A Dog with No Tail

By Hamdi Abu Golayyel

Winner of the Naguib Mahfouz Medal for Literature

In a world with no meaning, meaning is an act . . .

This is a story about building things up and knocking them down. Here are the campfire tales of Egypt’s dispossessed and disillusioned, the anti-Arabian Nights.

Our narrator, a rural immigrant from the Bedouin villages of the Fayoum, an aspiring novelist and construction laborer of the lowest order, leads us down a fractured path of reminiscence in his quest for purpose and identity in a world where the old orders and traditions are powerless to help.

Bawdy and wistful, tragicomic and bitter, his stories loop and repeat, crackling with the frictive energy of colliding worlds and linguistic registers. These are the tales of Cairo’s new Bedouin, men not settled by the state but permanently uprooted by it. Like their lives, their stories are dislocated and unplotted, mapping out their quest for meaning in the very act of placing brick on brick and word on word.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781617970641

Hamdi Abu Golayyel

Hamdi Abu Golayyel was born in the Fayoum, Egypt, in 1967. He is the author of three short story collections and two novels, the first of which, Thieves in Retirement, was published in English in 2007. A Dog with No Tail was awarded the Naguib Mahfouz Medal for Literature in 2008.

Book preview

I Keep the Files Stored in My Head, My Friend

I smoked the joint. It was strong. I say that about every joint I smoke—that it’s strong, that it’s good stuff—but this one seemed particularly potent. One piece of hash makes five perfect cigarettes. If I’d been with friends I would’ve made eight, even ten, but instead I made just three. Convinced myself it would help me think about the novel. I rolled each one differently and told myself each time: I’ll start with this one.

I always seem to start with the weakest, the worst. Some flaw in my make-up means I never do better than good endings. I lack the trick of picking the best things first. If I have two books, I’ll start with the one I think inferior. When I sit down to eat I plan things out so that my last mouthful is the morsel I crave. I’m one of those people who saves the choicest cuts till last. This joint was the weakest. Number two in the rolling sequence. I’d rolled one before it and one after it.

As I made the first joint I’d been dying for the hash: craving the little crumbs as they trickled into the mouth of the cigarette. For the second (the middle) joint, I was overcome by sudden circumspection. I was, let’s say, tight-fisted. It’s not like falling off a log, after all. No mean feat for a man to get a bit of space to himself and start rolling.

The last joint was pure hash. The heaviest hash crumbs get lost in the mix and end up being poured into the last joint.

But this one would do the job. Reducing the amount of tobacco is a good idea. It was the sort of stuff that left you feeling at peace with yourself, that the world still lay before you. The fact that I’m currently wandering around my room is the most overt symptom of my enjoyment of quality product.

Thoughts shake me nearly to pieces.

At times like these I picture my life as files stored away in my head. Sometimes they unfold one by one, but sometimes they all spill open at once and childhood memories are jumbled up with the image of the last face I’ve seen. Right now, I’m seeing myself in Shubra. I was twenty, just returned from a stint working in Libya, and employed as a manual laborer while I looked for a job. I lived in a room in Ain Shams with four guys from the village. I was working for a demolition contractor. No, not demolition: demolition and construction.

He only worked with houses on the verge of collapse. The places sealed up with red wax, directives issued to tear them down: these were his bread and butter. Peeling back the wax with a delicacy befitting its official status he would slip into the house with his men: one team to dig out the foundations and another to smash down pillars and walls. A few days later and the miracle is complete: the decaying pile has become a lofty, freshly painted tower. Most of the old houses in Shubra and the surrounding neighborhoods owed their continued existence to him.

I worked with the utmost diligence and devotion and he made me his favorite, privileging me over the others on the grounds that I worked like a donkey and my eyes never left the ground. In 1992, as the earthquake struck Cairo, I was digging at the bottom of a foundation trench beneath a three-story house, but everyone, even those closest to me, were left in no doubt that I was first and foremost a journalist. The stories I’d had published were enlisted to support my claims that I was, in fact, an editor for the al-Ahrar newspaper, which, I reckoned, was just about credible for someone in my position.

Sometimes I’d say I was continuing my studies. If anyone asked what I was studying I’d panic. Then I learned of something called The Institute of Literary Criticism, and struck by the grandeur of the name I started claiming that I studied there. All the while I was hunting for a job, any job: reputable employment, starting at eight in the morning and finishing at two in the afternoon. I applied to hundreds of ministries, companies, and offices all over Cairo, and on one occasion to a cultural institute. A friend from the village and I came across an advertisement, placed by the august Association, for a cultural official.

Let’s see it then, Mr. Author, said my companion.

And we went. It wasn’t far: the selection committee’s headquarters were a couple of stops from the café. The examiner was an elderly man, his body corpulent and his hair frizzy and bright white. A little placard inscribed with his name and position perched on the desk.

In my experience, it was the done thing to interview us individually, but for some reason he made us stand in single file facing him: me, my companion, and about eight other graduates. His desk was vast. He seemed to be searching for something relevant to ask us. I later recalled, perhaps I imagined it, that his office was cluttered with cassette tapes. I was first in line. My friend had pushed me to the front, for reasons that will become clear later, and I now stood directly opposite the examiner. He sprawled ostentatiously behind his desk as we jostled and bumped, clearly unconvinced that any of us were suited for the position, and conducted the examination with the apathy of one who knows the result in advance. He looked at me unenthusiastically, and abruptly announced,

"I’ve faith in you, my pretty,

That you’d keep the secret I told . . . ."

Before this could sink in, he snapped,

Whose words are those?

I burst out laughing. I had heard this song a number of times—I even hummed it to myself on occasion—but I never expected to hear it from the mouth of so exalted a personage. The way he drew out the song in a brutal warble then suddenly whirled around to surprise, or rather assault, me with his question was something I was unable to let pass in silence. I tried to apologize. I almost kissed his hands. I told him I was from the countryside, that I had just remembered something funny, but he insisted on canceling the meeting. My interview, and with it those of my friend and the other applicants, was at an end.

But for that fatuous cackle I would’ve become a distinguished cultural official. I was the best candidate: I had brought a file of my published work. Let’s have no regrets. It had nothing to with laughter. I have a fear of such things, of taking down files, standing in queues, respecting one’s elders and betters. They’re demeaning. I feel as though I’m begging. Construction work was easier and I figured I’d be no good at anything else. Sometimes I think I’m interested in writing for the same reason. Naturally, I love to succeed—to excel—but I have no faith in my abilities. Success comes at a high price, and writing helps me avoid paying it. It seems my faculties of expression have let me down as usual. Nevertheless, I would like to say that writing lets me take pride in myself, even as I lug sacks of earth around. Just the thought that I’ve penned stories puts everything to rights.

But I must get back to the point . . . . So I mentioned that these things help me think about the novel. But which novel? Five years now and I flit from one to another. I begin a novel, grow fond of it, the pages pile up effortless and uncomplicated, and suddenly a new tale reveals itself . . . .

I must go back to my grandfather. My grandfather Aula: the first story, the first tale, of my life. He lived until the 1950s, one of the first Bedouin tribesmen to settle in the Southern Fayoum and abandon his life of prowling and plundering. In his youth he carried a twelve-bore shotgun and led a band of armed men to abduct, plunder, and wreak vengeance on the enemy on behalf of the tribe, in the days when one man would dispatch two or three of his foes single-handed. Today, legends abound of his killing sprees and his victims. It’s said he was an honest man: he’d murder and steal, sure, but he told people the truth to their faces and never lied. It’s also said he was jinxed. He couldn’t creep into a home or sneak into a field without being discovered. As he used to say himself, The job I turn up for is doomed. When the tribes settled and the government began to tighten its grip, he built himself a room on the edge of the desert that stretched from South Fayoum to Aswan and called it his office. He laid a mat outside and sat down to wait. In mere days it had become a mecca for all. Everyone who had stolen livestock in northern Upper Egypt came there to hide it, and everyone who had had livestock stolen in northern Upper Egypt came there to get it back in exchange for a commission received by Aula and passed on to the thieves.

Of course, in the beginning the office worked in secret and Aula had to hide the animals in the fields and mountains, but in no time at all it was operating quite openly, recognized by the government as a sort of security agency whose appointed task was the restitution of property to its rightful owners. One night, thieves made off with sheep belonging to Abdullah Abu Mansour, my grandfather’s cousin, one of the first people from the area to have attended a government school, and a lawyer. He was renowned for his sharp tongue and bizarre appearance, entering the village wearing a suit and riding a bicycle. He spoke with a city accent and treated his relatives and neighbors like wild animals.

Out of respect for the bonds of kinship, Aula visited him at home and told him, Your sheep are with me and they’re safe. Though most people pay ten, you’ll pay five . . . . At this the lawyer rose up and screamed, Thief! Moron! You think this country’s still the mess it used to be? I’ll ruin you! then marched straight to the police station, unfurled his judicial honorifics, and filed a complaint against Aula Abu Mansour Raslan Abu Golayyel for stealing livestock and disturbing the peace. A unit sallied forth from the station, arrested my grandfather Aula, and threw him into jail, and the lawyer swaggered back to the village. But that very night, or thereabouts, thieves made off with livestock from a house next to the station. They searched everywhere, down to the ditches and the cracks in the ground, but not a trace of the animals was found. The superintendent had no choice but to release Aula.

Can you get them for me? he asked.

Yes, Aula replied and left.

The next day the sheep were found tied to the station window.

I feel a file opening.

Whenever I stumble a file seems to open.

It’s my file on writers, or, let’s say, on authors. There’s always an author in this file, some novelist who sends me into raptures, who is, I sense, writing about me. I start out by imitating him, but eventually he cedes his place in the file to another novelist and I begin to exact my revenge. I have no idea why I take such pleasure in revenging myself on the writers I admire. A while back there was an author (no need to mention his name) whom I felt I knew personally. He used this conceit of a murderer and the victim’s voice. I can’t be sure that I’m remembering this correctly, but I

Reviews for A Dog with No Tail

[mooodi_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The book is remarkably well written, but an odd choice for translation since it relies heavily on the caricatures of the Egyptian society and so requires the reader to to have some kind of understanding prior to reading the book.The novel is composed of a number of sketches and short stories from the life of presumably semi-fictitious narrator, modelled much after that of the author himself. They are not sorted in chronological order, mostly because it doesn't really matter because these scenes from Egypt in the 80s are very much the same as they are today.The character of the narrator is a Badaoui from Fayoum who; in between his studies, his aspirations to become a renowned writer and his brazen failings pursuing women, works as a day labourer in Cairo. A rare portrait into one of the most timeless occupations in Egypt.Despite the background needed to fully enjoy the stories and characters, A Dog With No Tail will still make for a fairly decent weekend read.

[lkernagh · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Hamdi Abu Golayyel is considered one of the new authors that is helping to advance Egyptian literature into areas that have in the past been considered taboo topics, such as the day-to-day lives and hidden ills of society. This novel by Golayyel comes across as the rambling reminisces of his protagonist, a low income construction worker of Bedouin family background, with aspirations of becoming an author of some repute. Lazy aspirations they may be, but aspirations none the less. The fact that the protagonist has a similar name as Golayyel gives this book a 'fictitious memoir' feel to it. Each chapter touches on a different 'story' from the protagonist's memory of friends, family and experiences, almost as if the protagonist is trying to draw inspiration from his own past for his yet to be written novel.The story as a whole has an interesting random, scatter gun approach to painting a picture of Egyptian life in Cairo and the outlying desert villages of Fayoum during the 70's, 80's and 90's. The portrait that the protagonist paints for the reader is of life at a cross-roads: Government intervention has put a stop to the nomadic lifestyle of the Bedouin people, parked them on a plot of land, and left them with the peasants to make the situation work. Golayyel, via his protagonist, presents a view of Cairo as a study of shady dealings, prostitution, drug use and, shall we say, 'enterprising' construction opportunities.I enjoyed this book but found that my lack of knowledge of Egypt or government activities described in the book made it difficult for me to relate to the characters and events portrayed.

[kaskaskiavic · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Kudos to the author! This book of interwoven and shifting stories captures the essence of the everyday issues facing modern marginalized Egyptians today. Recently I traveled throughout Egypt from Cairo to near the border of Sudan. I had the pleasure of meeting and befriending not only Egyptians, but also Bedouins. In fact, this book resonates deeply with me as some of the most enduring images of Egypt in Cairo and the villages are the buildings that are in constant states of renovation. [It was explained that as soon as the buildings are completed, taxes are imposed – hence the constant renovation] But the main draw of the shifting story line is the writer revealing with honesty the situation imposed and the coping of those outside of the mainstream. The narrator is a construction laborer and shares experiences and events of his family and friends that provide readers a glimpse of the everyday issues confronting the marginalized today. The original Arabic title transliterates into doer/laborer, which perfectly describes this book about constructing one’s identity through writing by the examination or demolition of one’s life experiences.

[litfan_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This novel is difficult to review because I have very mixed feelings about it. It has something important to say, and it delivers on that, but the way in which the message was delivered felt very disjointed and disconnected.The narrator is a laborer who goes out to a cafe each day for work. The descendant of a Bedouin, he embodies the drifting "lostness" of that disenfranchised group. He describes how the Bedouin were uprooted and "relocated" when Egypt wanted to become a more modern state. The novel captures the sense of aimless drift that seems to have resulted from this modernization. The narrator's character himself drifts-- both in his narration, between time periods and people, and in his life, between job sites and living situations.It's a worthwhile read. Others who enjoy a postmodern style of writing may enjoy it more than I did-- I felt like I got something out of it, but it felt like a chore as I never felt engaged with any of the characters. There were too many of them to keep up with, and the narrator himself remained distant and unreliable.

[jlelliott_2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A Dog With No Tail is novel with no central story; in fact it scarcely qualifies as a novel at all. It is a collection of non-consecutive vignettes featuring an Egyptian construction worker who aspires to authorhood. The brief stories appear to be held together only by the presence of the protagonist and narrator Hamdi, and perhaps by a general sense of desire-ridden inertia. This would be a more engaging organizational scheme were Hamdi a more interesting or sympathetic character. Hamdi is of a common enough type; he is a seemingly brittle combination of arrogance and a desperate need to impress, often lazy but full of the certainty that he is destined for a better life than that he leads. As a descendent of Bedouins adapting to modern Egyptian life he has his points of interest. Unfortunately, he also has a number of features that do not make him particularly endearing: he insults women for the audacity of being attractive and he reflects briefly on the most holy thoughts of Sheikh Osama Bin Laden, to name a few that may have particularly resonance with an English speaking audience.Many things happen in the stories. Some focus on Hamdi’s Bedouin ancestors, some on the sexual exploits of his day laboring brethren, the rest on events in the life of Hamdi. Though often eventful, the stories are surprisingly lacking in emotional power. Hamdi gets swept up in a violent student protest, but admits that even he doesn’t understand his own motivation. He is interrogated in military prison, he lusts after women, he joins the peaceful religious Tablighi Jamaat, all with a certain vague detachment. Novels about authors writing necessarily teeter on the edge of narcissism, and Hamdi mentions his special status as writer often enough to frustrate. He goes out of his way to impress others with his erudition and literary aspirations, though with a knowing wince at his own weakness. This self-awareness is really his saving grace. Of course there are many men who travel from country to city, who suffer from mismatched egos and work ethics, and who hope for something more. Not all of them realize their own contradictions. Good authors need insight, and throughout A Dog With No Tail there is hope that Hamdi is at least on his way to achieving his literary dreams.

[joririchardson · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This book was nothing like what I was expecting, or rather hoping, it to be, which is probably part of the reason for my disliking it. However, I don't think that the low rating I am giving it was undeserved.The book jumps clumsily from scene to scene, and I was having trouble seeing how all of these things were related. Sometimes the author would describe childhood, and then adulthood, and then junior high, and then... Well, something else. I was never entirely sure what he was trying to get across to the reader. The scattered lack of structure to this book was at times bewildering, and at times frustrating. Another confusing thing was that I was unsure whether this was an autobiography or a work of fiction. Perhaps it is a bit of both? I would find it hard to believe that out of all the names the author could have chosen for a character, it had to be Hamdi (his own name). In fact, he even mentioned that the name "Hamdi" was unusual.I would not be surprised if this book was partly, if not entirely, a reflection of the author's own life. The only thing that I enjoyed about this book was how realistic it was. As a setting, I never caught even the slightest glimpse of a vivid modern day Egypt, which really really disappointed me. However, the reader does see a simple, honest portrayal of the main character. He is not made any grander, any more exciting, or any better of a person that what is realistic.Although it is great for Golayyel to write a heartfelt, human main character, I often wished that he hadn't.First of all, I did not like the character. The book started off with him smoking a joint, which pretty much left little hope for me warming to him. The rest of the story didn't help, and I began to strongly dislike him fairly early in the story, after this paragraph:"I... resolved to overcharge him: if he agreed, he agreed. If he didn't he could go to hell. 'A meter's seven poundds,' I said, 'and seven sevens make forty-seven.''You mean forty-nine. Plus a pound from me makes it a square fifty.'I wavered between delight at his generosity and resentment at his generosity and regretted not charging him more."(pg 20).How selfish, unreasonable, and ungrateful!Another reason that I wish that the author had not concentrated so hard on writing a completely realistic book was because it was just that - too realistic. Not that I especially mind delving into a character's head, but couldn't something have happened? Couldn't there have been some sort of problem that the plot revolved around?Well, that would have been pretty hard to do, I suppose, because there was no plot. None whatsoever.All of these things plus a few more annoyances, such as the use of slang ("cramping his style"), bad poetry, and chapter titles that tried so hard to be clever and failed (I Reach Out My Hand and Blush That My Hand Reaches Out), were enough to convince me to put this book into my discard pile.

[janeajones · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A Dog with No Tail is subtitled "A Modern Arabic Novel," but as a novel it is essentially plotless, rather a series of vignettes from the life of an Egyptian/Bedouin aspiring writer from the Fayoum who supports himself as a construction day-laborer in Cairo. It is, however, a fascinating look into a side of contemporary Egyptian life that I've never encountered before. The narrator, Hamdi, weaves tales of his family, his construction crew, fellow laborers and residents of the buildings and neighborhoods in which he works into what the book's blurb calls an "anti-Arabian Nights.Most of Hamdi's construction work consists of tearing down and restoring buildings. He is often hauling loads of loads of sand or cement up many flights of stairs. The acts of destruction and reconstruction suggest the daily life of ordinary citizens in Egypt as well as evoke the far distant echoes of ancient Egypt. Hamdi is a respectful Muslim, but seems rather bemused by the fanatic devoutness of "the Brothers." I'd recommend this book to anyone who is interested in a low-key, undramatic, but multi-faceted insider's view of Egypt today.

[lukes_171461 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The eponymous dog refers to the author, and it's a disparaging epithet a young woman bestows on him when his wishes toward her become clear. Naturally, he does not succeed with her, and he does not succeed with the reader, either.This isn't a novel; it's a string of loosely related sketches, the specific events of some of which correspond to certain references in others. The author writes in the first person, and actually identifies himself with his own name. Presumably, then, we're dealing with autobiographical sketches. He relates some experiences - with no unifying theme - about commuting from his village into Cairo to work. First you think he's going to find fulfillment in Cairo, but no, it's the village he prefers, because he can play the cosmopolitan man of letters, and that only because he successfully cleaned all the sand and cement dust off himself. It has the ring of honesty - I'll say that. He never flinches from admitting that he likes to boast and show off the pieces he's published in the paper. There's no unified fiction here, no progressing story.It makes you wonder what they're doing over there at the Naguib Mafouz literary prize panel.