She looked at me from the corner of her
eye. I said nothing. I wanted to know exactly when and where my mother had died.
My grandmother finished her prayers and sat next to me. When exactly did my
mother die? I asked her. One week ago tomorrow, she said. Where? At her father’s
house, she said. I pointed to my head and said, How was she? She read the
newspapers and went on about everything better than any of us and she knew what
was going to happen and it didn’t bother her, my grandmother’s aunt said. Then
she got sick all of a sudden and wouldn’t see the doctor, my grandmother said.
She wouldn’t take any medicine. She got thinner and thinner and finally stopped
eating. My aunt said, On the last day she asked for a cup of water and when she
drank it she fell down dead. We were silent. My grandmother said, Even at the
end, she didn’t want to see me and she didn’t want to see any of you. I looked
at my watch. The policeman would come soon. I stood up and said, I have to go
now. I wished them goodbye. I went downstairs and walked out of the house, then
followed some side streets back to Midan Ramses, where I headed for the metro
station.

Introduction to the 1986 edition of That
Smell
    The great Yahya Haqqi asked me, when I met him recently
at some function or other, whether I remembered his criticism of my first novel, That Smell , just after its publication in 1966.
When I said yes, he asked my opinion now, almost two decades later, of what he’d
said and of my novel more generally. I’d forgotten almost everything to do with
the book. Years had passed since the last time I’d read it. I’m not in the habit
of going back to previous work — reading like that bores me when it doesn’t lead
to depression. As for Yahya Haqqi’s criticism, I will never forget it.
    I’d given the manuscript to a shabby little printer in El Zaher
district, during one of those rare moments in the history of modern Egypt when
martial law was lifted and a book didn’t require prior approval from the censor
before being given to a printer. Officially, at least. In fact, the censor kept
his office and his job as before. The only difference was that his door no
longer had a sign on it, and the confiscation of books didn’t happen before the
printing, but afterward.
    Which is what happened to my novel. The printer had hardly finished
before the book was seized. I don’t remember if I was summoned to the chief
censor’s office or if I went there on my own to complain. In any case, I met the
late Talat Khalid — one of the more zealous disciples of the Minister of
Information, Abdel Qader Hatem — who had called in some departmental bigwigs to
enjoy the spectacle. Khalid had