The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Yasin laughed, finally able to, and said, “The traitors have had a turn, and now the freedom fighters will have theirs.”

  Fahmy wished dearly that the terms his friend had used to describe him in the mosque had been forgotten in all the commotion of the disturbance and the family's dazed reaction, but they had not been. Now Yasin was repeating them. Without any doubt, his father was summoning him to discuss them. Fahmy sighed deeply and departed.

  He found his father sitting on the sofa with his legs tucked under him. He was fiddling with his prayer beads, and the look in his eyes was sad and thoughtful. Fahmy greeted him with great courtesy and stopped, submissively and obediently, about two meters away from the sofa. The man nodded hishead slightly to return the greeting but the gesture did more to reveal how upset he was than to greet his son. It seemed to imply: “I'm returning your greeting reluctantly and only for the sake of politeness, but this spurious courtesy of yours no longer deceives me.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad directed a frowning glare at his son, which radiated anxiety and thus resembled a lamp used to search for a person concealed in the darkness. He told the boy resolutely, “I've summoned you, to learn everything. I want to know everything. What did he mean when he said you were on the same committee? Don't hesitate to tell me everything with complete candor.”

  Although Fahmy had grown accustomed during the past few weeks to confronting various dangers and had even gotten used to having bullets whiz past, it was his prerevolutionary heart that surfaced once his father began interrogating him. He was terrified and felt reduced to nothing. He concentrated his attention on skirting this wrath and trying to escape. He told his father gently and politely, “The matter's quite simple, Papa. My friend probably exaggerated to extricate us from our dilemma.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad's patience was exhausted. He said, ‘“The matter's quite simple …’ Great…. But which matter is it? Don't hide anything from me.”

  With lightning speed, Fahmy considered the subject from different perspectives to select something he could say without fear of the consequences. He responded, “He called it a ‘committee’ when it's nothing more than a group of friends who talk about patriotic topics whenever they get together.”

  His father cried out furiously and resentfully, “Is this how you earned the title of'freedom fighter'?”

  The man's voice betrayed intense disapproval, as though he was hurt that his son was trying to put something over on him. The wrinkles of his frowning face looked threatening. Fahmy rushed to defend himself by making a significant admission, in order to convince his father that in every other respect he had been obedient to his commands, just as an accused man may voluntarily confess to a lesser offense in an attempt to plea for mercy. He said rather modestly, “It happens sometimes that we (distribute appeals on behalf of nationalism.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad asked in alarm, “Handbills? … Do you mean handbill;?”

  Fahmy shook hishead no. He was afraid to admit this, since the word was linked in the official pronouncements to the harshest penalties. When he had found a suitable formula to make his confession seem less dangerous, he said, “They're nothing but appeals that urge people to love their country.”

  His father allowed the prayer beads to fall to his lap. He clapped his hands together. Unable to control his alarm, he exclaimed, “You're distributing handbills!… You!”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad could not see straight, he was so alarmed and angry: distributing handbills… a friend of the freedom fighters. “We both work on the same committee!” Had the flood reached his roost? He had often been impressed by Fahmy's manners, piety, and intelligence. He would have lavished praise on his son except that he thought praise corrupted, whereas gruffness was educational and corrective. How had all of this peeled away to reveal a boy who distributed handbills, a freedom fighter? “We both work on the same committee …”

  He had nothing against the freedom fighters, quite the contrary. He always followed news about them with enthusiasm and prayed for their success at the conclusion of his normal prayers. News about the strike, acts of sabotage, and the battles had filled him with hope and admiration, but it was a totally different matter for any of these deeds to be performed by a son of his. His children were meant to be a breed apart, outside the framework of history. He alone would set their course for them, not the revolution, the times, or the rest of humanity. The revolution and everything it accomplished were no doubt beneficial, so long as they remained far removed from his household. Once the revolution knocked on his door, threatened his peace and security and the lives of his children, its flavor, complexion, and import were transformed into folly, madness, unruliness, and vulgarity. The revolution should rage on outside. He would participate in it with all hisheart and donate to it as generously as he could…. He had done that. But the house was his and his alone. Any member of his household who talked himself into participating in the revolution was in rebellion against him, not against the English. Al-Sayyid Ahmad implored God's mercy for the martyrs both night and day and was amazed by the courage their families displayed, according to what people said, but he would not allow one of his sons to join the martyrs nor would he embrace the courage their families had displayed. How could Fahmy have seen fit to take this insane step? How had he, the best of his boys, chosen to expose himself to certain destruction?

  The man was more alarmed than he had ever been before, even more than during the melee at the mosque. In a stern and threatening voice as though he were one of the English police inspectors, he asked Fahmy, “Don't you know the penalty for persons caught distributing handbills?”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, which required Fahmy to concentrate his attention on it, the question aroused a recent memory that shook his soul. He remembered being asked this same question, identical in words and import, by the president of the supreme student executive committee - together with many other questions - when he had been chosen a member of the committee. He also remembered that he had replied with determination and enthusiasm, “We are all ready to sacrifice ourselves our country”. He compared the different conditions under which the same question had been addressed to him and felt the irony of it.

  Fahmy answered his father in a gentle and self-deprecating tone: “I only distribute among my friends. I don't have anything to do with general distribution…. That way there's no risk or danger.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad, concealing his fears for his son behind the virulence of his anger, shouted harshly, “God does not protect those who expose themselves to danger needlessly. He, may He be glorified, has commanded us not to put our lives in jeopardy”. The man would have liked to cite the verse of the Qur'an that dealt with this but had only memorized those short suras of the Qur'an he recited when he prayed. He was afraid that if he tried to quote it he might overlook a word or get it wrong and thus commit an unforgivable sin. He was content to cite the meaning and repeat it in order to make his point.

  Before he knew what was happening, he heard Fahmy reply in his refined way, “But God also urges Believers to struggle, Papa.”

  Afterward Fahmy asked himself in amazement how he had found the courage to confront his father with this statement, which betrayed the fact he had been trying to conceal: that he was sticking to his ideas. Perhapshe thought the Qur'an would protect him if he took refuge behind one of its phrases. He was confident that his father would refrain from attacking him under such circumstances.

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad was shocked by both his son's audacity and his argument. He did not give way to anger, though, which might have silenced Fahmy but not his argument. He would ignore the audacity for a moment while he pounded away at Fahmy's argument with a comparable one from the Qur'an, so that the erring child could be provided with correct guidance. Afterward he could setde the other account with him in any manner he wished. God inspired him to say, “That's struggle 'for the sake of God.'” (Qur'an, 9:20.)

  Fahmy took his father's answer to show a willingness to de
bate with him. Once more he found the courage to speak: “We're struggling for God's sake too. Every honorable struggle advances God's cause.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad privately agreed with this statement, but his agreement itself and the feeling of insecurity it occasioned when he was debating with his son made him fall back on anger. Actually he was motivated not just by anger but by wounded pride and his concern that the youth would go too far in his rebellion and get himself killed. He abandoned the debate and asked disapprovingly, “Do you think I called you here to argue with me?”

  Fahmy realized the threat his father's words contained. His dreams evaporated and he became tongue-tied. His father continued sharply: “The only struggle for the sake of God is when I intend to advance God's cause in a specifically religious struggle. There's no argument about that. Now I want to know whether my command is going to be obeyed?”

  The young man quickly replied, “Most certainly, Papa.”

  “Then break every link between you and the revolution…. Even if your role was limited to distributing handbills to your best friends.”

  No power in existence could come between him and his patriotic duty. He absolutely would not retreat even one step. The time for that had passed, never to return. This passionate, dazzling life, springing from the depths of hisheart and illuminating every area of his soul, could not die away. How preposterous to think he would kill it himself. All this was no doubt true, but could he not find some way to please his father and escape his wrath? He could not defy him or openly declare that he disagreed with the command. He could rebel against the English and defy their bullets almost every day, but the English were a frightening and hated enemy, while his father was his father, a frightening and beloved man. Fahmy worshipped him as much as he feared him. It was hard to disobey him. There was also another feeling Fahmy could not ignore. His rebellion against the English was inspired by noble idealism. His disobedience against his father was associated only with disgrace and misery. What reason was there for this quandary? Why not promise to obey and then do whatever he wanted?

  Lying, was not considered contemptible or shameful in this household. Living in their father's shadow, none of them would have been able to enjoy any peace without the protection of a lie. They openly admitted this to themselves. In fact, they would all agree to it in a crisis. Had his mother intended to admit what she had done the day she slipped off to visit al-Husayn when her husband was out of town? Would Yasin have been able to drink, Fahmy to love Maryam, and Kamal to get up to all sorts of mischief when walking between Khan Ja'far and al-Khurunfush without the protection provided by lying? None of them had scruples about it. If they had been totally truthful with their father, life would have lost its savor. For all these reasons, Fahmy said calmly, “Your command is obeyed, Papa.”

  This declaration was followed by silence as each of them rested with rel] ef. Fahmy imagined that his interrogation had been safely concluded. Al-Sayyid Ahmad imagined that he had rescued his son from the pit of hell. While Fahmy was waiting for permission to leave, his father suddenly rose and went to the armoire, which he opened. He thrust his hand inside as the young man watched with uncomprehending eyes. The father returned to the sofa with the Qur'an. He looked at Fahmy for some time. Then he held the Book out to him and said, “Swear it on this Book.”

  Fahmy jerked back involuntarily as though fleeing from the tongue of flame that had suddenly shot out at him. Then he remained nailed to the spot as he stared at his father's face in desperate, alarmed confusion. Al-Sayyid Ahmad kept his hand stretched out holding the Book and looked at his son with incredulous disapproval. His face became flushed, as though on lire, and there was a frightening gleam to his eyes. He asked in astonishment, as though he could not believe his eyes: “Don't you want to swear?”

  Fahmy was tongue-tied. He could not utter a word or make a gesture. His father asked in a calm voice, with a shaky quaver suggestive of the raging anger behind it, “Were you lying to me?”

  No change came over Fahmy, although he lowered his eyes to escape his father's. Al-Sayyid Ahmad placed the Book on the sofa. Then he exploded and shouted in such a resounding voice that Fahmy felt he was being slapped on the cheek: “You're lying to me, you son of a bitch…. I don't let anyone pull the wool over my eyes. What do you think I am and what do you think of yourself? You're a vile insect, vermin, a son of a bitch whose exterior appearance has deceived people for a long time. I'm not turning into an old lady any time soon. Do you hear? Don't mistake me for some old woman. You sons of bitches are driving me crazy. You've turned me into a laughingstock for people. I'm going to hand you over to the police myself. Do you understand? By myself, you son of a bitch. The only word that countshere is mine. Mine, mine, mine…”. He picked up the Book again and continued: “Swear…. I command you to swear.”

  Fahmy appeared to be in a trance. His eyes were fixed on some unusual motifs in the Persian carpet but saw nothing. He stared at the motifs for so long they became imprinted on his mind, only to fragment into chaos and emptiness. With each passing second he plunged deeper into silence and despair. He had no alternative to this desperate, passive resistance.

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad rose with the Book in his hand and took one step toward him. Then he roared, “Did you think you were a man? Did you think you could do what you like? If I wanted, I'd beat you till your skull caved in.”

  Fahmy could not keep himself from crying then, but not from fear of the threat, for in his condition he was oblivious to any harm that might befall him. His tears expressed his sense of defeat and helped relieve the struggle raging within him. He started to bite on his lips to suppress his tears. He felt ashamed at being so weak. When he was finally able to speak, he launched into a rambling plea, because he was deeply moved and wished to conceal his embarrassment: “Forgive me, Papa. I'll obey every command of yours more than willingly, but I can't do this. I can't. We work like a single hand. I can't accept shrinking back and abandoning my brothers, and I don't think you would like me to. There's no way that life would be bearable if I did. There's no danger in what we're doing. Others have more exalted tasks like participating in the demonstrations in which many of them have been martyred. I'm no better than those who have been killed. There are funeral processions for tens of martyrs at a time with no lamentation except for the nation. Even the families of the victims shout slogans instead of weeping. What is my life worth?… What is the life of any man worth? Don't be angry, Papa. Think about what I'm saying…. I assure you that there's no danger in our little, nonviolent job.”

  Fahmy was so overcome by emotion that he could no longer bear to face his father. He fled from the room, almost colliding with Yasin and Kamal, who were listening behind the door, their dismay visible on their faces.

  63

  YASINWASHEADING for Ahmad Abduh's coffee shop when he ran into one of his mother's relatives in Bayt al-Qadi. The man approached him solicitously, shook his hand, and told him, “I was on my way to your house to see you.”

  Yasin guessed that this statement presaged some news about his mother, who had already caused him so much trouble. He felt uncomfortable and asked listlessly, “Good news, God willing?”

  The man answered with unusual concern, “Your mother's ill, actually very ill. She's been sick for a month or more, but I only learned of it this week. At first they thought it was nerves and didn't worry about it, until it became entrenched. When the doctors examined her, it was diagnosed as a serious case of malaria.”

  Yasin was astonished by this totally unexpected news. He had anticipated word of a divorce, a marriage, a row, or something along those lines. He had not considered illness. He scarcely knew what he felt, since his emotions were so conflicting. He asked, “How is she now?”

  The man replied with a premeditated candor not lost on Yasin, “Her condition's grave…. In spite of the prolonged treatment there has not been the least hint of progress. To tell the truth, her condition has continued to deteriorate. She has sent me to
tell you frankly that she feels her end is near and that she wants to see you at once”. He added in a tone that implied Yasin should carefully consider what he was saying, “You must go to her without any delay. This is my advice to you and my plea. God is forgiving and compassionate.”

  Perhaps there was a certain amount of exaggeration in the man's words, intended to induce him to go, but they could not be a total fabrication. So he would go, if only from a sense of duty.

  Here he was, once again traversing the curve in the road leading to al-Gamaliya, between Bayt al-Mal and Watawit Alley. On his right was al-Tih Street, where the woman who sold doum palm fruit had her place in shimmering memories of darkness. In front of him lay the road of sorrows. He would shortly see the store of the fruit merchant, lower his eyes, and slink past like a fugitive thief. Whenever he thought he would never return here, misfortune brought him back. No power short of death could have brought him to her this time…. Death! “Has her time really come?” he wondered. “My heart's pounding… with pain? Sorrow? All I know is that I'm afraid. Once she's gone, I'll never return to this place again…. All the old memories will succumb to forgetfulness. What's left of my property will be returned to me, but I'm afraid… I'm angry at these vicious thoughts. O God, preserve us.

  “Even if I gain a more comfortable life and greater peace of mind, my heart will never escape from its pains. On her death I will bid farewell to a mother, with a son'sheart… a mother and a son, isn't that the way it is? I'm a person who has suffered a lot, not a beast or a stone. Death is new to me. I've never witnessed it before. I wish the end could come without it. We all die … really? I've got to resist my fears. Nowadays we hear about people dying all the time, on Ministries Street, in the schools, and at the mosque of al-Azhar. There are victims of the violence in the city of Asyut daily. Even the poor milkman, al-Fuli, lost his son yesterday. What can the families of the martyrs do? Should they spend the rest of their lives weeping? They weep and then forget. That's death. Ugh… it seems to me there's no way out of trouble now. At home there's Fahmy and his stubbornness. In front of me there's my mother. How hateful life is. What if it's all a trick and I find her in the best of health? She'll pay dearly…. She'll certainly have to pay a high price for it. I'm not a toy or an object to be ridiculed. She won't find her son until she dies. Do you suppose there's any money left for me? When I go in the house, will I find that man there? I won't know how to treat him. Our eyes will meet for a dreadful moment. Woe to him! Should I ignore him or throw him out? That's a solution. There are violent alternatives the man won't have considered. The funeral will certainly bring us together. What a joke! Imagine her coffin with her first and final husbands following behind it, while her son walks between them with tears in his eyes. By that time there definitely will be tears in my eyes. Isn't that so? I won't be able to evict him from the funeral. Scandal will accompany me to the very end. Then she'll be buried. Yes, she'll be buried, and everything will end. But I'm afraid, hurt, and saddened. May God and His angels pray for me…. Here's the sinister store…. There's the man. He won't recognize me. Far from it…. I'm disguised by age. 'Uncle … my mother says…'”