When the Mask Fell

When the Mask Fell
By Dr. Nasser El-Gendy

In the late 1950s, in the Egyptian city of Tanta, where the scent of jasmine mixed with the aroma of traditional coffee, the Faculty of Arts stood tall with its grand, modified European-style architecture. On the second floor, behind a heavy wooden door engraved with the words “Office of the Deputy Dean,” sat Professor Abdel-Aleem Tawfiq.

Professor Abdel-Aleem—or “Sheikh Abdel-Aleem” as he liked to be called—was a man in his fifties. He wore a light blue galabeya beneath a formal suit and topped his head with an elegant fez. Known for his piety, he was a regular attendee at prayers in the Sayyid al-Badawi Mosque and a participant in Sufi gatherings. But behind this devout facade lurked a cunning fox.

In just ten years, five deans had passed through the faculty, each falling victim to Abdel-Aleem’s schemes. Dr. Kamal, the first, found himself embroiled in a financial scandal masterfully orchestrated by Abdel-Aleem. Dr. Mahmoud, his successor, was forced to resign after fabricated reports of negligence reached the university council. Dr. Hassanein, the third, was transferred to a remote college in Upper Egypt after a carefully crafted smear campaign.

“At your service, my lord,” Abdel-Aleem would say to each new dean while weaving his plots in the shadows. He used his relationships with the college’s staff to gather information. Miss Samiha, the dean’s secretary, fed him every detail in exchange for false promises of marriage. Dr. Nawal, a professor of ancient history, wrote secret reports for him in return for fabricated promotions

One crisp autumn morning, Dr. Leila Kamel arrived at the college. She was a professor of comparative literature from Alexandria, an elegant woman in her forties with a PhD from the Sorbonne and fluent in French. To Abdel-Aleem, she was his next target.

He began courting her in his usual manner—bringing imported chocolates to her office and engaging her in discussions about French literature, which he pretended to know well. But Leila was not easily deceived. She saw through his charade and decided to turn the tables.

Feigning interest, she laughed at his dull jokes and sought his opinion on trivial matters. Gradually, Abdel-Aleem began to change. He abandoned his galabeya and fez for brightly colored suits and flashy ties. He started wearing French cologne, slicking his hair back with pomade, and humming Abdel-Wahab’s songs as he strolled the halls.

At the local coffee shop opposite the college, where professors gathered to sip mint tea, he became an odd sight. Dressed in a garish yellow suit, wearing American sunglasses, and smoking imported cigarettes, he cut a comical figure. “Look at that fool Abdel-Aleem,” the old waiter muttered under his breath.

Meanwhile, Leila quietly executed her plan. She gathered documents proving his schemes, recorded testimonies from secretaries and staff he had wronged, and compiled a damning file. At a faculty council meeting, she unleashed her bombshell.

She presented all the evidence, exposing every conspiracy. Abdel-Aleem crumbled under the weight of his disgrace. He tried to reclaim his image as the pious sheikh, but it was too late. He was subjected to a formal investigation, then forced into early retirement.

On his final day at the college, he was found sitting at the same coffee shop, clad in his yellow suit, singing in a shaky voice:
“Do you remember the good old days, or have you forgotten…”

On the college gates, a witty student hung a piece of verse in colloquial Arabic:
“O sneaky hypocrite… hiding behind piety’s robe,
Your day has come, my dear… and all your secrets are exposed.”