THE HOUSE OF THE COPTIC WOMAN

Egyptian novelist and jurist El-Ashmawi delivers an allegorical tale of religious strife in a desert backwater.

Tayea Village isn’t much of a place, as Nader Fayez Kamal discovers on arriving. The most interesting thing about the farming backwater is its name, which honors a former mayor but which the inhabitants mispronounce: “They called it Tayha, as in the lost soul, instead of the obedient one.” The “lost soul” sobriquet is fitting, for, explains a villager with the redolent name of Ramses Iskander, the house in which Nader, a public prosecutor, has been billeted is said to be haunted by the ghost of a British colonial officer, and in the wake of the resulting curse some of its previous Muslim inhabitants abandoned the town, which was then settled by Christians. One such lost soul wanders into Tayea about the same time Nader does, a woman named Hoda Yusef Habib, who, raped by her stepfather, has been married off to a brutish, abusive older man. Now a widow—or so she thinks—Hoda assumes a Coptic identity and hides in open sight, in the bargain revealing healing powers reminiscent of the biblical tale of Lazarus. Those powers don’t extend to keeping peace between Christians and Muslims, however, and El-Ashmawi’s story becomes one of grinding vendettas, lawsuits, and murders, with a leavening of sardonic magic realism in the vein more of Dürrenmatt than García Márquez. Much of the story can be read as a thinly veiled critique of the last years of the Mubarak regime, marked by sectarian violence and official corruption. The characters are too thinly developed to carry much weight. Nader, though committed to justice, is both weak and shallow: He carries a gun without bullets and lives in fear of a call from his distant but demanding fiancee, while Hoda, strong and resolute, pays a terrible price “simply because she wanted to live,” an outcome that can be predicted well before the book’s end.

Of some interest to readers of contemporary Arabic literature.