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

by Naguib Mahfouz

“Praise God.”

  “Shall I bring your supper?”

  “Supper? Do you call yogurt supper? Oh, bring me the bowl.”

  148

  KAMAL REACHED his sister's home on Sugar Street at about the time for afternoon prayers and found the whole family gathered in the sitting room. He shook hands with them and said to Ahmad, 'Congratulations on your degree!”

  In a tone that was anything but jubilant, Khadija replied, 'Thank you very much. But come hear the latest. The bey doesn't want to enter the civil service.”

  Ibrahim Shawkat explained, “His cousin Ridwan is ready to find a position for him, if Ahmad will agree. But he insists on refusing the offer. Talk to him, Mr. Kamal. Perhaps your opinion will sway him.”

  Kamal removed his fez and, because of the heat, took off his white jacket, which he draped over the back of the chair. Although he had expected a fight, he smiled and said, “I thought today would be reserved for congratulations. But this house can never stop quarreling.”

  Khadija said self-pityingly, “That's my fate. We're just not like other people.”

  Ahmad told his uncle, “The matter's quite simple. The only Idnd of position I could get now would be a clerical one. Ridwan informed me that he could get me appointed to a vacant secretarial post in the records office where Uncle Yasin works. He suggested that I should wait three months until the new school year begins, when I might get a job as an instructor of French in one of the schools. But I don't want a civil service position of any kind.”

  Khad:ja cried out, “Tell him what you do want.”

  The y oung man answered with straightforward determination, “I'm going to work in journalism.”

  Ibrahim Shawkat snorted and exclaimed, “A journalist! We used to hear him say this but thought it a harmless joke. He refuses to become a teacher like you and strives to become a journalist.”

  Kamal said sarcastically, “May God spare him the evil of teaching.”

  Alarmed, Khadija said, “Would you like to see him employed as a journalist?”

  To improve the mood, Abd al-Muni'm remarked, “Government service is no longer everyone's first choice.”

  His mother retorted sharply, “But you're a government employee, Mr. Abd al-Muni'm.”

  “In an elite unit. I wouldn't want him to accept a clerical position. And here's Uncle Kamal asking God to save my brother from becoming a teacher like him.”

  Turning toward Ahmad, Kamal asked, “What type of journalism do you have in mind?”

  “Mr. Adli Karim has agreed to accept me provisionally on the staff of his magazine. At first I'll prepare translations. Later on I'll help with the editing.”

  “But The New Man is a cultural journal with limited resources and scope.”

  “It's a first step. I'll get experience that will make it easier for me to get a more important job. In any case, I won't go hungry even if I have to wait.”

  Looking at Khadija, Kamal suggested, “Let him do what he wants. He's an educated adult and knows better than anyone else what he should do.”

  But Khadija would not accept defeat so easily. She kept on trying to convince her son to accept a civil service position, and their voices grew loud and acrimonious. After Kamal intervened to separate them, a heavy silence reigned, and the party's atmosphere was spoiled. Laughing, Kamal said, “I came to drink some punch and celebrate, but instead I've found a somber gathering.”

  Ahmad was already putting on his coat to leave the house, and, excusing himself, Kamal left with his nephew. As they walked along al-Azhar Street, Ahmad informed his uncle that he was going to the offices of The New Man to start work, as he had promised Mr. Adli Karim.

  Kamal told him, “Do whatever you want, but avoid offending your parents.”

  Ahmad laughed and commented, “I love them and revere them, but…”

  “But what?”

  “It's a mistake for a man to have parents.”

  Laughing, Kamal asked, “How can you say that so glibly?”

  “I don't mean it literally, but insofar as parents represent bygone traditions. In general, fatherhood acts as a brake. What need do we have of brakes in Egypt when we're hobbling forward with fettered legs?” After reflecting for a moment he added, “A person like me will not know the bitter meaning of struggle as long as he has a home and a father with a private income. I don't deny that I enjoy it, but at the same time I feel embarrassed.”

  “When do you expect to start getting paid for your work?”

  “The editor hasn't set a date….”

  They parted at al-Ataba al-Khadra Square, and Ahmad continued on to The New Man. Mr. Adli Karim greeted him warmly and took him into the editorial offices to introduce him: “Your new colleague, Mr. Ahmad Ibrahim Shawkat.”

  Presenting the other members of the staff to Ahmad, he said, “Miss Sawsan Hammad, Mr. Ibrahim Rizq, and Mr. Yusuf al-Jamil.”

  They shook hands with Ahmad and welcomed him. Then, to be polite, Ibrahim Rizq said, “His name is well known here at the magazine.”

  Smiling, Mr. Adli Karim observed, “He was our first subscriber and has grown up with the magazine”. Pointing to the desk of Yusuf al-Jamil, he added, “You will use this desk, for its occupant spends little time here.”

  When Adli Karim left the room, Yusuf al-Jamil invited Ahmad to sit down near his desk. He waited until the young man was seated and then said, “Miss Sawsan will allocate your work. You might as well have a cup of coffee now.”

  He pressed a buzzer, and Ahmad began to study their faces and the room. Ibrahim Rizq, a middle-aged man of decrepit appearance, looked ten years older than he actually was. Yusuf al-Jamil was a mature young man whose looks suggested an alert intelligence. Glancing at Sawsan Hammad, Ahmad wondered whether she remembered him. He had not seen her since that first encounter in 1936. Their eyes met. Wishing to escape from his silence, he mentioned with a smile, “I saw you here five years ago…”. Detecting a look of recognition in her eyes, he continued: “I asked wtiat had happened to one of my articles that had not been published yet.”

  Smiling, she said, “I can almost remember that. In any case, we've published many of your articles since then.”

  Yusuf al-Jamil commented, “Articles that reveal a fine progressive spirit.”

  Ibrahim Rizq said, “People have a heightened awareness today. Out on the street wherever I look I see the phrase ‘Bread and liberty.’ This is the people's new slogan.”

  Sawsan Hammad remarked with interest, “It's a most beautiful one. Especially at this time when gloom encompasses the world.”

  Ahmad understood what her words implied, and with enthusiastic delight his soul responded to this new environment. He replied, “The world certainly is cloaked in darkness, but until Hitler attacks Britain, there's still hope of salvation.”

  Sawsan Hammad said, “I see the situation from another angle. Don't you suppose that if Hitler attacks Britain, it's probable that both giants will be destroyed or at least that the balance of power will shift to Russia?”

  “What if the opposite happens? I mean, what if Hitler subdues the British Isles and achieves an uncontested supremacy?”

  Yusuf al-Jamil said, “Napoleon, like Hitler, took on all of Europe, but Russia was his downfall.”

  In this pure atmosphere, with these liberated comrades and this enlightened and beautiful colleague, Ahmad felt more alive and vigorous than ever before. For some reason he thought of Alawiya Sabri and the tormented year during which he had wrestled with unrequited love until he had finally emerged the victor. From the depths of hisheart he had cursed that love morning and evening until it had dispersed into thin air, leaving behind enduring traces of rebellious resentment. She was now home in al-Ma'adi, waiting for a husband with an income of at least fifty pounds a month. The girl here was calling for a Russian victory. What was she waiting for?

  Then Sawsan waved a sheaf of papers in his direction as she said gently, “Would you mind?”

  He rose and walked over to h
er desk to begin his new career.

  149

  YUSUF AL-JAMIL came into the office only once or twice a week, since most of his energies were directed toward soliciting advertising and subscriptions. Similarly, Ibrahim Rizq remained in the editorial department for no more than an hour a day before he left for one of the other magazineshe helped edit. Most of the time they were alone: Ahmad and Sawsan. Once, when the chief pressman from the printshop came to get some copy, Ahmad was astounded to hear her call him “Father”. Afterward, he learned that Mr. Adli Karim himself was related to the man, and this information was a thrilling surprise.

  Even more stunning than Sawsan was her diligence. She was the heart of the editorial department and its dynamo. She did far more work than the mere editing of the magazine required, for she was always reading and writing. She seemed serious, bright, and extremely intelligent, and from the very first he was conscious of her forceful personality. So much so that in spite of her attractive black eyes and charmingly feminine body he occasionally imagined himself in the presence of a well-disciplined man with a strong will. Her industry motivated him to work with an assiduous zeal impervious to fatigue and boredom. He had assumed responsibility for translating excerpts from international cultural magazines as well as some significant articles.

  One day he complained, “The censors watch us like hawks.”

  In an irritated and scornful tone, she replied, “You haven't seen anything yet! To its credit, our journal is deemed ‘subversive’ by the ruling circles.”

  Smiling, Ahmad said, “Naturally you remember the editorials Mr. Adli Karim wrote before the war.”

  “During the reign of Ali Mahir, our magazine was closed down once because of an essay commemorating the Urabi rebellion. In it the editor had accused the Khedive Tawfiq of treachery.”

  One day, in the midst of a conversation on another topic, she asked, “Why did you choose journalism?”

  He reflected a little. How much of his soul should he bare to this girl, who, compared to the other women he knew, was one of a kind?

  “I didn't go to the University to obtain a government job. I had ideas I wanted to express in print. What better vehicle could there be for that than journalism?”

  Her interest in his response delighted him. She countered, “I didn't go to the University. Or, more precisely, I didn't have the opportunity.”

  He was also enthralled by her candor, which by itself sufficed to show how different she was from other girls. She went on: “I'm a graduate of Mr. Adli Karim's school, an institution no less distinguished than the University. I've studied with him since I finished my baccalaureate. Frankly, I think you've given a good definition for journalism, or the kind of journalism we're engaged in. Yet so far you have expressed your thoughts by relying on others, I mean by translating. Haven't you thought of selecting a genre that suits you?

  He was silent for a time, groping for an answer, as if he had not understood her words. Then he asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Essays, poetry, short stories, plays?”

  “I don't know. The essay comes to mind first.”

  In a tone that said more than her words did, she observed, “Yes, but in view of the political situation, it's no longer an easy endeavor. Freethinkers are forced to speak their mind in clandestine publications. An essay is blunt and direct. Therefore it is dangerous, especially when eyes are scrutinizing us. The short story is more devious and thus harder to restrict. It's a cunning art, which has become such a prevalent form it will soon wrest leadership from all the others. Don't you see that there is not a single prominent literary figure who hasn't tried to make a name for himself in this genre, if only by publishing one short story?”

  “Yes, I've read most of these works. Haven't you read some of the stories Mr. Riyad Qaldas publishes in al-Fikr magazine?”

  “He's one of many and not the best.”

  “Perhaps not. My uncle Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, who writes for that same magazine, drew my attention to his stories.”

  Smiling, she asked, “He's your uncle? I've frequently read him, but…”

  “Yes?”

  ”No offense, but he's a writer who rambles through the wilderness of metaphysics.”

  A bit anxiously he asked, “Don't you like him?”

  “Liking is something else. He writes a good deal about ancient notions like the spirit, the absolute, and the theory of knowledge. That's lovely, but such topics provide intellectual entertainment and mental enrichment without leading anywhere. Writing should be an instrument with a clearly defined purpose. Its ultimate goal should be the development of this world and man's ascent up the ladder of progress and liberation. The human race is engaged in a constant struggle. A writer truly worthy of the name must be at the head of the freedom fighters. Let's leave talk about mysterious forces like elan vital to Bergson.”

  “But even Karl Marx began as a budding philosopher who rambled through the labyrinth of metaphysics.”

  “And he ended up with a scientific understanding of society. That's where we should commence not from his starting point.”

  Ahmad was uncomfortable at hearing his uncle criticized in this fashion. Motivated more by a desire to defend his uncle than by anything else, he said, “It's always worthwhile to know the truth, no matter what it is or what effects people think it has.”

  Sawsan responded enthusiastically, “This thought contradicts what you've written. I bet you're just saying it out of loyalty to your uncle. When a man's in pain, he concentrates on eradicating its causes. Our society is in deep pain. So first and foremost we must stop this pain. After that we can play around and philosophize. Imagine a man musing happily about abstruse points of philosophy while his life's blood drains away. What would you say of a man like that?”

  Was this really a fair description of his uncle? He had to admit that her words struck a responsive chord inside him, that her eyes were beautiful, and that despite her strange earnestness she was attractive … very attractive.

  “Actually, my uncle doesn't pay enough attention to these inatters. I've discussed them with him many times and have found him to be a man who studies the Nazi movement as objectively as democracy or Communism, without being for or against any of them. I can't figure out his stance.”

  With a smile, she said, “He has none. A writer can't conceal his convictions. Your uncle is like all those other bourgeois intellectuals who enjoy reading and pondering things. When considering the ‘absolute’ they may feel such distress that it hurts, but on the street they nonchalantly walk past people who really are suffering.”

  He laughed and replied, “My uncle's not like that.”

  “You know best. The stories of Riyad Qaldas are not what we need either. They are descriptive analyses of reality but nothing more. They provide no guidance or direction.”

  Ahmad thought a little before remarking, “But he often describes the condition of laborers, both farmers and factory workers. This means that in his stories the proletariat is in the spotlight.”

  “But he limits himself to description and analysis. Compared to real struggle, his work is passive and negative.”

  This girl was a firebrand! She appeared to be extremely serious. Where was her feminine side?

  “What would you want him to write?”

  “Have you read any modern Soviet literature? Have you read anything by Maxim Gorky?”

  He smiled but did not reply. There was no reason for him to feel embarrassed. He was a student of sociology, not of literature. Besides, she was several years his senior. How old was she? She might be twenty-four, or older.

  She said, “This is the type of literature you should read. I'll lend you some if you want.”

  “I'd be delighted.”

  She smiled and said, “But a liberated man must be more than a reader or a writer. Principles relate primarily to the will… the will above all other things.”

  Even so, he was aware of her elegance. Although she did not use
makeup, she was as fastidious about her appearance as any other girl and her lively breasts were as attractive and fascinating as any other ones. But not so fast… didn't the principles that he espoused distinguish him from other men?

  “Our class is perverse,” he thought. “We're unable to see women from more than one perspective.”

  “I'm delighted to have met you and predict that we will have many opportunities to work together closely.”

  Smiling in a way that was quite feminine, she said, “You're too kind.”

  “I really am delighted to have a chance to get to know you”. Yes, he was. But it was important that he not misinterpret his feelings, which might simply be the natural response of a young man like him.

  “Be cautious,” he advised himself “Don't create a dilemma for yourseli like that one in al-Ma'adi, for the sorrow it provoked has yet to be erased from your heart.”

  150

  “GOOD EVENING, aunt.”

  He followed Jalila to her preferred spot in the parlor, and once they were installed on the sofa, she called her maid, whom she watched fetch the drinks, prepare the table, and then depart after finishing these tasks. Turning toward Kamal, Jalila said, “Nephew, I swear that I no longer drink with anyone but you, when you come every Thursday night. I used to enjoy having a drink with your father in the old days. But back then I drank with many others too.”

  Kamal commented to himself, “I'm in dreadful need of alcohol. I don't know what life would be like without it”. Then he told her, “But whiskey has disappeared from the market, Auntie, along with all other wholesome drinks. They say that one of the last German air raids on Scotland scored a direct hit on the warehouse of an internationally known distillery and that rivers of the best whiskey flowed out.”

  “What I wouldn't give for a raid like that! But before you get drunk tell me how al-Sayyid Ahmad is.”

  “No better and no worse. Madam Jalila, I hate to see him confined to bed. May our Lord be gracious to him.”

  “I'd love to visit him. Can't you summon the courage to give him my best wishes?”