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Al-Ahram Weekly 27 April - 3 May 2000 Issue No. 479 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 27 April - 3 May 2000 Issue No. 479
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Special Features Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters The Pasha's vicissitudes
By Fayza Hassan
"Only at a gambling table can one really know one's neighbour," my husband used to say. Not a gambler myself, I was never fully illuminated by this particular bit of wisdom, but on a different level, I can match my husband's belief with an equally incisive verity: "Only at the wheel of a car can true character be revealed." Few besmirching adjectives describing drivers' behaviour can be considered a novelty today, none in any case that I have not already used at one time or another and in various languages. Now, however, I find myself in the position of discovering an entirely uninvestigated field of car owners' wickedness, which behooves serious psychological exploration. I am referring to people's new parking habits and the aggressive tendencies that are growing by the day, in equal proportion to the diminution of available space. Dunghul Pasha ambles into the room of his mistress and pushes the door of her walk-in wardrobe open with his nose. He looks up and observes at length the two pointy ears of Nagat-the-Usurper, barely visible on a high shelf, where she has taken over his favourite sweater, the pink one, in imitation cashmere, for her morning siesta. Dunghul Pasha is believed by his mistress to be of a placid disposition, but if the truth be known, he would have loved to muster the courage to wage a full-blown war on the little squatter and regain his rightful place, once and for all. Dunghul Pasha, however, is not about to compromise his dignity in an unpredictable squabble, after having already been forced, years ago, to concede victory during an unfortunate encounter with Leo-the-Ripper, which would have ended quite tragically for the pasha, had not his mistress arrived in the nick of time.
Dunghul stares hard at the black ears and his long whiskers tremble with impotent hatred. Finally he turns his back on the coveted soft nest and extends his portly frame on the rough carpet under the window. He reflects for a while on his changing fortunes, which have never been the same since the Leo incident. Of course his mistress tries to be extra gentle and never forgets to reserve that succulent piece of crunchy chicken cartilage for him alone. Still, he no longer has any friends among the feline inmates of the house, since the others, branding him a loser, have quickly gathered around the champion.
Dunghul Pasha licks his thick fur fussily, especially the white patch on his under-belly. He has heard his mistress say that his white bikini has become too tight for him. He is not sure if she meant it as a compliment, but she was smiling proudly when she said it, so he thinks that probably it was. This is why he has been careful since to keep it in good order. Dunghul is quite convinced that he is her favourite. He wonders if he could get her to push the black devil out of the wardrobe. For the time being, his dear mistress is engrossed in a book and he is racking his brain to find a suitable plot. Suddenly, the mother walks into the room. He does not like her very much and knows that she often refers to him as Fatso Bey. She may serve his purpose now, however. He stretches, yawns noisily to attract her attention and finally leaps onto her lap. He is aware of her partiality to lap cats, although she does not even know how to pet him properly and insists on running her fingers through his fur the wrong way, or, worse, checking his ears for mites. He did have ear-mites at one point, probably caught from the grubby stray now comfortably lounging in his place, and he still shudders at the indignity of the treatment she administered not so long ago, grabbing his ears roughly and filling them with a stinking, thick liquid. The thought of it makes his ears itch furiously, but he reminds himself not to scratch, lest it motivate her to repeat the performance. She expects him to purr, of course, now that he has found a comfortable position. While adjusting himself he has made sure to dig his claws hard into her knees several times. She does not suspect him of doing it on purpose, and thinks that he is just too heavy to move gently. Well, let her think what she wants. His young mistress has finally abandoned her book and is showing signs of jealousy. She runs her fingers lightly between his eyes -- he particularly likes it when she does that -- and asks pensively: "Do you think that we should have called him Sultan Abdel-Hamid?" The mother snorts, indicating clearly what she thinks of him. "As an Ottoman, he could only be a eunuch," she says with a laugh. Dunghul pretends to stretch and digs his claws into her arm so hard that he draws blood, purring harder to make her believe he did not mean to hurt her.
Suddenly, on the wardrobe mirror, Dunghul sees a fly. He jumps lightly and stands still, a paw raised, ready to pounce. And then it happens: quick as lightning, Nagat-the-Usurper leaps from her perch and in one swift movement swats the fly and gobbles it down. Poor Dunghul has been outwitted once more. Pretending not to care, he looks at the place where the fly was buzzing just seconds ago, then hopefully directs his gaze to the top of the wardrobe, where he wishes to retire to the pink sweater to sooth his wounded ego; but, as he should have expected, he sees with a sinking feeling two mocking green eyes peering at him from above. Sadly, Dunghul walks out of the room where his mistress, inattentive to his plight, is once more captured by the trials and tribulations of the last of the Ottoman sultans.
