Kamal stood beside his mother on the balcony, which was enclosed with latticework. They were watching al-Sayyid Ahmad walk along the street and respond with dignity and grace to the greetings of Uncle Hasanayn the barber, al-Hajj Darwish, who so'd beans, al-Fuli the milkman, Bayumi the drinks vendor, and Abu Sari' who sold seeds and other snacks.
When Kamal returned to his room, he found Yasin standing in front of the mirror, grooming himself patiently and carefully. The boy sat on a sofa between the two beds and studied his older brother's body, which was tall and full, and his plump, ruddy face with its enigmatic smile. He harbored sincere fraternal affection for Yasin, although when he scrutinized his brother visually or mentally he was never able to overcome the sense of being in the presence of a handsome domestic animal. Although Yasin had been the first person to make his ears resound with the harmonies of poetry and the effusions of stories, Kamal, who now thought that love was the essence of life and the spirit, would wonder whether it was possible to imagine Yasin in love. The response would be a laugh, whether voiced or internal. Yes, what relationship could there be between love and this full belly? What could this beefy body know of love? What love was there in this sensual, mocking look? He could not help feeling disdain, softened by love and affection. There were times, though, when he admired or even envied Yasin, especially when his love was troubled by a spasm of pain.
Yasin, who had once personified culture for him, now seemed almost totally lacking in it. In the old days Kamal had considered him a scholar with magical powers over the arts of poetry and storytelling. What little knowledge Yasin had was based on superficial reading confined to the coffee hour, or a portion of it, as he went back and forth, without subjecting himself to effort and strain, between al-Hamasa, which was a medieval anthology of poetry, and some story or other, before he rushed off to Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse. His life lacked the radiance of love and any yearnings for genuine knowledge. Yet Kamal's fraternal affection for his brother was in no way diminished by such realizations.
Fahmy had not been like that. He was Kamal's ideal, both romantically and intellectually, but eventually Kamal's aspirations had reached beyond Fahmy's. He was afflicted by a compelling doubt that a girl like Maryam could inspire genuine love of the sort illuminating his own soul. He was also skeptical that the legal training his late brother had chosen was really equivalent to the humanitieshe was so eager to study.
Kamal uninhibitedly considered those around him with an attentive and critical eye but stopped short when it came to his father. The man appeared to him to be above any criticism, a formidable figure mounted on a throne.
“You're like a bridegroom today. We're going to celebrate your academic achievements. Isn't that so? If you weren't so skinny, I could find nothing to criticize.”
Smiling, Kamal replied, “I'm content to be thin.”
Yasin cast a last glance at himself in the mirror. Then he placed the fez on hishead and carefully tilted it to the right, so it almost touched his eyebrow. He belched and commented, “You're a big donkey with a baccalaureate. Relax and take time to enjoy your food. This is your vacation. How can you feel tempted to read twice as much during your school holiday as you do during the academic year? My God, I'm not guilty of slenderness or of association with it”. As He left the room with his ivory fly whisk in his hand, he added, “Don't forget to pick out a good story for me. Something easy like ‘Pardaillan’ or ‘Fausta’ by Michel Zevaco. Okay? In the old days you'd beg me for a chapter from a novel. Now I'm asking you to provide me with stories.”
Kamal rejoiced at being left to his own devices. He rose, muttering to himself, “How can I put on weight when my heart never slumbers?”
He did not like to pray except when he was alone. Prayer for him was a sacred struggle in which heart, intellect, and spirit all participated. It was the battle of a person who would spare no effort to achieve a clear conscience, even if he had to chastise himself time and again for a minor slip or a thought. His supplications after the prescribed prayer ritual were devoted entirely to his beloved.
74
ABD AL-MUNI'M: “The courtyard's bigger than the roof. We've got to take the cover off the well to see what's in it.”
Na'iina: “You'll make Mama, Auntie, and Grandma angry.”
Uthman: “No one will see us.”
Ahmad: “The well's disgusting. Anyone who looks in it will die.”
Abd al-Mun'im: “We'll get the cover off, but look at it from a distance”. Then he continued in a loud voice, “Come on. Let's go.”
Blocking the door to the stairway, Umm Hanafi protested, “I don't have any strength left to keep going up and down. You said, ‘Let's go up on the roof,’ so we did. You said, ‘Let's go down to the courtyard,’ and we did. 'Let's go up to the roof So we came up another time. What do you want with the courtyard? … The air's hot down there. Up here we have a breeze, and soon the sun will set.”
Na'ima: “They're going to take the cover off the well to look ink.”
Umm Hanafi: “I'll call Mrs. Khadija and Mrs. Aisha.”
Abd al-Muni'm: “Na'ima's a liar. We won't raise the lid. We won't go anywhere near it. We'll play in the courtyard a little and then come back. You stay here till we return.”
Umm Hanafi: “Stay here!… I have to follow your every step, may God guide you. There's no place in the whole house more beautiful than the roof terrace. Look at this garden!”
Muhammad: “Lie down so I can ride on you.”
Umm Hanafi: “There's been enough riding. Pick some other game, by God. God… look at the jasmine and the hyacinth vines. Look at the pigeons.”
Uthman: “You're as ugly as a water buffalo, and you stink.”
Umm Hanafi: “May God forgive you. I've gotten sweaty chasing after you.”
Uthman: “Let us see the well, if only for a moment.”
Umiri Hanafi: “The well is full of jinn. That's why we closed it.”
Abd al-Muni'm: “You're a liar. Mama and Auntie didn't say that.”
Umiri Hanafi: “I'm the one who's right, me and the lady of the house. We've seen them with our own eyes. We waited until they entered it. Then we threw a wooden cover over the opening of the well and weighted it down with stones. Don't talk about the well. Repeat with me: 'In the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful.'”
Muhammad: “Lie down so I can ride on you.”
Umm Hanafi: “Look at the hyacinth beans and the jasmine! Don't you wish you had something like that? All you've got on your roof are chickens and the two sheep you're fattening up for the Feast of the Sacrifice.”
Ahmad: “Baa… baa… baa.”
Abd d-Muni'm: “Fetch a ladder so we can climb up it.”
Umm Hanafi: “May God preserve us. The boy takes after his uncle. Play on the ground, not in the sky.”
Ridvvan: “At our house we have pots of carnations and of red and white roses on the balcony and in the men's reception room.”
Uthman: “We have two sheep and some chickens.”
Ahmad: “Baa… baa… baa.”
Abd al-Muni'm: “I'm going to religious kindergarten. What about all of you?”
Ridwan: “I've memorized 'Praise to God
Abd al-Muni'm: “Praise to God for lamps and meatballs.”
Ridwan: “For shame! You're a heathen.”
Abd al-Muni'm: “That's what the teacher's assistant chants when he's walking in the street.”
Na'ima: “We've told you a thousand times not to repeat it.”
Turning to Ridwan, Abd al-Muni'm asked, “Why don't you live with Uncle Yasin, your father?”
Ridwan: “I'm with Mama.”
Ahmad: “Where's Mama?”
Ridwan: “With my other grandfather.”
Uthman: “Where's your other grandfather?”
Ridwan: “In al-Gamaliya… in a big house with a special reception room for men only.”
Abd al-Muni'm: “Why does your mother live in one house and your father in another?�
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Ridwan: “Mama's with my grandfather there and Papa's with my grandfather here.”
Uthman: “Why aren't they in one house like my papa and mama?”
Ridwan: “Fate and destiny. That's what my other grandmother says.”
Umm Hanafi: “You've pestered him until he's confessed. There's no power or might save God's. Have mercy on him and go play.”
Ahmad: “The water buffalo knows how to talk.”
Muhammad: “Get down so I can ride on you.”
Ridwan: “Look at the sparrow on the hyacinth vine.”
Abd al-Muni'm: “Fetch a ladder so I can grab it.”
Ahmad: “Don't raise your voice. It's looking at us and hears every word you say.”
Na'ima: “How beautiful she is! I know her! She's the sparrow I saw yesterday on our clothesline.”
Ahmad: “The other one was on Sugar Street. How could it find its way to my grandfather's house?”
Abd al-Muni'm: “You donkey. The sparrow can fly here from Sugar Street and return before nightfall.”
Uthman: “Her family is there, but she has relativeshere.”
Muhammad: “Get down so I can ride you. Otherwise I'll cry till Mama hears me.”
Na'ima: “Why don't we play hopscotch?”
Abd al-Muni'm: “No, let's have a race.”
Umm Hanafi: “Without any quarreling between the winner and the loser.”
Abd al-Muni'm: “Shut up, water buffalo.”
Uthman: “Moo … moo.”
Ahmad: “Baa… baa.”
Muhammad: “I'll ride in this race. Get down so I can ride you.”
Abd al-Muni'm: “One, two, three …”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad welcomed the guests, for whom he had set aside the whole first part of the day. He took his place in the center at the banquet, surrounded by Ibrahim Shawkat, Khalil Shawkat, Yasin, and Kamal. After the meal, he invited the two guests to his bedroom, where they conversed in an atmosphere of affection and friendship, marked by a certain reserve on the host's part and a special politeness on the part of his sons-in-law, stemming from the etiquette the father observed in his relations with his family, even those who did not reside with him, despite the fact that al-Sayyid Ahmad and Ibrahim Shawkat, Khadija's spouse, were of nearly the same age.
The c hildren were invited to their grandfather's room to kiss his hand and receive precious gifts of chocolate and Turkish delight. They presented themselves in order of seniority: Aisha's daughter Na'ima first, then Yasin's son Ridwan, followed by Khadija's son Abd al-Muni'm, Aisha's son Uthman, Khadija's son Ahmad, and Aisha's son Muhammad. Al-Sayyid Ahmad observed strict impartiality in distributing affection and smiles to his grandchildren but took advantage of the absence of observers, except for Ibrahim and Khalil, to relax his customary reserve. He shook the little hands warmly, pinched their rosy cheeks affectionately, and kissed their brows, while teasing this one and joking with that one. He was always careful not to show favoritism, even with Ridwan, whom he loved best.
When alone with one of them he would examine the child with passionate interest, motivated by paternal feelings and additional ones like curiosity. He took great pleasure in tracing the features of grandparents and parents in the boisterous new generation, who had scarcely learned to respect him, let alone fear him. He was captivated by the beauty of Na'ima, who with her golden hair and blue eyes surpassed even her mother's good looks. She graced the family with her beautiful features, some inherited from her mother and others from the Shawkat family. Her brothers Uthman and Muhammad were also handsome but looked more like their father, Khalil Shawkat. They clearly had his large, protruding eyes with the calm, languid look.
By way of contrast, Khadija's sons Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad had their mother's and maternal grandmother's beautiful small eyes, although they shared the Shawkat complexion. Their noses were exceptionally similar to their mother's or, to be more precise, their rmternal grandfather's.
Ridwan could not help but be handsome. His eyes were identical to his father's and therefore like the black, kohl-enhanced ones of Haniya, Yasin's mother. He had the ivory complexion of his mother's family, the Iffats, and his father's straight nose. Indeed, a captivating grace shone in his face.
It had been a long time since al-Sayyid Ahmad's children had been able to cling to him the way his grandchildren did now, without fear on their part or reserve on his. Oh, what days they had been! What memories! Yasin, Khadija… and Fahmy, then Aisha and Kamal. He had tickled every one of them under the arms and carried each on his shoulders. Would they remember that? He himself had almost forgotten.
Na'ima, her bright smile notwithstanding, seemed shy and polite. Ahmad would not stop asking for more chocolates and Turkish delight. Uthman stood waiting impatiently for the response to Ahmad's request. Muhammad rushed to the gold watch and the diamond ring inside the fez and grabbed hold of them. Khalil Shawkat had to use force to pry them from his grip. Al-Sayyid Ahmad spent a few moments beset by confusion and anxiety, not knowing what to do, for he was surrounded and even under attack from every side by his beloved grandchildren.
Shortly before the afternoon prayer, the patriarch left the house for his store. His departure allowed the sitting room, where the remaining members of the family were gathered, to enjoy total freedom. It had inherited the role of the abandoned one downstairs and was furnished with the same mat, sofas, and large ceiling lantern. It had become the lounge and coffeehouse for those of the family still living in the old house. No matter how crowded, it had remained tranquil all day long. Now that the only trace of their father was the fragrance of his cologne, it could breathe freely. Their talk grew louder and so did their laughter. Everyone became more animated. The coffee hour once more seemed just like the old days. Amina was sitting cross-legged on a sofa by the coffee utensils. On another couch facing her sat Khadija and Aisha. On a third to the side, Yasin and Kamal were ensconced. Once al-Sayyid Ahmad had left, Ibrahim and Khalil Shawkat joined the party. Ibrahim took a place to the right of their mother-in-law and Khalil one to her left.
Ibrahim had hardly settled there when he addressed Amina affectionately: “God bless the hands that prepared such appetizing and delicious food for us”. Then he glanced around the assembly with his languid, protruding eyes as though delivering an oration and continued: “Those casseroles… what casseroles! They're marvelous in this house. It's not the ingredients, no matter how delicious and excellent, it's the way they're allowed to cook down, more than anything else. It's an art. It's a miracle. Find me another casserole as delicious as those we had today.”
Khadija followed his comments attentively. She was torn between applauding his recognition of her mother's skill and arguing against him, because he was ignoring hers. When he paused to allow his listeners an opportunity to agree with him, she could not restrain herself from saying, “No one would contest that verdict. No one needs to testify on its behalf. But I remember and think it worth consideration that you've filled your belly in your own home repeatedly with casseroles no less skillfully prepared than those we ate today.”
Aisha, Yasin, and Kamal all smiled knowingly. Their mother was clearly attempting to overcome her embarrassment and say something that would express her thanks to Ibrahim without offending Khadija. But Khalil Shawkat burst out: “Khadija's right. Her casseroles are a blessing to all of us. You better not forget that, brother.”
Ibrahim looked back and forth between his wife and his mother-in-law, smiling apologetically. Then he said, “God forbid that I should fail to acknowledge my indebtedness to my wife, but I was discussing the senior chef”. Then he laughed and said, “In any case I was praising the merits of your mother, not mine.”
He waited until the laughter provoked by his last remark died down. Then turning toward his mother-in-law, he continued lauding her: “Let's return to the casseroles, although why should we confine our remarks to them? In fact all the other dishes were just as delicious and sumptuous. Take, for example, the st
uffed potatoes, the mallow greens, the fried rice with giblets, and the assorted stuffed vegetables. God Almighty, what chickens! How meaty! Tell me, what do you feed them?”
Khadija answered sarcastically, “Casseroles! That's what!”
“I'll t ave to do penance for a long time and give credit where it is due, but God is forgiving and compassionate. In any case, let's pray that God grants us many more days of celebration. Congratulations on your baccalaureate, Kamal. God willing, you'll have the same good success with your university degree.”
Blushing with embarrassment and happiness, Amina said gratefully, “May our Lord give you reason to celebrate for Abd alMuni'm and Ahmad, for Mr. Khalil to rejoice for Na'ima, Uthman, and Muhammad” - then turning to Yasin - “and for Yasin to rejoice for Ridwan.”
Kamal was glancing stealthily at Ibrahim and Khalil. On his lipshe had the fixed smile with which he normally concealed his lack of interest in a conversation he did not find to his taste, whenever he felt he ought to participate, if only by paying attention.
The man was talking about food as though still at the table, intoxicated by greed. Food, food, food… why did it deserve all this attention? These two strange men did not appear to have changed with time, as though beyond its reach. Ibrahim today was the same as he had been. He was almost fifty, but the only signs of age were the scarcely noticeable wrinkles under his eyes and at the corners of his mouth or his sedate, serious air, which did not give him the appearance of dignity so much as of lethargy. Not a single hair of hishead or of his twisted mustache had gone gray. His full body was still powerful, firm, and free of flab. The resemblance between the two brothers in appearance, state of health, and their languid gaze was great enough to be comical or a subject for mockery. There were only inconsequential differences, like the cut of their hair. Khalil's was long and smooth while Ibrahim's was short. They were both wearing white silk suits, and each had removed his jacket to reveal a silk shirt with gold cuff links gleaming through the buttonholes. Their elite status was obvious from their appearance, but nothing else.
The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street Page 65