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

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Of course he remembered. Did Isma'il think he had forgotten? He remembered the garden, the gazebo, and the felicity of which the breezes there sang. He remembered happiness and sorrow. Indeed he felt truly sorrowful just then. Tears were ready to well up in his eyes. It would not do for him to mourn the threatened destruction of Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse anymore, for everything was destined to be turned head over heels.

  “That's really sad, and it makes me feel even worse that we didn't do our duty and present our condolences. Don't you imagine Husayn returned from France?”

  “No doubt he came back after the incident, as well as Hasan Salim and A'ida. But none of them is in Egypt now.”

  “How could Husayn go off again, leaving his family in this condition? What'she got to live on, now that his father's money is gone?”

  “I heard he married over there. It's not unlikely that he's found work during his long stay in France. I don't know anything about that. I haven't seen him since we both said goodbye to him. How rauch time has elapsed since then? Approximately ten years… isn't that so? That's ancient history, but this upset me a lot.”

  “A lot… a lot,” the words echoed inside Kamal. His tears were still trying to escape. He had not cried since that era and had forgotten how to. As hisheart dissolved in sorrow, he recalled a time when it had chosen sorrow for its emblem. The news shook him so violently that the present dispersed entirely to reveal the person whose life had been pure love and pure sorrow. Was this the end of the old dream?

  “Bankruptcy and suicide!” It almost seemed predestined that this family would teach him that even gods fall. “Bankruptcy and suicide… if A'ida was still living luxuriously because of her husband's position, what had become of her lofty pride? Had the events reduced her little sister to …?”

  “Husayn had a young sister. What was her name? I remember occasionally, but it escapes me most of the time.”

  “Budur. She lives with her mother and shares all the difficulties of the new life.”

  “Imagine A'ida living in reduced circumstances… a life like those of the men sitting here,” Kamal thought. “Does Budur have to wear darned stockings? Does she ride the streetcar? Will she marry an employee of some firm?” But how did any of this concern him?

  “Oh… don't deceive yourself. Today you're sad. Whatever intellectual posture you adopt concerning the class system, you feel a frightening despair over this family's fall. It's painful to hear that your idols are wallowing in the dirt. At any rate, the fact that nothing remains of your love is gratifying. Yes, what's left of that bygone love?”

  Although he thought that no trace remained, hisheart pounded with strange affection when he heard any of the songs ofthat age, no matter how trite the lyrics or the tunes. What did this mean?

  “But not so fast. A memory of love, not love itself, was at work. We're in love with love, regardless of our circumstances, and love it most when we are deprived of it. At the moment, I feel adrift in a sea of passion. A latent illness may release its poison when we're temporarily indisposed. What can we do about it? Even doubt, which puts all truths into question, stops cautiously before love, not because love is beyond doubt, but out of respect for my sorrow and from a desire that the past should be true.”

  Isma'il returned to this tragedy, narrating many of its details. Finally he seemed to tire of it. In a tone that indicated he wished to end the saga he said, “Only God is permanent. It's really distressing, but that's enough misfortune for us now.”

  Feeling a need for silent reflection, Kamal did not attempt to draw him out. What Isma'il had said was quite sufficient. To his own astonishment, Kamal wept silently with invisible tears shed by hisheart. Although once afflicted by love's malady, he had recovered completely. He told himself in amazement, “Nine or ten years! What a long time and yet how short…. I wonder what Ai'da looks like now.”

  He wished terribly that he could gaze at her long enough to discover the secret ofthat magical past and even the secret of his own personality. He saw her now only as a fleeting image in a familiai: old song, a picture in a soap advertisement, or when in his sleep he whispered with surprise, “There she is!” But what he actually observed was nothing more than glimpses of a film star or an intrusive memory. He would wake up. What reality was there to it then?

  He did not feel like sitting here any longer. His soul yearned for an adventuresome journey through the unseen spiritual realm. So he asked Isma'il, “Will you accept my invitation to have a couple of drinks in a nice place where we won't be seen?”

  Isma'il chortled and replied, “My wife's waiting for me to take her to visit her aunt.”

  Kamal was not concerned about this rejection. For a long time he had been his own drinking companion. The two men continued chatting about one thing and another as they left the coffeehouse. In the middle ofthat conversation, Kamal remarked to himself, “When we're in love, we may resent it, but we certainly miss love once it's gone.”

  122

  “IT'S PLEASANT sitting here … although my resources are limited. From this warm spot you can see people coming and going … back and forth from Faruq Street, the Muski, and al-Ataba.”

  But for the stinging cold of January, this Casanova would not have taken shelter behind the coffeehouse window, reluctantly abandoning the excellent outdoor vantage point the establishment claimed on the opposite sidewalk.

  “But spring will come…. Yes, it will, even though our resources are limited. Sixteen years or more stuck at the seventh grade of the civil service…. The store in al-Hamzawi was sold for a minuscule sum. Even though the rental unit in al-Ghuriya is large, it brings in only a few pounds. The house in Palace of Desire Alley is my residence and refuge. Ridwan has a rich grandfather, but Karima's totally dependent on me … the head of a household with a lover'sheart. Unfortunately my resources are limited.”

  His roving eyes suddenly came to rest on a lanky young man with a compact mustache and gold-rimmed glasses. Wearing a black overcoat, the fellow was on his way from the Muski to al-Ataba. Yasin straightened up as though preparing to rise but did not stir from his seat. If the young man had not seemed in a such a hurry, Yasin would have stepped out to invite his brother to sit with him. Kamal was an excellent person to talk to when one was feeling low. Although almost thirty, he had never thought of getting married.

  “Why was I in such a hurry to marry? Why did I jump right back in before recovering from the first bout? But who doesn't have something to complain of, whether married or single? Ezbe-kiya was a delightful place for fun, but it's been ruined. Today it's a meeting place for the dregs of society. All you have left from the world of pleasures is the diversion of observing this intersection and then of pursuing some easy quarry, at best an Egyptian maid who works for a foreign family. Usually she'll be clean, with a refined appearance. Yet her dominant characteristic will undeniably be her questionable morals. She's often found at the vegetable market in al-Azhar Square.”

  His coffee finished, he sat by the closed window, gazing out at the street. His eyes followed all the good-looking women, recording their images, whether they wore the traditional black wrap or a modem overcoat. He observed their individual attractions and their overall appearance with unflagging diligence. Some eveningshe sat there until ten. At other timeshe stayed only long enough to drink his coffee before rising to hurry off in pursuit of prey he sensed would be responsive and cheap - as if he were a dealer in secondhand goods. Most of the time he was content just to watch. He might trail after a beauty without harboring any serious ambitions. Only occasionally washe overwhelmed enough by desire at the sight of a dissolute maid or of a widow over forty to pursue her in earrest. He was no longer the man he had once been, not merely because of the heavy burdens on his income but also because his fortieth year had arrived, an uninvited and unwelcome guest.

  “What an alarming fact! White hairs at my temples! I've told the baiber repeatedly to deal with it. He says one white hair is nothing to be concerned abo
ut, but they keep popping up. Down with both of them - the barber and white hair! He prescribed a reliable dye, but I'll never resort to that. When my father turned fifty, he didn't have a single white hair. What am I compared to my father? And not only with regard to white hair…. He was a young man at forty, a young man at fifty. But I… My Lord, I've not been more intemperate than my father…. Give your head a rest and exercise your heart. Do you suppose the life of Harun al-Rashid was really as filled with sensual pleasures as reports would have it'… Where does Zanuba fit into all this? Considered in the abstract, marriage is a bitch of a deception, but it's a powerful enough force to make you cherish the deception as long as you live. Nations will be overthrown, and eras will pass away. Yet the fates will always produce a woman going about her business and a man seriously pursuing her. Youth is a curse, but maturity's a string of curses. Where can a heart find any relaxation? … Where? … The most wretched thing that could happen in this world would be having to ask in a stupor one day, 'Where am I?'”

  He]eft the coffeehouse at nine-thirty and proceeded slowly across al-Ataba to Muhammad Ali Street. Then, entering the Star Tavern, he greeted Khalo, who stood behind the bar in his traditional stance. The bartender returned Yasin's greeting with a broad smile, which revealed yellow front teeth with gaps between them. He gestured with his chin toward the interior, as if to inform this customer that friends were waiting for him there. The hall running beside the bar ended in a suite of three connected rooms that resounded with raucous laughter. Yasin went to the last of the three. It had but one window, which offered through its iron bars a view of al-Mawardi Alley. Three tables were dispersed in the corners. Two were empty, and the third was surrounded by Yasin's friends, who greeted him jubilantly, as they did every evening. Despite his complaints, Yasin was the youngest of the group. The oldest was an unmarried pensioner, who sat next to a head clerk in the Ministry of Waqfs, or mortmain trusts. Present also were a personnel director from the University and an attorney whose rental income spared him from having to practice law. The excessive reliance of these men on alcohol was apparent in their bleary gaze and in their complexions, which were either flushed or exceedingly pale. They made their way to the tavern between eight and nine and did not leave it until the wee hours of the morning, after imbibing the nastiest, cheapest, and most intoxicating drinks available. Yasin did not keep them company the whole time or did so only rarely. He normally spent two or three hours with them.

  As usual the elderly bachelor greeted him with the salutation “Welcome, Hajji Yasin”. The old man persisted in calling him a hajji, or pilgrim, not because Yasin had been to Mecca, but because of his Qur'anic name.

  The attorney, the most alcoholic, observed, “You're so late, hero, that we said you must have stumbled upon a woman who would deprive us of your company all night long.”

  The bachelor commented philosophically, “There's nothing like a woman to come between one man and another.”

  Yasin, who had taken a seat next to him and the head clerk from trusts, jested, “There's no need to worry about that with you.”

  Lifting his glass to his mouth, the old man said, “Except for a few devilish moments when a girl of fourteen may tempt me.”

  The head clerk retorted, “Talking about it in January is one thing, but doing it in February is another.”

  “I don't understand what you mean by this rude remark.”

  “I don't either!”

  Khalo brought Yasin a drink and some lupine seeds. Accepting the drink, Yasin said, “See what January 's like this year!”

  The personnel director commented, “God creates many different conditions. This year January has brought cold weather but has removed Tawfiq Nasim for good.”

  The attorney shouted, “Save us from politics! We always have politics for an appetizer when we're getting drunk and that spoils the effect. Find some other subject.”

  The personnel director said, “Actually our lives are nothing but politics.”

  “You're a personnel director in the sixth grade of the civil service, What does politics have to do with you?”

  The director answered vehemently, “I've been at the sixth level for a long time, if you don't mind. Since the days of Sa'd Zaghlul.”

  The elderly bachelor said, “I reached the sixth level years ago in the era of Mustafa Kamil. In honor of his memory I retired at that rank…. Listen, wouldn't it be better for us to get drunk and sing?”

  On the verge of draining his glass, Yasin said, “First let's get drunk, pop.”

  Yasin had never experienced a deep friendship, but wherever he went coffeehouses or barshe had pals. He made friends quickly and found friends even more quickly. He had frequented these men ever since developments in his financial situation had prompted him to make this bar his regular spot for evening relaxation. He chatted on intimate terms with the others, although he never met any of them outside of this setting and made no effort to do so. Alcoholism and frugality brought them together. The personnel director outranked the others but had many dependents. The attorney had sought out this bar because of its reputation for serving potent drinks, after normal ones had ceased to have much effect on him. Then he had gotten accustomed and habituated to the establishment.

  Feeling drunk enough to become talkative, Yasin threw himself into the riotous maelstrom that swept through the place, surging into every corner. The elderly bachelor was Yasin's favorite. He never tired of teasing the old man, especially with allusions to sex,and the bachelor would caution Yasin not to indulge himself too much, reminding him of his domestic responsibilities.

  Yasin's boastful retort was: “My family is made for this. My father's like that, and my grandfather before him was as well.”

  When Yasin repeated this statement now, the attorney jestingly asked him, “And what about your mother? Was she like that too?”

  They laughed a lot, and Yasin laughed with them. But his tormented heart plunged in his chest. He drank more than usual and, in spite of his intoxication, imagined that he was collapsing. The place, the drink, the day nothing felt right to him.

  “Everywhere I go people are secretly making fun of me. What am I, compared to my father? Nothing makes a person so miserable as an increase in age or a decrease in wealth. But drinking provides considerable relief It pours forth gentle sociability and attractive solace, making every mishap seem trivial. So say, ‘How happy I am.’ The lost real estate will never return nor will my vanished youth. But alcohol can be an excellent lifetime companion. I was weaned on it as a callow youth. Now it's cheering up my manhood. When covered with white hair, my head will quiver with alcohol's ecstatic intoxication. So no matter what hardships I suffer, I will never lose heart. Tomorrow when Ridwan's established as a man and Karima struts off as a bride, I'll drink several toasts to happinesshere in al-Ataba al-Khadra Square. How happy I am!”

  Then the group was singing, “What humiliations the prisoner of love experiences…”. After that they did a loud and tumultuous rendition of “That girl in the neighboring valley”. Men in the other rooms and in the lobby took up the song too. When it was finished, the silence was deafening.

  The personnel director began discussing the resignation of Tawfiq Nasim and asked about the pact designed to protect Egypt from the danger Italy posed for her as a troublesome neighbor occupying Libya. But the assembly quickly sang in response, “Let down the curtain around us… to keep the neighbors from peeking”. Although the elderly man had drunk to excess, participating fully in the rowdiness, he protested against this impudent response and accused them of being silly about a serious matter. Their answer was to sing in unison, “Is your opposition real or feigned?” Then the old man was forced to laugh and to join in wholeheartedly once more.

  Yasin left the tavern at midnight, reaching his home in Palace of Desire Alley around one in the morning. As usual each night he walked through the rooms of his apartment as though on an inspection tour. He found Ridwan studying in his room, and the youn
g man looked up from his law book to exchange a smile with his father. The love between them was profound. Ridwan also had great respect for Yasin, even though he realized that his father was always intoxicated when he returned home this late. Yasin was extremely appreciative of his son's good looks and also admired his intelligence and industry. He saw Ridwan as a future public prosecutor who would raise his father's status, give him cause for pride, and console him for many things.

  Yasin asked, “How are your studies?” Then he pointed to himself as if to say, “I'm home, if you need me”. Ridwan smiled, and the eyeshe had inherited from his paternal grandmother, Haniya, lit up. His father asked, “Will it bother you if I play something on the phonograph?”

  “It won't disturb me, but the neighbors are sleeping at this hour.”

  Ashe left the room Yasin said scornfully, “I hope they sleep well.”

  Passing by the “children's” bedroom, he found Karima sound asleep in her little bed. On the other side of the room Ridwan's bed was empty, waiting for him to finish studying. Yasin thought of waking his daughter up to joke with her but remembered how she grumbled when awakened in the night and gave up the idea. He went toward his room. The most wonderful night of the week in this house was without doubt that preceding the Friday holiday. Each Thursday evening when he got home, regardless of the hour, he would not hesitate to invite Ridwan to keep him company in the sitting room. Then he would awaken Karima and Zanuba. Starting up the phonograph, he would chat and joke with them until early the next morning. He was very fond of his family, especially Ridwan. It was true that he did not make any effort or did not have the time to supervise or guide them. He left their care to Zanuba and her instinctive good sense. Even so, he had never washed to play the cruel role with them that his own father had with him. The idea of creating in Ridwan'sheart the feelings of terror and fear he had felt for his own father was deeply abhorrent to Yasin. In fact, he would not have been able to do it, even if he had wanted to. When he gathered them around him after midnight he would openly express his warm affection for them in a double intoxication derived from alcohol and love. While jesting and conversing with them he might tell droll anecdotes about the drunkshe had encountered at the bar. He paid no attention to the effect these could have on their innocent souls and waved aside Zanuba's discreet attempts to signal him to desist. He seemed unselfconscious and acted spontaneously without reserve or caution.