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

by Naguib Mahfouz

  He had no memory of A'ida ever employing any feminine wiles, but Budur glanced at him as if she too was astonished and then whispered, “Good evening.”

  Two colleagues had exchanged greetings. There was nothing objectionable about this. He had not been so bold with her sister, but A'ida had been his senior. He had been the young innocent.

  “I believe you're from al-Abbasiya?”

  “Yes ”

  “She's not going to take an active role in this conversation,” he reflected.

  “Unfortunately I missed most of the lectures, since I started to attend so late.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope that in the future I can make up what I missed.”

  Her only response was a smile. “Let me hear your voice some more,” he begged silently. “It's the one bygone melody that time has not altered.”

  “What do you plan to do once you have your degree? Study at the Teacher Training Institute?”

  Displaying some enthusiasm about the conversation for the first time, she answered, “I won't have to go on for further training since the Ministry of Education needs teachers in view of wartime conditions and the expansion of the school system.”

  He bad craved a single tune but had been granted an entire song.

  “So you're going to be a teacher!”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “It's a hard profession. Ask me about it.”

  “I've heard that you teach.”

  “Yes. Oh! I forgot to introduce myself: Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad.”

  “I'm honored.”

  Smiling, he observed, “But I haven't had the honor yet.”

  “Budur Abd al-Hamid Shaddad.”

  “The honor's all mine, miss”. Then he added, as if astonished by something, “Abd al-Hamid Shaddad! From al-Abbasiya? Are you the sister of Husayn Shaddad?”

  Her eyes gleamed with interest as she replied, “Yes.”

  Kamal laughed as if amazed at the odd coincidence and exclaimed, “Merciful heavens! He was my dearest friend. We spent an extremely happy time together. My Lord are you the little sister who used to play in the garden?”

  She cast an inquiring look at him. It was absurd to think that she would remember him. “Back then you were as wild about me as I was about your sister.”

  “Of course, I don't recollect any ofthat.”

  “Naturally. This story goes back to 1923 and continues to 1926, the year Husayn left for Europe. What ishe doing now?”

  “He's in the South of France, in the area to which the French government retreated following the German occupation.”

  “How ishe? I haven't had any news or letters from him for a long time.”

  “He's fine…”. Her tone indicated that she did not wish to pursue this subject any further.

  As the streetcar passed the site of her former mansion, Kamal wondered whether it had been a mistake to mention his friendship with her brother. Would that not limit his freedom to continue what he had begun? When they reached the stop beyond the Wayliya police station, she said goodbye and left the streetcar. He stayed put, as if oblivious to his own existence. Throughout the ride he had examined her at every opportunity in hopes of detecting the secret quality that had once enchanted him. But he had not discovered it, however close he might have been on several occasions.

  She seemed charming, meek, and within his grasp. He now felt a mysterious disappointment and a sorrow that had no discernible causes. If he should wish to marry this girl, no serious obstacles would bar his way. In fact, she seemed responsive and receptive, in spite of or because of the appreciable age difference between them. Experience had taught him that his looks would not prevent him from marrying if he chose to. If he married Budur, he would willy-nilly become a member of Ai'da's family. But what substance was there to this ludicrous dream? And what was Aida to him now? The truth was that he no longer wanted Aida. But he still wished to learn her secret, which might at least convince him that the best years of his life had not been wasted. He was conscious of the desire, which he had frequently experienced during his life, to look again at his diary and at the candy box presented to him at Afda's wedding reception. Then his breast filled with so much longing that he wondered whether a man with a thorough understanding of the biological, societal, and psychological components of human affection could still fall in love. But did a chemist's knowledge of poisons prevent him from succumbing to them like any other victim? Why was his breast so agitated by emotions? Despite the disappointment he had experienced, despite the vast difference between then and now, despite the fact that he did not know whether he belonged to the past or to the present - all these considerations notwithstanding - his breast churned and hisheart pounded.

  158

  HERE AT the tea garden, boughs and verdant branches formed the roof, and a duck could be seen swimming in an emerald pool with a grotto behind it. Employees of The New Man magazine had the day off, and Sawsan Hammad looked stunning in a lightweight blue dress that revealed her brown arms. Discreetly and cautiously, she had begun using cosmetics. The two had been colleagues for a year, and as they sat across from each other a smile of mutual understanding lit up their faces. On the table between them stood a water carafe and two ice-cream dishes containing only a milky residue colored pink by strawberries.

  “She's dearer to me than anything else in the world,” he thought. “I owe her all my happiness. All my hopes are pinned on her. We are devoted partners. We have never openly agreed to be in love, but I have no doubt that we are. Our cooperation is perfectly harmonious. We began as comrades in the struggle for freedom, working together like one person each of us a candidate for incarceration. Whenever I praise her beauty, she stares at me in protest, frowns, and reprimands me as if love were beneath us. Then I smile and return to the work at hand. One day I told her, love you! 1 love you! Do whatever you want about it.' She replied, ‘Life's an extremely serious matter, but you wish to treat it as a joke.’ I said, ‘Like you, I think that capitalism is in its death throes, that it has served its purpose, that the working class has a duty to exert its will to guide the process of development since the fruit will not pluck itself- and that we have an obligation to create a new consciousness. But after all that, or before it, I love you.’ Her frown was at least partly feigned as she remarked, ‘You keep subjecting me to talk I dislike.’ As there was no one else in the office, I felt courageous enough to swoop down on her cheek to plant a kiss there. She glared at me sternly and busied herself with completing the eighth chapter of a book we were translating together on family structure in the Soviet Union.”

  'If Jime is this hot, what will the weather he like in July and August, my dear?”

  “It seems that Alexandria wasn't created for people like us.”

  Laughing, he replied, “But Alexandria is no longer a summer resort. Before the war it was, but today rumors of a German invasion have left it deserted.”

  “Professor Adli Karim reports that most of its inhabitants have fled and that its streets are filled with cats roaming about freely.”

  “That's what it's like. Soon Rommel will enter it with his troops”. Then after a short silence he added, “At Suez, he'll join forces with the Japanese armies, which will have completed their march tlirough Asia. Then the Fascism of the Stone Age will return.”

  Sawsan responded rather emotionally, “Russia will never be defeated. Mankind's hopes are still secure behind the Ural Mountains.”

  “Yes, but the Germans are at the gates of Alexandria.”

  She inquired with a snort, “Why do the Egyptians love the Germans?”

  “Out of hatred for the English. It won't be long before we loathe the Germans. The king seems a captive of the British today, but he w ill break free from them to receive Rommel. Then those two leacers will drink a toast to the interment of our fledgling democracy. Ridiculously enough, the masses of farm laborers expect that Rommel will distribute land to them.”

  “We have many enemies. Outsi
de of Egypt the Germans and iaside it the Muslim Brethren and the reactionaries, who hardly differ from each other.”

  “If my brother Abd al-Muni'm heard you, he'd be incensed by your words. He considers the Brethren's message a progressive one that is far superior to materialist forms of socialism.”

  “There may be a socialist aspect to religion, but it's a Utopian socialism comparable to doctrines advanced by Thomas More, Louis Blanc, and Saint-Simon. Religion searches in man's conscience for a remedy to human ills, while the solution lies in the development of society. Paying no attention to social classes, it looks instead at the individuals comprising them. Naturally, it has no concept of scientific socialism. Besides all this, the teachings of religion are based on a legendary metaphysics in which angels play an important part. We should not seek solutions to our present-day problems in the distant past. Tell your brother this.”

  Ahmad laughed with obvious delight and said, “My brother is an educated man and a clever lawyer. I'm amazed that people like him are strongly attracted to the Brethren.”

  She replied scornfully, “The Brethren have conducted an appalling campaign of misinformation. When conversing with educated people, they present religion in contemporary garb. With uneducated folk, they talk about heaven and hell. They gain adherents in the name of socialism, nationalism, and democracy.”

  “My darling never tires of talking about her beliefs,” Ahmad reflected. “Did I say ‘my darling'? Yes, since I stole a kiss from her, I've made a point of calling her that. She protested with words and gestures but eventually started pretending not to notice - as if she had given up hope of reforming me. When I told her I yearned to hear words of love from her mouth, which speaks of nothing but socialism, she scolded me contemptuously: 'This is the traditional, bourgeois view of women, isn't it?’ I told her apprehensively, ‘My respect for you is beyond words, and I admit that I've been your pupil in the noblest achievements of my life. But I also love you, and there's nothing wrong with that.’ I sensed that her anger evaporated then but observed that she did not abandon her vexed look. As I approached with the secret design of kissing her, she somehow guessed my intent. She put a hand on my chest to push me away, but I managed to kiss her cheek. Since what she was trying to avoid did occur, even though she could have taken more serious measures to prevent it, I assumed that she had consented. Although preoccupied by politics, she's an extraordinary individual with a beautiful mind and a beautiful body. When I invited her for an excursion to the tea garden, she said, ‘Only if we take the book with us so we can continue translating it.’ I replied, ‘No, the idea is to relax and chat. If you decline, I'll renounce socialism altogether.’ Perhaps what upsets me most about myself is that steeped as I am in the conventions of Sugar Street I still occasionally look at women with a traditional bourgeois eye. During hours of lethargic backsliding, I fancy that socialism in the progressive woman is simply another captivating characteristic comparable to playing the piano or to presenting a fine appearance. But it must also be admitted that the year I have worked with Sawsan has changed me a great deal, cleansing me to a commendable degree of the bourgeois attitudes implanted in me.”

  “It's distressing that our comrades are being arrested in droves.”

  “Yes, my darling. Imprisonment becomes fashionable in times of war and in periods of terrible repression - although the law sees nothing wrong with standing up for your cause, if you do not combine that with a call to violence”. Then Ahmad laughed and continued: “We'll be arrested sooner or later, unless…”

  While she stared at him curiously, he concluded, “Unless marriage maaes us settle down.”

  Shrugang her shoulders scornfully, she replied, “What makes you think that I'll agree to marry a fraud like you?”

  “Fraud?”

  She thought a little and then with genuine interest observed, “Unlike me, you're not from the working class. We both struggle against a single enemy, but you have not had my experience with it. I Ve endured poverty for a long time, and its hateful effects have touched my family. One of my sisters attempted to fight back, but it defeated her and she died. You… you're not… you're not from the working class!”

  He answered calmly, “Neither was Engels.”

  Her brief laugh brought her feminine side to the fore, and she asked, “What shall I call you? Prince Ahmadov? It's not that I doubt your dedication to the cause, but you still retain deeply embedded bourgeois traits. It seems to me that you're delighted at times to be a member of the Shawkat family.”

  He replied a bit stridently, “You're wrong and unfair about that. I'm not to blame for my inheritance. I'm no more responsible for my ‘wealth’ than you are for your poverty. I am referring to the meager i ticome that has supported our lives of indolence. No one should be blamed for a bourgeois background. One is faulted only for backsliding inertia out of keeping with the spirit of our age.”

  Smiling, she said, “Don't get annoyed. We're both scientific curiosities. Let's not ask where we began. What we're responsible for is om convictions and our actions. I apologize to you, Engels. But tell me: Are you prepared to keep on delivering talks to workers, regardless of the consequences?”

  He answered proudly, “As of yesterday, I had given five talks. I've drafted two important manifestos and distributed tens of handbills. I owe the government more than two years in prison.”

  “I owe them many more years than that!”

  He deftly stretched out his hand to place it affectionately and appreciatively on her soft brown one. Yes, he loved her, but his efforts for the cause were not motivated by this love. Did she not seem at times to doubt his sincerity? Was she teasing him or did she feel apprehensive about the bourgeois characteristics she suspected he still harbored? His belief in the cause was as firm as his love for her. He could not sacrifice either.

  “What is happiness if not the discovery of a person who truly understands you and whom you truly understand?” he asked himself. “Particularly one from whom you're not separated by artifice of any kind. I worship her when she says, ‘I've endured poverty for a long time.’ This candid statement elevates her above all the other members of her sex and makes her seem part of me. But we are reckless lovers, and prison lies in wait for us. We could marry and elude these difficulties, contenting ourselves with the pursuit of happiness. But such an existence would lack spirit. How strongly I've felt at times that the cause is a curse cast upon us by an irrevocable decree…. Part of my blood and my spirit, it makes me feel responsible for all mankind.”

  “I love you.”

  “What's the pretext for saying this?”

  “It's true with or without a pretext.”

  “You talk about the struggle, but your heart is singing of contentment.”

  “Separating those two things would be as silly as separating the two of us.”

  “Doesn't love imply contentment, stability, and an aversion to prison?”

  “Haven't you heard about the Prophet, whose struggle for the cause by night and day did not prevent him from marrying nine times?”

  Snapping her fingers, she exclaimed, “You've borrowed your brother's mouth! What prophet are you referring to?”

  Laughing, he answered, “The Muslims' Prophet!”

  “Let me tell you about Karl Marx, who devoted himself to writing Das Kapital while his wife and children were exposed to hunger and humiliation.”

  “At any rate, he was married.”

  “The pool's water could be liquid emeralds,” he mused. “This gentle breeze comes to us without any authorization from June. The duck is swimming around with its bill cocked to pluck bits of bread from the water. You're very happy, and your infuriating sweetheart is even more delightful than the rest of the natural world. 1 think she's blushing. Perhaps she has set aside politics for the time being and begun to think about….”

  “What I was hoping, my dear comrade, was that we would have a chance for a sweet conversation in this garden.”

 
; “Sweeter than our talk so far?”

  “I mean a discussion of our love.”

  “Our love?”

  “Yes, and you know it too.”

  There was a long silence. Then, lowering her eyes, she asked, “What do you want?”

  “Tell me that we want the same thing.”

  As if merely trying to humor him, she answered, “Yes. But what is it?”

  “Let's stop beating around the bush.”

  She appeared to be reflecting. Although his wait was short, he found it extremely bitter. Then she said, “Since everything is so clear, why do you torment me?”

  Sighitig with profound relief, he replied, “How glorious my love is!'

  The ensuing silence resembled a musical interlude between two songs. Then she said, “One thing is important to me.”

  “Yes?”

  “My honor.”

  Shocked by the very suggestion, he protested, “Your honor and mine are identical.”

  She said resentfully, “You are well acquainted with the conventions of your people. You'll hear a lot of talk about family and breeding….”

  “Meaningless words…. Do you think I'm a child?”

  She hesitated a little before saying, “There's only one thing threatering us and that's the bourgeois mentality.”

  With a forcefulness reminiscent of his brother Abd al-Muni'm's, he responded, “I have nothing to do with that!”

  “Do you comprehend your statement's serious implications,both persona] and social, for the basic relationship between a man and a woman?”

  “I understand them perfectly.”

  “You'll need a new dictionary for old terms like ‘love,’ ‘marriage,’ jealousy,' ‘faithfulness,’ and 'the past.'”