Butterfly Wings: An Egyptian Novel (Modern Arabic Literature) Read Online Free

penciled eyebrows as she said, “Wouldn’t you like something to eat?”
    “No, thank you,” replied Doha.
    The hostess gave a forced look of disappointment and asked, “Don’t you like our food?” as if she had cooked it herself.
    Addressing the hostess and the man next to her, Doha answered, “I have some reading to get on with before wearrive in Rome.” She felt he was itching to start a conversation. Whenever strangers sat next to her she took refuge in reading, so as not to give them the chance to engage her in conversation.
    She opened her magazines and started to scan the pages without reading. The hostess was busy fixing her neighbor’s table, and then he was busy eating. She hoped that the accompanying silence would last until the end of the flight. But as soon as the hostess left, another steward came along. He was in semi-military uniform, like that worn by the officer her husband had spoken to on the phone. He introduced himself: “I am Captain Mohammed Muhyi, in charge of the cabin crew.” She replied with a curt hello. He continued, “It appears that Doha Hanem wants to get us all fired.” She did not understand and looked wordlessly at him. “Madame Doha al-Kenani, the wife of Medhat Bey al-Safti, that is. A VIP of the first order, and on whose account instructions were given in advance by the head of the board and the party secretariat.” What did this loudmouth want? “Turning down our food means questions being asked and perhaps an investigation that might end with us losing our jobs.” He smiled broadly, imagining he had said something clever or witty.
    She repeated what she had said to the hostess about reading and added, “Plus, I eat a particular diet, which I do not depart from.”
    The man replied sorrowfully, “We were not informed. If we had been, we would have made what you wanted.”
    “It doesn’t matter. I don’t eat before three in any case.”
    The steward went sadly off, and the man next to her started a conversation that did not end until the plane landed at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. “What a strange coincidence that I should be sitting on a plane next to my political rival,” he said. She gave him a half-smile as she wondered what he meant.
    He asked her to let him see the newspaper she had taken from the hostess if she was done with it. She had not read it yet, but silently handed it to him in the hope that he would be absorbed in reading. But he went on to explain that he had given an interview to the paper and wanted to check whether they had faithfully printed what he said. She made no comment. He quickly leafed through the pages until he found the interview. “Here it is,” he said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a large photograph of the man with his black beard, above the headline “Dr. Ashraf al-Zayni threatens the regime: ‘Meet the demands of the people or expect the floodgates to open.’”
    He was quiet for a few minutes as he read the piece, then exclaimed, “They’ve left out the most important line in the whole thing, and they call themselves the opposition press! Every paper has its own agenda. None of them cares about the public interest.” He looked at her as if expecting some response.
    She said, “Sorry, I don’t follow the opposition newspapers.”
    He smiled as he said, “Yes, of course, you only read the papers of the ruling party.”
    The cheek of it! She maintained her composure and said, “The truth is, I’ve got nothing to do with politics or parties, and I don’t read the papers.”
    He continued speaking normally: “Well, I’m fated to have to deal with all the newspapers.”
    She said to herself, “And I’m fated to have to deal with you, it seems.” She turned her face to the window to put an end to this ridiculous conversation between the wife of one of the most senior leaders in the ruling party and, it would seem, one of the most impudent leaders of the opposition. Still he went on: “If the problem was the