When Antonio of Shakespeare’s The Tempest was asked about his conscience while considering a murder, he said: “Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe, ‘twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not
this deity in my bosom.”

I remembered Antonio while Naji was telling the story of a fellow prisoner accused of attempted murder who asked him: “Why are you here?” While explaining to Naji, without much detail and in a language he could understand, how another person had accused him of an offense, he abruptly asked: “Why offend! You could finish it on the spot.”

When Antonio of Shakespeare’s The Tempest was asked about his conscience while considering a murder, he said: “Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe, ‘twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not
this deity in my bosom.”

I remembered Antonio while Naji was telling the story of a fellow prisoner accused of attempted murder who asked him: “Why are you here?” While explaining to Naji, without much detail and in a language he could understand, how another person had accused him of an offense, he abruptly asked: “Why offend! You could finish it on the spot.”

I did not tell Naji of course about Antonio because I was busy listening to him reveal yet another one of his numerous faces. I was busy watching his amazing imperturbability amidst all these perplexing mazes and his white hairs that I had not noticed before.

On my way to Boulak police station, I realized that we had many spent years working together but had never visited each other at home. This was the first time.

This paradox seized my thoughts all the way to Boulak station. Akhbar Elyom is nearby. Another paradox: Ahmad works in Boulak and is detained in Boulak.

I have had a naïve feeling of optimism since the beginning of the problem and perhaps until his acquittal. We used to exchange jokes about the possibility of him being arrested, thinking that this was never possible; now, I have to apologize to him, the master of details, for my naiveté.

The stupid feeling of optimism stuck to me all the way to him. I do not know why I thought he would be good and never imagined to see him behind the bars. It was a memorable moment and those who caused it must never be forgiven. We felt embarrassed; Naji stood from a wooden chair. He approached. Shall we enter into the cage or spend the whole visit seeing him from behind the bars? Our eyes kept avoiding each other. I felt heartbroken and would have cried had the situation persisted. I tried to be calm but failed. I inserted my hands through the bars for a quick handshake but do not remember if it happened or not.

Finally the warden allowed him to get out and sit with us. He did not shake hands and our looks kept the avoidance game. He sat between me and Mohamed Farag. He then suddenly stood up, got his cigarettes and sat down again. He took the first breaths and started talking.

I had thought that we had to talk first, telling him the news, but he looked as if he knew it or did not wish to hear about it. He simply wanted to talk. He talked about the details of his new life; much of which were absurd. Dormitory, transport van, cell and cage were all new vocabulary in his dictionary. He did not care about anything; even the strange, fearless cat that stuck to him all the time.

One hour later, the [guards’] eyes around us became intense. He knew it was a gesture that the visit should come to an end. We still had much to talk about. We did not want to do him “favours” that he pay for after our departure. We spoke quickly about the case and the visit ended.

We embraced each other. He showed gratitude but I only felt ashamed because that was the maximum I could do for a friend who I do not know why he is there.

At the end of the corridor, we got a glimpse of the cat he had told us about. It was enjoying the feel of the blanket now that it had it to herself. “It is her siesta time,” he laughed and entered the cage again. I failed to laugh.