{"id":33512,"date":"2024-07-05T10:31:27","date_gmt":"2024-07-05T08:31:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=33512"},"modified":"2024-08-16T08:05:17","modified_gmt":"2024-08-16T06:05:17","slug":"victoria-an-excerpt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/victoria-an-excerpt\/","title":{"rendered":"Victoria<\/em>\u2014An Excerpt"},"content":{"rendered":"
In a family that counts its pennies, a sickly mother and her daughter visit the seamstress for new galabeyas, in preparation for what might be their last holiday together.<\/h5>\n
Victoria<\/em> is Karoline Kamel’s award-winning debut novel, portraying the coming-of-age of Victoria, a young Coptic woman who moves from the provinces to Cairo for her studies. The story delves into the complex forms of oppression in Egyptian society on the eve of the 2011 revolution.<\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Karoline Kamel<\/h4>\n

Translated from the Arabic by Ranya Abdelrahman<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cVictoria!\u201d my mother called. \u201cCome into the sitting room with me. It\u2019s been gathering dust for long enough.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I was surprised by my mother\u2019s request. The sitting room had always been forbidden to us, its furniture covered with white sheets that only came off when we had visitors, and once a week when my mother cleaned the apartment.<\/span><\/p>\n

We went into the room and stood across from each other, lifting off the sheets. Dust motes swirled, embraced by gentle sunbeams streaming in through the slats in the windows. I saw them shimmer like the fairy dust in cartoons. But our dust had no magical powers. Instead, it tickled our noses, making us sneeze.<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother bundled up the sheets and gave them to me so I could drop them next to the washing machine in the bathroom. When I came back, I sat down beside her on the sofa, wriggling and squirming as I tried to get comfortable.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMama, this sofa\u2019s killing me,\u201d I said. \u201cI don’t get it: The one in the living room\u2019s better, but we keep this room saved up for guests?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"
Victoria<\/em>‘s original Arabic edition<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Laughing, she said the furniture didn\u2019t need to be comfortable; the whole point was to keep it looking new and unused for visitors who judged people by their sitting rooms. She told me about a different furniture set that she\u2019d wanted when she got married. But, because her family was poor, she\u2019d made do with her mother-in-law\u2019s hand-me-down set, which her father had reupholstered and repainted.<\/span><\/p>\n

I liked the old furniture\u2019s lustrous, gilded look, but my mother said she\u2019d never found it attractive. She still had hopes of getting the sitting room of her dreams \u2014 she\u2019d buy it when I was old enough to be married and suitors began to visit us with their families.<\/span><\/p>\n

We sat for a while in silence; then my mother looked deep into my eyes. \u201cListen, Victoria, I want you to do something for me,\u201d she said, her voice heavy with sadness. \u201cEven if I die before you get married, make sure Baba buys new furniture for this room.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

That made me cry, so she pulled me close and hugged me, gently patting my back. I asked her not to talk about dying anymore, so she went back to telling me about the new furniture she\u2019d dreamt of for years \u2014 a dream she and my father hadn\u2019t been able to make come true.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOld furniture is always old,\u201d she said, \u201cno matter how much you spruce it up and replace the fabric. <\/span>New<\/span><\/i> means <\/span>brand-new<\/span><\/i>, right down to the wooden frames.\u201d She insisted I was her only hope of changing what she\u2019d failed to change herself.<\/span><\/p>\n

We heard my father as he came in the front door, calling out my mother\u2019s name. \u201cWe\u2019re in the sitting room,\u201d she called back loudly.<\/span><\/p>\n

He walked slowly into the room and stared at us, confused. \u201cHas anyone come to visit today, Mary?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

We laughed, and my mother pretended to be surprised by his question. \u201cNo, Mofdi,\u201d she said. \u201cWe just fancied trying out the sitting room. No harm in that, is there?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

With an absent shake of his head, my father gingerly lowered himself into the chair facing the sofa, checking to make sure he hadn\u2019t scuffed the wood. He raised his eyebrows briefly. \u201cGod rest your soul, Ma, I can\u2019t remember the last time I sat on this furniture. Why\u2019s it so damned uncomfortable?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCould be the upholstery\u2019s bad,\u201d my mother suggested.<\/span><\/p>\n

He nodded. \u201cPlus it\u2019s been so long since anyone\u2019s sat here, the stuffing\u2019s rock hard.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

We fell quiet, lost in our separate thoughts about the furniture. Then my father said he had a surprise for us, and asked us to guess what it was.<\/span><\/p>\n

I looked at my mother, but she seemed as puzzled as I was. In my entire 15 years, my father had only surprised me with plans she\u2019d already agreed to. These usually involved cutting expenses, buying fewer clothes and shoes, and other dismal decisions. I sat up straight and wracked my brains for a clue. A few moments later, my mother and I confessed we were stumped.<\/span><\/p>\n

My father widened his eyes dramatically. \u201cI\u2019ve booked us four days by the sea in Ras El-Barr!\u201d he announced with a grin.<\/span><\/p>\n

Incredulous, I gaped at him, then turned to my mother. An excited smile had lit up her face. I jumped off the sofa and pounced on my father, wrapping him in a bear hug. \u201cCareful you little imp,\u201d he said, laughing. \u201cYou\u2019ll ruin your grandmother\u2019s furniture.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother got up and put her arms around us both. \u201cBless you, Mofdi,\u201d she said. \u201cWhatever would we do without you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

After lunch, my parents went to their room for their daily afternoon nap. I sat in my bedroom wondering about my father\u2019s decision to take us to a summer resort \u2014 a decision he\u2019d made on his own, at a time when our finances were stretched due to my mother\u2019s illness. She\u2019d finished her second course of chemotherapy a few weeks earlier and was still on medication, for which my father sometimes borrowed money from his friend, Uncle George. On top of this, I was about to start the two years of my General Secondary Certificate, which meant I\u2019d need expensive private lessons.<\/span><\/p>\n

Every night, I\u2019d hear them discussing our money woes. My mother doggedly refused to let my father use any of my trousseau money, which she\u2019d been saving ever since I was born. But I couldn\u2019t hold back my delight at my father\u2019s plan. I\u2019d just sat my first-year secondary school exams, and I\u2019d never seen the sea before. Besides, we hadn\u2019t been anywhere in years.<\/span><\/p>\n

Half an hour later, my mother came into my room. She told me she couldn\u2019t sleep \u2014 she was too busy stressing about what we\u2019d need for the trip.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Setting herself down on the bed beside me, she began to think out loud, jotting down necessities on a piece of paper. This was something she did to prepare for any important event at our house, such as fasting, feasts, and the new school year. Even switching from summer to winter clothes and vice versa was preceded by making such a list, which she kept on the dining room table, weighed down by a glass ashtray. Once the list was ready, my mother got up and looked through my clothes for outfits I could wear at the summer resort.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cYou don\u2019t have anything dressy for when we go out to El-Neel Street in the evening,\u201d she said, solemnly. \u201cI need something, too.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

We waited until my father went out that evening to spend time with Uncle George at his workshop. My mother asked me to hurry and get changed: We were going to buy fabric for embroidered <\/span>galabeyas<\/span><\/i>, and we\u2019d get them made by Samira the seamstress. I watched as my mother asked the shop assistants to bring down bolts of cloth from the shelves, inspecting each one until she decided which kind she liked. She inquired about the prices \u2014 of which she never approved \u2014 then put her brilliant haggling skills to use. I suddenly saw her as she had once been, all those years ago, before she came down with the \u201cbad disease.\u201d When she asked what I thought of the colors or the material, I just nodded or grunted. I was too busy reliving memories from my childhood, when visiting Samira was a favorite errand of ours. We used to head straight from Samira\u2019s to the El-Abbasi neighborhood to buy trimmings and whatever else we needed for my mother\u2019s dresses \u2014 which Samira made \u2014 and mine, which my mother made herself. The sewing supplies store we\u2019d go to had always enchanted me with its array of colorful buttons and sequins and brides\u2019 tiaras set with sparkling stones. I was too short to see the goods on the shelves, so I would squeeze through the crowd of women to touch the nearest ends that dangled from the rolls of tulle, guipure, feathers, and faux fur. I rubbed them between my fingers and ran them over my cheek to get a better sense of their texture \u2014 I always loved the lacy feel of guipure. Sometimes I was unlucky, and a roll I\u2019d pulled too hard came loose and slipped off the shelf, bringing the other rolls down with it and causing a commotion. When this happened, my mother would drag me out from between the startled women, then pinch me for misbehaving \u2014 leaving bruises on my skin that lasted for days \u2014 and threaten not to take me with her again. I didn\u2019t cry in public to avoid getting pitying looks.<\/span><\/p>\n

We finished buying the fabric. My mother had chosen all the pieces in cotton. Nylons and polyesters might look shiny and pretty, she told me, but they were both unhealthy and uncomfortable to wear. Despite the pleasures of walking down El-Abbasi Street, past stores I knew by heart, the crowds, with their relentless pushing and shoving, and the din of vendors screeching their wares, made me anxious, sometimes paralyzing me completely. I grabbed my mother\u2019s hand and made a point of walking one step in front of her to clear the way. I was afraid she might be jostled, or fall on the ground. Since she had fallen sick, she\u2019d become fragile and frail; the slightest push would knock her over. I remembered how she was the one who would hold my hand when we went out together. When it was crowded, she\u2019d squeeze my palm so hard it hurt, and sometimes left marks. And if we happened to pass a bearded man, especially one in a short white <\/span>galabeya<\/span><\/i>, she\u2019d urge me to move faster and keep my head down.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhenever you see those Sunniya in the street, walk by quickly and don\u2019t look them in the eye.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother told me the Sunniya were the kind of Muslims who let their beards grow long and dressed in short white <\/span>galabeyas<\/span><\/i> with ankle-length trousers. She said they were the ones who sprayed bleach on Christian women, and also kidnapped the young ones. Those girls were turned into Muslims and couldn\u2019t go home to their families again, no matter how hard the Church tried to get them back. Every time I glimpsed one of the Sunniya, I shivered with fear and picked up my pace so he wouldn\u2019t catch me.<\/span><\/p>\n

The styles my mother had chosen for us needed some trimmings, so we went to the sewing supplies store for beads and guipure. The sequins didn\u2019t interest me anymore, and the memory of my mother\u2019s pinches was no longer painful. All I wanted now was to enjoy her company for as long as I could.<\/span><\/p>\n

We arrived at Samira\u2019s house. It hadn\u2019t changed a bit. As always, it reeked of cigarettes and was dimly lit except for the strong red lightbulb she turned on when she worked at the sewing machine. The living-room furniture was ancient, carved with angelic cherubs carrying torches and wreaths. They reminded me of <\/span>A Midsummer Night\u2019s Dream<\/span><\/i>, which I\u2019d read because of its cover: it had beautiful girls on it, wearing dresses I longed to get my hands on. And even before I\u2019d finished reading it, I found myself wishing I could live in Shakespeare\u2019s magical world.<\/span><\/p>\n

Samira was decades older than my mother, and her face was covered in fearsome wrinkles. When she saw my mother she began to cry, her words tumbling out between her tears. \u201cIt\u2019s the evil eye, Mary dear. You\u2019ve been evil-eyed, my poor girl.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother was in the habit of bringing a home-baked treat for Samira whenever we visited \u2014 that is, if we had any baked goods at home. Otherwise, she\u2019d buy a packet of Fairy biscuits for each of us to have with the tea Samira served. Every time we saw her, Samira would praise my mother\u2019s good character. When she had other women there, she\u2019d say, \u201cMary here\u2019s my favorite customer, you know. I like dealing with Christians, there\u2019s no guile in them. They don\u2019t drive me up the wall like you lot do!\u201d Then she\u2019d laugh out loud, and my mother would smile but never answer. The other women, I felt, weren\u2019t happy with what Samira said. They didn\u2019t smile \u2014 they just asked Samira to hurry up and finish their clothes instead of wasting time talking. I saw how she cheered up when they left. \u201cYou Christian women are always so pretty,\u201d she\u2019d say. \u201cYou\u2019ve chosen the worldly things, but we\u2019re holding out for the hereafter. Although that daughter of yours looks like <\/span>she\u2019s<\/span><\/i> aiming for the hereafter, too.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

With a sideways glance in my direction, my mother told her those comments upset me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDoes it bother you, Fico, if we tell your mama she\u2019s as beautiful as the moon?\u201d Samira asked, fixing me with a look.<\/span><\/p>\n

It hurt when she said I didn\u2019t look like my pretty mother, but I just shook my head. Samira let me look through the scraps of cloth and trimmings tossed in a heap beside the sewing machine, and she sometimes gave me a bit of leftover silk. And even though what she said bothered me, I liked spending time in her house and eavesdropping on the stories she shared with my mother from her cross-legged perch on the sofa, where she sat smoking cigarettes just like my father did.<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother explained that the <\/span>galabeyas<\/span><\/i> had to be ready in ten days at most, seeing as we were leaving in two weeks\u2019 time. When she asked how much they cost, Samira broke down crying again and hugged her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBy the Prophet, Mary, I\u2019ve been wanting to do this for ages. It\u2019s a gift, my dear, and even the Prophet accepted gifts.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Laughing, my mother gave her another hug. Samira held her tight, vigorously patting her back. Before we\u2019d crossed the doorway on our way out, we heard her sobbing. My mother bit her lip and murmured, \u201cBy God, you\u2019re a good soul, Samira.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

From <\/span>Victoria<\/span><\/i><\/a>,<\/span><\/i>\u00a0copyright \u00a9 2022 Karoline Kamel, copyright \u00a9 2022 Al Karma Publishers. By arrangement with the publisher.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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