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

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Looking at the others as if to ask for their support, Ibrahim Shawkat told Ahmad, “Look before you leap. You're only in the fourth year. Your inheritance won't be more than a hundred pounds a year. Some of my friends complain bitterly that their university-educated children are unfit for any kind of work or else employed as clerks at minuscule salaries. Once you've thought about all this carefully you're free to choose for yourself.”

  Yasin intervened to suggest, “Let'shear Khadija's opinion. She was Ahmad's first instructor. Who is better qualified to select between the selfish instruction in one's own rights provided by Law and the altruistic and humane influence of Arts?”

  They all smiled, including Amina, who was busy with her coffeepot. Even Aisha smiled. Encouraged by her sister's good humor, Khadija retorted, “Let me tell you a cute story. Late yesterday afternoon you know it gets dark early in winter I was returning to Sugar Street from al-Darb al-Ahmar when I sensed that a man was following me. Then under the vault of the old city gate he passed me and asked, ‘Where are you going, beautiful?’ I turned and replied, Tm on my way home, Mr. Yasin.'”

  The sitting room exploded with laughter. Zanuba directed a telling look at Yasin, one that blended criticism with despair. Motioning for them to be still, he asked, “You don't think I'm that blind, do you?”

  Ibrahim Shawkat cautioned, “Watch your tongue!”

  Although only eight, Karima grasped her father's hand and laughed as if she had understood the point of her aunt's story.

  Zanuba's commentary on the situation was: “It's the worst things that make a person laugh.”

  Giving Khadija a furious look, Yasin said, “You've gotten me into hot water, girl….”

  Khadija replied, “If anyone present is in need of the humane influences of Arts, it's you, not my crazy son Ahmad.”

  Zanuba agreed, but Ridwan defended his father, claiming he had been falsely accused. Ahmad kept his eyes fixed on Kamal, as though resting his hopes on his uncle.

  Abd al-Muni'm glanced stealthily at Nai'ma, who looked like a white rose leaning against her mother. Her pale delicate face blushed whenever she sensed his small eyes looking at her.

  Finally Ibrahim Shawkat spoke, changing the course of the conversation: “Ahmad, think how Law School has allowed al-Hamzawi's son to become an important government attorney”. Kamal felt that this comment contained criticism directed against him.

  Breaking her silence for the first time, Aisha said, “He would like to get engaged to Na'ima.”

  After the pause that greeted this news, Amina added, “His father mentioned it to her grandfather yesterday.”

  Yasin asked seriously, “Has Father agreed?”

  “It's still early for such questions.”

  Glancing at Aisha, Ibrahim Shawkat inquired cautiously, “What does Mrs. Aisha think of this?”

  Without looking at anyone, Aisha answered, “I don't know.”

  Studying her sister closely, Khadija remarked, “But it's all up to you.”

  Kamal wanted to put in a good word for his friend and said, “Fuad's really an excellent fellow.”

  Ibrahim Shawkat asked circumspectly, “Aren't his folks rather common?”

  In his forceful voice, Abd al-Muni'm Shawkat replied, “Yes. One of his maternal uncles is a donkey driver and another's a baker. He has a paternal uncle who is an attorney's secretary”. Then he added as a reluctant concession, “But none of this detracts from the man's worth. A person should be judged for what he is, not for his family.”

  Kamal realized that his nephew wanted to assert two truths no matter how contradictory: first the baseness of Fuad's origins and second the fact that a humble background does not diminish a person's value. He understood that Abd al-Muni'm was both attacking Fuad and repenting for this unfair attack, because of his strong religious convictions. Surprisingly, the assertion of these rival claims relieved Kamal, sparing him the embarrassment of expressing them himself. Like his nephew, he did not believe in the class system. Yet he was as inclined as Abd al-Muni'm to criticize Fuad and to belittle his friend's position, which he knew was far grander than his own.

  Amina was clearly uncomfortable with this attack. She said, “His father's a fine man. He has served us honestly and sincerely his whole life.”

  Khadija found the courage to reply, “But if this marriage takes place, Na'ima may find herself mixing with people who are beneath her. Family origin is everything.”

  Her opinion was championed by the last person anyone would have expected when Zanuba said, “You're right! Family origin is everything.”

  Yasin was upset. He looked swiftly at Khadija, wondering how she would react to his wife's endorsement. What would she think of it? Would it remind her of the troupe and its female entertainers? He cursed Zanuba secretly for her empty braggadocio. Feeling obliged to say something to make up for his wife's remark, he observed, “Remember, you're talking about a government attorney….”

  Emboldened by Aisha's silence, Khadija said, “It's my father who made him one. Our wealth has made him what he is.”

  With sarcasm sparkling in protruding eyes that were reminiscent of his late Uncle Khalil's, Ahmad Shawkat retorted, “We're more indebted to his father than he is to us.”

  Pointing a finger at him, Khadija said critically, “You're always subjecting us to these incomprehensible remarks.”

  Sounding as if he hoped to terminate this discussion, Yasin commented, “Don't wear yourselves out. Papa will have the final say.”

  Amina distributed the cups of coffee, and the eyes of the young men gravitated to Na'ima, who sat beside her mother. Ridwan told himself, “She's a sweet and lovely girl. I wish it were possible for us to be friends and companions. Ifwe could walk together in the street, people would have trouble saying which of us was better-looking.”

  Ahmad thought, “She's very beautiful but seems glued to her mother and has had little education.”

  Abd al-Muni'm reflected silently, “Pretty, a homemaker, and intensely religious her only defect is her frailty. But even that's attractive. She's too good for Fuad”. Then, breaking out of his internal monologue, he said, “Na'ima, tell us what you think.”

  The pale face blushed, frowned, and then smiled. Thrust into this awkward situation, the girl pitted a smile against her frown to free herself of both. Then she said shyly, “I don't have an opinion about this. Leave me alone!”

  Ahmad remarked sarcastically, “False bashfulness….”

  Aisha interrupted him, “False?”

  Correcting himself, he said, “This kind of modesty has gone out of style. If you don't speak up, Na'ima, you'll find that your life's over and that all the decisions have been made for you.”

  Aisha replied bitterly, “We're not used to talk like this.”

  Paying no attention to his mother's warning look, Ahmad complained, “I bet our family's four centuries behind the times.”

  Abd al-Muni'm asked scornfully, “Why precisely four?”

  His brother answered nonchalantly, “I was being polite.”

  Khadija shifted the conversation to Kamal by asking, “And you! When are you getting married?”

  Kamal was caught off guard by this inquiry, which he attempted to evade by saying, “That's an old story!”

  “And a new one at the same time…. We won't abandon it until God unites you with a decent girl.”

  Amina followed this last part of the conversation with redoubled interest. Kamal's marriage was her dearest wish. She hoped fervently that he would turn her wish into a reality. Then she could rest her eyes on a grandchild fathered by her only living soq. She said, “His father has proposed brides to him from the best families, but he always finds some excuse or other.”

  “Flimsy arguments! How old are you, Mr. Kamal?” asked Ibrahim Shawkat with a laugh.

  “Twenty-eight! It's too late now.”

  Amina listened to the figure incredulously, and Khadija said angrily, “You love to make yourself out older than you
are.”

  Since he was her youngest brother, revelation of his age indirectly disclosed hers. Although her husband was sixty, she hated to be reminded that she was thirty-eight. Kamal did not know what to say. [n his opinion this was not a subject to be settled with a single word, but he always felt compelled to explain his position. So he said apologetically, “I work all day at school and every evening in my office.”

  Ahmad said enthusiastically, “What a fantastic life, Uncle… but even so, a man needs to marry.”

  Yasin, who knew more about Kamal than any of the others, said, “You shrug off commitments so that nothing will distract you from your search for the truth, but truth lies in these commitments. You won't learn about life in a library. Truth is to be found at home and in the street.”

  Doing his best to escape, Kamal said, “I've grown accustomed to spending my salary each month down to the last millieme. I don't have any savings. How can I get married?”

  Khadija blocked his escape by retorting, “Make up your mind to get married, and then you'll figure out how to prepare for it.”

  Laughing, Yasin observed, “You spend every millieme so you won't be able to get married.”

  “As if the two were equivalent,” Kamal thought. But why did he not marry? That was what people expected and what his parents wanted. When he had been in love with Ai'da, marriage had seemed absurdly out of reach. After that, love had been replaced by thought, which had greedily devoured his life. His greatest delight had come in finding a beautiful book or in getting an article published. He had told himself that a thinker does not and should not marry. He looked aloft and imagined that marriage would force him to lower his gaze. He had been - and still was - pleased to be a thoughtful observer who avoided, whenever possible, entry into the mechanics of life. He was as stingy with his liberty as a miser is with money. Besides, women no longer meant anything to him beyond a lust to be gratified. He was not exactly wasting his youth, since he did not let a week go by without indulging in intellectual delights and physical pleasures. If these reasons were not enough, he was apprehensive and skeptical about everything. Marriage seemed to be something a person should believe in.

  Kamal said, “Relax. I'll get married when I feel like it.”

  Zanuba smiled in a way that made her look ten years younger and asked, “Why don't you want to marry now?”

  Almost in exasperation, Kamal replied, “Marriage is an anthill. You're making a mountain out of it.”

  But deep inside he believed that marriage was a mountain, not an anthill. He was overcome by a strange feeling that one day he would give in to marriage and that his fate would then be sealed.

  He was rescued by Ahmad's comment: “It's time for us to go up to your library.”

  Welcoming the suggestion, Kamal rose and headed for the door, trailed by Abd al-Muni'm, Ahmad, and Ridwan. As usual, they would borrow some books during this visit to the old house.

  Kam al's desk in the center of the room under an electric light was flanked by bookcases. He sat down there to watch the young men read the titles of books on the shelves. Abd al-Muni'm selected a book of essays on Islamic history, and Ahmad took Principles of Philosophy. Then they stood around his desk as he looked silently at each of them in turn.

  Finally Ahmad said irritably, “I'll never be able to read as much as I want until I master at least one foreign language.”

  Glancing at a random passage in his book, Abd al-Muni'm muttered, “No one knows Islam as it truly is.”

  Ahmad remarked sarcastically, “My brother discovers the truth of Islam in the Khan al-Khalili bazaar from a man of the people.”

  Abd al-Muni'm shouted at him, “Hush, atheist!”

  Looking at Ridwan questioningly, Kamal asked, “Aren't you going to choose a book?”

  Abd al-Muni'm answered for his cousin, “He's too busy reading the Wafd Party newspapers.”

  Gesturing toward Kamal, Ridwan said, “Our uncle has this in common with me.”

  His uncle believed in nothing but was a Wafdist all the same. Similarly, he doubted truth itself but worked pragmatically with other people. Looking from Abd al-Muni'm to Ahmad, he asked, “Since you support the Wafd Party too, what's strange about this? All Egyptian patriots are Wafdists. Isn't that so?”

  In his confident voice, Abd al-Muni'm answered, “No doubt the Wafd is the best of the parties, but considered in the abstract it's not completely satisfying.”

  Laughing, Ahmad said, “I agree with my brother on this. To be more precise, it's the only thing we do agree on. And we may even disagree1 about the extent of our satisfaction with the Wafd Party. But the most important thing is to question nationalism itself. Yes, there is no argument about the need for independence, but afterward the understanding of nationalism must develop until it is absorbed into a loftier and more comprehensive concept. It's not unlikely that in the future we'll come to regard martyrs of the nationalist movement as we now do victims of foolish battles between tribes and clans.”

  “Foolish battles! You fool!” Kamal thought. “Fahmy did not die in a foolish battle. But how can you be certain?” Despite these reflectionshe said sharply, “Anyone slain for a cause greater than himself dies a martyr. The relative worth of causes may vary, but a man's relationship to a cause is a value that does not.”

  As they left the study, Ridwan told Abd al-Muni'm, “Politics is the most significant career open to a person in a society.”

  When they returned to the coffee hour, Ibrahim Shawkat was commenting to Yasin, “We rear our children, guide them, and advise them, but each child finds his way to a library, which is a world totally independent of us. There total strangers compete with us. So what can we do?”

  119

  THE STREETCAR was packed. There was not even room left for riders to stand. Although squeezed in among the others, Kamal towered over them with his lanky physique. He assumed the other passengers were also heading for the celebration of this national holiday, the thirteenth of November. He looked around at their faces with friendly curiosity.

  Convinced that he believed in nothing, he still celebrated these holidays like the most ardent nationalist. Buoyed by their common destination and mutual Wafdist allegiance, strangers discussed the political situation with each other. One said, “Commemoration of our past struggle is a struggle in every sense of the word this year. Or it ought to be.”

  Another observed, “It should provide a response to Foreign Secretary Hoare and his sinister declaration.”

  Aroused by the reference to the British official, a third shouted, “The son of a bitch said, ‘… we have advised against the re-enactment of the Constitutions of 1923 and 1930.’ Why is our constitution any business of his?”

  A fourth reminded the crowd, “Don't forget what he said before that: ‘When, however, we have been consulted we have advised…’ and so on.”

  “Yes. Who asked for his advice?”

  “Ask this government of pimps about that.”

  “Tawfiq Nasim! Have you forgotten him? But why did the Wafd enter into a truce with him?”

  “There's an end to everything. Wait for the speech today.”

  Kamal listened and even took part in the discussion. Strangely enough, he felt just as excited as the others. This was his eighth commemoration of Jihad - or Struggle Day. Like the others, he felt bitter about the political experiments of the preceding years.

  “I experienced the reign of Muhammad Mahmud, who suspended the constitution for three years in the name of modernization, usurping the people's liberty in exchange for a promise to reclaim swamps and marshlands. I lived through the years of terror and political shame that Isma'il Sidqy imposed on the nation. The people placed their confidence in these men and sought their leadership, only to find them odious executioners, protected by the truncheons and bullets of English constables. Conveyed in one language or another, their message for the Egyptian people has been: ‘You're minors. We are your guardians.’ The people plunged into one battle afte
r another, emerging breathless from each. Finally they adopted a passive stance of ironic forbearance. Then the arena was empty except for Wafdists and tyrants. The people were content to watch from the sidelines, whispering encouragement to their men but not offering any assistance.”

  Hisheart could not ignore the life of the Egyptian people. It was aroused by anything affecting them, even when his intellect wandered off into a fog of doubt.

  He got out of the streetcar at Sa'd Zaghlul Street and joined an informal procession heading toward the pavilion erected for the holiday celebrations near Sa'd Zaghlul's home, the House of the Nation. At ten-meter intervals they encountered groups of soldiers with stern but dull faces. They were under the command of English constables. Shortly before reaching the pavilion, he saw Abd al-Muni'm, Ahmad, Ridwan, and a young man he did not know standing together, talking. They came up to greet him and stayed with him for some time. Ridwan and Abd al-Muni'm had been law students for about a month, and Ahmad had begun the final year of secondary school.

  In the street Kamal could view them as “men”. At home he always thought of them as young nephews. Although Ridwan was exceptionally handsome, his companion, whom he introduced as Hilmi Izzat, was equally good-looking. They demonstrated the truth of the saying: “Birds of a feather flock together.”

  Ahmad was a source of delight for Kamal, who could always anticipate some entertainingly novel observation or action from him. Of all his nephews, he felt closest spiritually to this one. Although he was shorter and plumper, there was a physical resemblance between Abd al-Muni'm and Kamal, who could love the young man for that reason, if for no other. It was this nephew's certainty and fanaticism he found offensive.

  Approaching the huge pavilion, Kamal looked around at the swarming crowds of people, pleased by the astonishing numbers.

  After gazing at the platform where the people's spokesman would soon deliver an address, he took his seat. His presence at a crowded gathering liberated a new person from deep inside his alienated and isolated soul, a new individual who was throbbing with life and enthusiasm. While his intellect was temporarily sealed up as if in a bottle, psychic forces ordinarily suppressed burst forth, eager for an existence filled with emotions and sensation. They were incentives for him to strive harder and to hope. At times like these, his life was revitalized, his natural impulses were free to express themselves, and his loneliness melted away. He felt linked to the people around him, as if sharing in their lives and embracing their hopes and pains. It would have been unnatural for him to adopt this life permanently, but it was necessary every now and then to keep him from feeling divorced from the daily routines of the people. For the time being he would postpone consideration of the problems of matter, spirit, physics, or metaphysics, in order to concentrate on what these people loved and hated… the constitution, the economic crisis, the political situation, and the nationalist cause. There was nothing strange about shouting slogans like “The Wafd creed is the nation's creed!” after having spent the previous night contemplating the absurdity of existence. The intellect can rob a person of peace of mind. An intellectual loves truth, desires honor, aims for tolerance, collides with doubt, and suffers from a continuous struggle with instincts and passions. He needs an hour when he can escape through the embrace of society from the vexations of his life. Then he feels reinvigorated, enthusiastic, and youthful.