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

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Smiling, they raised their glasses to their lips. Ahmad Abd al-Jawad looked over the rim of his at the faces of his companions, these friends with whom he had shared affection and loyalty for almost forty years. They almost seemed slivers of hisheart. He could not keep his feelings of sincere fraternal affection from agitating his breast. As his eyes turned to Zubayda, he resumed his conversation with her, asking, “Why won't your heart forgive her?”

  She cast him a glance that made him feel she welcomed this chance to talk and replied, “Because she's a traitor with no respect for promises. She betrayed me more than a year ago. She left my house without asking permission and disappeared.”

  Was it possible she really did not know where Zanuba had been during that time? Since he did not care to offer the least comment on her words, she finally asked him, “Didn't you hear about that?”

  “I did eventually.”

  “I've taken care of her since she was a child and have looked after her as though I were her mother. See how I've been rewarded! To hell with her genes!”

  Pretending to object, Ali Abd al-Rahim teased her, “Don't insult her family. You're part of it.”

  But Zubayda replied seriously, “She doesn't have any of my genes.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad inquired, “Who do you suppose her father was?”

  “Her father!” This comment emerged from Ibrahim al-Far in a tone that suggested a string of sarcastic remarks was to follow, but Muhammad Iffat headed him off by interjecting, “Remember you're talking about Yasin's wife.”

  The mirthful look left al-Far's face, and he retreated into an uneasy silence. Then Zubayda spoke up again: “I'm not joking about her. She envied me for a long time. Even when she was in my custody she wanted to rival me. I spoiled her and pretended not to see her defects”. Then she laughed and continued: “She wanted to be a soloist, a vocalist”. Looking around at her friends, she observed sarcastically, “But she failed and got married.”

  Ali Abd al-Rahim asked incredulously, “In your opinion, does marriage constitute failure?”

  She squinted an eye at him and raised the eyebrow of the other one and then answered, “Yes, fellow. A performer never leaves her troupe unless she's a failure.”

  Then Jalila sang, “You're the wine, my love. You've cheered us up.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad grinned broadly and greeted the song with a gentle sigh that revealed his delight. But Ali Abd al-Rahim rose once more, saying, “A moment of silence until we finish off this round”. He filled the glasses again, redistributed them, and returned to his seat with his own drink.

  Grasping his glass, al-Sayyid Ahmad glanced at Zubayda, who turned toward him and smilingly raised her drink as if to say, “To your health”. He imitated her and they both drank at the same time. She was gazing at him with a merry look. A year had passed since he had felt like looking for a woman. The harsh experience he had endured seemed to have deadened his enthusiasm, but pride or ill health could also have been responsible. Even so, the combined influence of alcoholic intoxication and this affectionate look stirred hisheart. He savored the sweetness of this welcome, which followed a bitter rejection. He considered this a friendly greeting from the entire sex he had been so fond of all his life. It bound up his wounded dignity, which had fallen victim to betrayal and age. Zubayda's eloquent smile seemed to say, “Your day's not finished yet”. He kept looking and smiling at her.

  Muhammad Iffat brought the lute and placed it between the two women. Jalila picked it up and began to play. Once she was confident of their attention, she sang, “Beloved, I promise you…”

  As usual when he heard Jalila or Zubayda sing, Ahmad Abd al-Jawad pretended to be moved by the music. He nodded hishead appreciatively, as if wishing to induce ecstasy by acting it out. The truth was that all he had left from the world of song was a set of memories. The great performershe had admired, like al-Hamuli, Uthman, al-Manilawi, and Abd al-Hayy, had passed away -just as his youthful era of conquests had vanished. He would have to accusto tn himself to taking pleasure in what was at hand and in triggering a feeling of ecstasy by going through the motions. His love of song and infatuation with music had led him to visit the theater of Munira al-Mahdiya, but he had not liked the combination of theater and music. Besides, he chafed at sitting in a theater like a school auditorium. At Muhammad Iffat's house he had also listened to records of the new singer Umm Kalthoum but only with a cautious and suspicious ear. He did not enjoy her singing., even though it was said that Sa'd Zaghlul had praised the beauty of her voice.

  Yet his appearance gave no hint of his feelings as he gazed at Jalila with happy delight and sang the words of the refrain, “I hold you responsible,” with the others in his pleasing voice.

  Then al-Far cried out with regret, “Where, oh where is the tambourine? Where is it so we can hear the son of Abd al-Jawad?”

  “Ask rather: Where's the Ahmad Abd al-Jawad who used to play the tambourine?” he said to himself. “Oh… why has time changed us?”

  Jalila ended her song in an atmosphere of receptive approval. But with a grateful smile she said apologetically, “I'm tired.”

  Zubayda heaped her with praise. The two performers frequently complimented each other either from politeness or from a desire to keep the peace. Everyone realized that as a performer Jalila's star was rapidly setting. One of the most recent indications of that was the desertion of her tambourine player, Fino, to another troupe. This eclipse was only natural, given the withering away of all the qualities on which her past glory had rested: her charm, beauty, and voice. For that reason, Zubayda no longer felt particularly envious of her and was capable of flattering her former rival good-humoredly, especially since Zubayda had reached the pinnacle of her career, one that could only be followed by a decline.

  The friends often wondered whether Jalila had prepared properly for this dangerous stage of her life. It was Ahmad Abd al-Jawad's opinion that she had not. He accused some of her lovers of squandering much of her fortune but at the same time proclaimed that she was a woman who knew how to get money one way or another. Ali Abd al-Rahim supported him, saying, “She profits from the beauty of the women in her troupe, and ever so gradually her home's turning into a different kind of house.”

  Their consensus was less sanguine about Zubayda's future, for despite the freedom with which she helped herself to her lovers' wealth, she spent liberally and was fond of the showy possessions that dissipate money quickly. Moreover, she was addicted to alcohol and narcotics, cocaine in particular.

  Muhammad Iffat told Zubayda, “Allow me to express my admiration for the sweet looks you are directing to one of us.”

  Jalila laughed and said softly, “His infatuation's revealed by his eyes….”

  Ibrahim al-Far asked with sham disapproval, “Do you think you're in a charitable institution for the blind?”

  With feigned regret Ahmad Abd al-Jawad replied, “If you continue to speak so bluntly, you'll never fulfill your ambition to be pimps.”

  Zubayda told Muhammad Iffat, “The only reason I'm looking at him, God forgive rne, is out of envy at his youth. Look at his black head of hair among your white ones and tell me if you'd think he's a day over forty?”

  “I'd give him about a century more.”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad retorted, “From your surplus years.”

  Jalila sang the opening of the song “The envious eye has a log in it, sweetheart.”

  Zubayda commented, “He doesn't need to fear my envy, for my eye would never harm him.”

  Shaking hishead suggestively, Muhammad Iffat replied, “Your eyes are the cause of all the trouble.”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad told Zubayda, “Why are you talking about my youth? Haven't you heard what the doctor said?”

  As though she could not believe it, she said, “Muhammad [ffat told me, but what's this pressure you're supposed to have?”

  “He wrapped a strange sack around my arm and began to pump it up. Then he told me, 'You've got pressure.'”

&nbs
p; “Where did this pressure come from?”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad laughingly answered, “I imagine that pump induced it.”

  Clapping his hands together, Ibrahim al-Far said, “Perhaps it's a contagious disease, because within a month of our friend's attack each of us had a doctor's examination too, and the diagnosis in each case was the same: pressure.”

  Ali Abd al-Rahim observed, “I'll tell you the secret behind it. This is one of the side effects of the revolution. The proof is that no one ever heard of it before then.”

  Jalila asked al-Sayyid Ahmad, “What are the symptoms of this pressure?”

  “A bitch of a headache and difficulty breathing when I walk.”

  Smiling somewhat anxiously, Zubayda murmured, “Who doesn't have those symptoms, if only occasionally? Do you think I've got pressure too?”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad asked, “Above or below your waist?”

  They all laughed, including Zubayda herself, and then Jalila said, “Since you're experienced with pressure, why don't you examine her. Perhaps you can discover what ailsher.”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad replied, “If she'll bring the sack, I'll supply the pump.”

  They laughed again. Then Muhammad Iffat protested, “Pressure, pressure, pressure … all we ever hear nowadays is the doctor giving us orders as though we were his slaves: Don't drink alcoholic beverages. Don't eat red meat. Beware of eggs.”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad asked scornfully, “What's a man like me to do? I eat only red meat and eggs and drink nothing but alcohol.”

  Zubayda replied immediately, “Eat and drink in good health. A man should be his own physician, letting our Lord have the last word.”

  During the time he had been forced to stay in bed he had followed his doctor's orders. When he had been able to get around again, he had forgotten this medical advice completely.

  Jalila spoke up again: “I don't believe in doctors, but I'll admit they have an excuse for what they say and do. They make their living from illnesses just as we performers make our living from joyous occasions like weddings. They couldn't get by without their sack, pump, orders, and prohibitions any more than we could survive without the tambourine, lute, and songs.”

  With enthusiastic relief, al-Sayyid Ahmad said, “You're right. Illness and health, like life and death, arise solely from God's command. Anyone who trusts in God will have no cause for sorrow.”

  Laughing, Ibrahim al-Far said, “Feast your eyes on this man, folks. He drinks with his mouth, lusts with his eye, and preaches with his tongue.”

  Between guffaws, Ahmad Abd al-Jawad retorted, “There's nothing wrong with that, so long as I do my preaching in a brothel.”

  Examining Ahmad Abd al-Jawad and shaking hishead with wonder, Muhammad Iffat commented, “I wish Kamal were here to profit from your sermon along with us.”

  Ali Abd al-Rahim asked, “By the way, ishe still of the opinion that man's descended from an ape?”

  Striking her hand against her breast, Jalila exclaimed, “How dreadful!”

  “An ape?” Zubayda asked with astonishment. Then, as though reconsidering, she said, “Perhapshe was referring to his father, not a forefather.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad cautioned her, “He also showed that women are descended from a lioness.”

  Bursting into laughter, she replied, “I'd certainly like to see the child of a monkey and a lioness.”

  Ibrahim al-Far commented, “When Kamal grows up and leaves his family circle he'll observe that normal people are descended from Adam and Eve.”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad shot back, “Or I'll bring him here one day. That will convince him man's descended from dogs.”

  Ali A.bd al-Rahim went back to the table to fill their glasses again and asked Zubayda, “Since you know al-Sayyid Ahmad more intimately than any of us, can you say which animal family you'd place him in?”

  She reflected a little as she watched Ali Abd al-Rahim's hands pour the whiskey. Then, with a smile, she replied, “The ass!”

  Jalila asked, “Is this a compliment or an insult?”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad answered, “Only her belly knows for sure.”

  They drank some more in the best of humors. Zubayda picked up the lute and sang, “Let down the curtain around us.”

  The body of Ahmad Abd al-Jawad began to sway to the music in an overwhelming intoxication. He raised his glass, which was empty except for a film of whiskey at the bottom, and looked through that at the woman, as though wishing to observe her with a golden spyglass. Whatever private resentment there might have been between them had vanished. It was clear that the bond between Ahmad and Zubayda had been reestablished. They all sang the chorus with Zubayda, Ahmad's voice growing loud with delight and ecstasy. The song concluded to their jubilant applause.

  Muhammad Iffat immediately asked Jalila, “Speaking of the song ‘His passion's revealed by his eyes,’ what do you think of Umm Elalthoum?”

  Jalila answered, “Her voice, with God as my witness, is beautiful, but all too often she's as shrill as a child.”

  “Some people say she'll be the next Munira al-Mahdiya. Others say her voice is even more marvelous than Munira's.”

  Jalila cried out, “Nonsense! How does this shrillness compare with Munira's magnificently husky voice?”

  Zubayda remarked disdainfully, “There's something about her voice that reminds one of a Qur'an reciter - as though she was an entertainer in a shaykh's turban.”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad said, “I don't care for her, but a lot of people are wild about her. The truth is that the vocal era ended with the death of Abduh al-Hamuli.”

  Muhammad Iffat teased his friend, “You're a reactionary. You always try to cling to the past”. Winking, he continued: “Don't you insist on ruling your home by fiat and force, even in the age of democracy and parliament?”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad replied scornfully, “Democracy's for the people, not the family.”

  Ali Abd al-Rahim said seriously, “Do you think you can rule the young people of today in the old-fashioned way? These youngsters are used to demonstrating in the streets and confronting the soldiers.”

  Ibrahim al-Far said, “I don't know what you're talking about, but I agree with Ahmad. We each have sons God help us.”

  Muhammad Iffat said playfully, “Both of you are strong advocates of democracy, but you're tyrants at home.”

  Ahmad Abd al-Jawad protested, “Do you really want me to assemble Kamal, his mother, and Yasin to let them vote before I deal with a problem?”

  Zubayda burst into laughter. She reminded him, “Please don't forget Zanuba!”

  Ibrahim al-Far said, “If the revolution's the cause for the problems our children are causing us, may God forgive Sa'd Zaghlul.”

  The drinking, chatting, singing, and joking continued. The din became louder, and their voices blended together. The night advanced, oblivious to the world. He would look at her and find her watching him, or she would be the one to glance at him and catch him watching her. He told himself, “In this world there's only one true pleasure”. He wanted to express this thought but did not, either because his enthusiasm for sharing it weakened or because he did not feel he could say it. But why should he feel weak?

  Once again he asked himself whether this was to be an hour's enjoyment or a long affair. His soul pined for entertainment and consolation, but there was a ringing in his ears, as though the waves of the Nile were whispering to him. He was almost halfway through his sixth decade. “Ask scholars how a lifetime can pass like this. We know it's happening, but at the same time we don't.”

  “What's silenced you? May God spare us evil.”

  “Me? A little rest…”

  “Yes, how sweet it is to rest,” he told himself. “A long sleep from which you'll rise in good health. How delightful it is to be healthy…. But they're always after you, not leaving you a single moment to enjoy peace. This look is fascinating, but the whispering of the waves is growing louder. How can you hear the singing?”

  ”Certain
ly not. We won't leave until we give him a proper wedding procession. What do you think? A procession… a procession! ”

  “Rise, my camel.”

  “Me? A little rest.”

  “The procession… the procession, like the first time at the house in al-Ghuriya.”

  “Thar was long ago.”

  “We'll revive it. The procession … the procession.”

  “They're merciless. That time's vanished. It's hidden by dark shadows. How thick the darkness is! How my ears are ringing! What an overpowering forgetfulness!”

  “Look!”

  “What's wrong with him?”

  “A little water. Open the window.”

  “O Gracious One, O Lord…”

  “It's all right… all right. Wet this handkerchief in cold water.”

  113

  DURING THE week after the father's “accident,” he was visited every day by the doctor, but his condition was critical enough that no one else was allowed to call on him. Even his children had to tiptoe into the room for a glimpse of his sleeping face. They would carefully note his look of resigned exhaustion before retreating with gloomy expressions and sinking hearts. They glanced with interest at one another but shrank from the sad reinforcement this exchange provided.

  The physician said the seizure was a result of high blood pressure. He cupped the patient, filling a basin with blood, which Khadija, trembling all over, described as black. Amina emerged from the room now and again, looking like an aimless phantom. Kamal seemed to be in a daze, as though asking himself how such earth-shaking events could occur in the twinkling of an eye and how this colossus of a man could have succumbed. Whenever he stole a look at his mother's ghostly form, Khadija's tearful eyes, or Aisha's pale face, he wondered again what all this meant. He found himself unconsciously led to imagine the end hisheart dreaded. He pictured a world without his father, and this vision chilled his breast and alarmed hisheart. He asked himself apprehensively how his mother could possibly survive. She already appeared as good as dead, and nothing had happened yet. Then he thought of Fahmy and wondered whether their father would be forgotten as easily as their late brother. The world seemed lost in gloom.