Author Yousri Abdel Salam Sabry in his novel ‘No One Knows the Color of her Eyes’ takes us away from the folk tale to place us in the world of his magical realism.

By Ashraf Aboul-Yazid

In the folk tale, the fool slaughters his hen that lays golden eggs, hoping to get all the gold, but in the novel by the writer Yousri Abdel Salam Sabry (No One Knows the Color of her Eyes) we will get to know another fool, but the author will take us away from the folk tale to place us in the world of his magical realism.

The son of Al-Gawhari, or the teacher Sayed, the owner of the simple café, discovers that there is a rat sneaking towards him from a hole in the wall separating the café from the house of his deceased neighbor; who leaves a bag in the house full of stolen dollars.

When the teacher Sayed decides to kill the rat, with a pair of tongs that catch it in its hole, he discovers that his gray animal brings two green banknotes, and that the tongs, the potential killing tool, have turned into a tool of immense wealth, so he starts withdrawing dollars with them, as if he is knocking on the door of an automated teller machine ATM), and his situation begins to change, and the humble café – even the vile one – turns into an elegant cafeteria crowded with customers, who find in it what decorates the big cafés, even if the café remains just a tavern on a side street.

The teacher Sayed decides to break into the house of the deceased neighbor, and take all the money, as the rat that gives birth to dollars has become his friend, and can even share his food, and he has placed a box at the door of the hole, allowing the rat to go out and come back, and closing the eyes of intruders on it.

Fasting and breaking the fast

The teacher uses the key to the door of his neighbor’s house, which he had with him to check on the man during his illness, but he brings modern tools, such as a small camera connected to his phone, which revealed to him that the rat was not alone, but that there were a group of rats, he hit one of them while he was taking the bag, before returning with it to his empty house for twenty years, after the death of his wife, and only a woman who cleans it once a week steps on it, before wealth runs into his hands, so she comes to the house three times a week, to clean and cook, and she is crazy about the teacher, but he did not fast for two decades to break his fast with an onion, which is the maid’s reverence!

This is after the story, but the novel takes us to its second dimension when the author seeks to raise doubts about the character of (the stranger) and his companions, and how they are equal in number to the rats, and that the one who was hit while taking the dollar bag ties his hand, and hints at the new shoes that the teacher is wearing, which he bought specifically for the storming operation. And that his companions or brothers come and go silently, as if they were the rest of the gray rat’s family.

Even the dog that appears and bites Eglal’s fat, everyone gets up to take the woman to the hospital, a woman appears that no one knows, and the teacher Sayed falls in love with her, and they agree to get engaged at the hospital door. It will seem to us that magic guides the steps of Ibn Al-Jawhari, and that every character that appears must have an animal counterpart.

The Strangers

The flirtatious woman who came to the café was sent by the stranger, and when her skirt got wet, the teacher gave her an abaya (a long dress) and she asked him to keep the skirt to dry, and send her husband to get it back. The skirt stiffened, as if it were snake skin, and that takes him back to the incident of the death of his bride’s aunt, Dalia, who died from snake venom.

The cameras that he placed in the café reveal to him that the dog that appears at the head of the street will become the black man who comes to take the skirt. Thus, there are rats, snakes and dogs, but he is reassured about his wealth, which he stole from the thief’s inheritance.

The reader realizes from the dialogues that the rats, the dog and the snake (the stranger and those with him) know about the bag, and even its location on the sofa, whose secret door can only be opened on the wall so that his wife does not discover it.

The story will end with the snake offering him that they want him to become one of them, identifying themselves as the Victory, Control and Prestige, in a Faustian scene, the devil wants to take his soul in exchange for keeping his money:

“- We want you to become one of us.

– Who are you?

– We are the ones known by the letters (The), blessed by the letters (pile), and distinguished by the letters (solution).

Who are they also?

– We are the Victory, Control and Prestige.

He said in a deliberately low voice

– Whoever hears you will not see your fear of the stranger, the stranger rules me by his power, and I rule him by my beauty.

And what would I gain if I became one of you?

She did not answer him directly, but stuck her back to the back of the chair, put one leg on the other and then said confidently

– Your question would have been more correct if it were reversed.

– I don’t understand.

– I mean, the question should start like this, what would you lose if you were not one of us?

The teacher said indifferently

– Me I have nothing to lose.

– Not even the bag?

– What bag?

– The bag on your sofa!

The word sofa hit Al-Gawhari’s ear like a slap, his forehead sweated, and his ears turned red, while the woman calmly took out a hand-rolled cigarette from her bag and turned around halfway, after raising her fingers with the cigarette, one of the customers ran towards her with his lighter like a local dog, and lit it for her reverently, and when Al-Jawhari’s son remained silent for a long time, she blew the smoke in his face, and asked him:

– I wonder what people will say when they know the truth about you?

The teacher did not know how to answer her; so he contented himself with silence and swallowing his saliva, so she blew a second puff of smoke in his face, then a third, then a fourth, and on the fifth he was completely prepared to accept.

At that moment, the stranger appeared at the door, holding a glass panel, carried with him by his brothers and the dog; the workers and customers fled from the inn and left him alone, almost drugged.

Read: Mohamed Baraka in ‘The Lady’s Tavern’: Is it True that Love is Overwhelming?

Behind the brothers appeared the cougher and the drinker, and his deceased wife’s aunt, Hajj Arafa, his son, and Allam, and Ijlal and the children of Al-Ghalia, Qadri, Farida, Dalia, Farah, and others, and they all lined up in rows behind the glass, leaving a place in the first row for Ilham, then they approached the office with steady steps.

Mr. Sayed Al-Gawhary felt suffocated and tried to stand up repeatedly, but he could not. They approached more, and the glass stuck to his desk, so he shouted, calling out: “I agree, father, any of you.” Ilham did not pay attention to him, and as a result of their pushing, the office began to slowly retreat, perhaps, but steadily, and his chair moved with him until they stuck to the wall, so the pushers stopped and left the panel, but it did not move and he shouted again – “I agree, father, any of you.” No one paid attention to his screams.

They made way for unknown people who brought other very thick, highly transparent glass panels. They placed two of them on either side of him and one above his head and stuck them together tightly. His suffocation increased and he called out the names of those present who knew him, over and over again, but none of them answered him. He felt very dizzy and had a heavy numbness that started in his toes and then spread to his entire body. His jaw was completely paralyzed. They were looking at him with incomprehensible looks and moving their lips with words that seemed as if others could hear them, but no sounds reached him from them. They remained like this until a woman approached the windshield. She had the features of his first wife, in fact she was the same, except that her skin was tinged with a strange redness, and her hot breath covered his glass every now and then with steam, so his vision became blurred.

He tried to talk to her, get her attention, and wipe away the blackness of the kohl that was pouring down her cheeks with tears, but he couldn’t. He tried a second and a third time, but he couldn’t, so he contented himself with watching her despite himself.

He saw her opening a white bundle in her hand, then taking out the first of its contents, and placing it on a chair that he could clearly see through the side glass. He knew those contents well, it was the wall clock that she had given him one day and had stopped moving a long time ago, except that its hands were now moving, and he could hear the noise of its ticking very clearly, yes, it was moving and it was pointing to two minutes to twelve.

From the same bundle she took out his painted picture, he remembered well when he had put the picture down, and when he had wiped it with the same wet cloth that he had wiped the clock with, and how he had put them together in one sheet, face to face and glass to glass; so that each of them could enjoy the touch of the other. Here was his picture now, enjoying her embrace. If it weren’t for the glass, he could almost feel its warmth. He would like very much to enjoy the same, even for a few moments, and to get closer to her lips that were mumbling words that he could not hear.

Isn’t it time for this noise to stop? Or – at least – not increase in intensity?

His eardrums were about to explode and his watch was ticking with unusual enthusiasm, yet the minute hand only made one revolution. With the first second of the new minute, the pattern of the ticking changed; everyone noticed the new pattern. They had scattered side conversations, but he heard nothing of their words except one unique word.

They quickly stopped…talking. As the girl moved, they gave her a suitable space. She was advancing towards his glass case, her eyes not paying him the slightest attention. When he was sure that he was not the one meant, he tried in every way to get her attention, but he was unable to move an eyelid. He tried to cry too, but his tear glands did not help him.

He tried, and tried, but nothing prevented her from reaching the woman, and when this one’s hand grabbed the other’s shoulder, he felt panic. He could not prevent his image from falling and shattering or prevent the others from their collective countdown – twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…

This coincided with the disappearance of the noise of the minute hand and coincided with the meeting of the eyes. Among those busy counting, Shaaban, Alam, Al-Sa’el, Al-Sharab, and Eglal escaped and rushed to loot as much of his broken picture as possible – fifteen, fourteen, and twelve… Then they went to his wooden box and were devilish in smashing it. When the count reached one, the hole was exposed to everyone. After that, they exchanged triumphant glances among themselves, and then left the place with those who were leaving quietly. ”

The End of the Transformations Café

But I wanted to put the last pages of the novel as the author wrote them to be a living model of his writing style and his fictional imagination, and to recall together those dramatic scenes that end great works.

The novel, which is suitable to be transformed into a play, most of whose scenes take place in the café that witnesses the transformations in the life of its owner, its last scene turns into a Shakespearean tragedy, with surrealist fingers, by the writer who is fascinated by cinema, excitement, and the fast pace that makes you read the novel (88 pages) in one session without getting bored of it, provided that you do not miss the names and details that he insists on the author touches on it, and links each of its appearances together, as if he does not come upon it randomly, but rather to intertwine its reality with magic, with great precision.

Read: The Satanic images of Al-Khidr: a novel of rituals

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Ashraf Aboul-Yazid is a renowned Egyptian poet, journalist, novelist, travelogue writer and translator. He is author of around three dozen books and Editor-in-Chief of Silk Road Literature Series.