“Good evening.”
Conscious of the ever mounting dangers, he asked, “Where to?”
“To see a girlfriend. She lives in that direction”. She pointed toward Queen Nazli Street.
He replied recklessly, “That's the way I'm going. May I accompany ycu?”
Hiding a smile, she said, “If you want….”
They walked along side by side. She had not decked herself out in this lovely dress to visit a girlfriend. It was for him, and hisheart welcomed her with passion and affection. But how washe to conduct himself? Perhaps she had wearied of his inaction and had ventured out herself to provide a propitious opportunity for him. He would have to avail himself of it out of respect for her or ignore it and lose her forever. It had come down to a word that if spoken would affect the entire course of his life or if withheld would have consequenceshe would rue for the remainder of his days. Thus, against his better judgment, he found himself put on the spot.
They had gone quite a distance, and she presumably expected something. She seemed ready and responsive - as if she did not belong to the Shaddad family. In fact, she was not a Shaddad at all. The Shaddad family was finished. Its time had passed. “The person walking along with you is just one of many unlucky girls,” he reflected.
She turned toward him with a tentative smile and said gently, “It's been nice to see you.”
“Thanks.”
Then what? … She seemed to be waiting for a further step on his part. The end of the street was approaching. He had to make up his mind to commit himself or to say goodbye. She had probably never imagined that they would part without even a hopeful word. The intersection was only a few paces ahead. He was painfully aware of the disappointment she would suffer, but his tongue refused to cooperate. Should he say something, no matter what the consequences? She stopped walking, and her smile, which appeared more deliberate than natural, seemed to say, “It's time for us to part”. His confusion reached a climax. Then she held out her hand, and he took it. He said nothing for a terrible moment and then finally murmured, “Goodbye.”
She withdrew her hand and turned into a side street. He almost called out after her. For Budur to depart in this manner, spattered with failure and embarrassment, was an unbearable nightmare. “You're a past master of miserable situations,” he chided himself. But his tongue was frozen. Why had he been following her for the past two months?
“Is it in good taste to spurn her when she comes to you herself? Is it nice to give her the same dismissive treatment meted out to you by her sister? When you love her? Will she pass a night similar to the one that, though long behind you, still lights up the gloomy past like a burning coal with its smoldering pain?”
He walked on, wondering whether he really wanted to remain a bachelor so he could be a philosopher or whether he was using philosophy as a pretext for staying single.
Riyad told him later that what he had done was incredible and that he would regret it. His inaction really was unbelievable, but did he also regret it?
Riyad asked, “How could breaking off with her have seeined so trivial to you after you had been talking of her as the girl of your dreams?” She was not the girl of his dreams, for that girl would never have come to him.
Finally Riyad told Kamal, “You won't be thirty-six much longer. After that, you won't be fit for marriage”. Angered by this remark, Kamal succumbed to despair.
161
CLAD IN a wedding gown, Karima came by carriage with her parents and her brother to Sugar Street, where Ibrahim Shawkat, Khadija, Kamal, Ahmad, and Ahmad's wife, Sawsan Hammad, were waiting to receive them. There was nothing to suggest a wedding reception except the bouquets of roses lining the sitting room. The men's parlor, which opened on the courtyard, was filled with bearded young men, in the midst of whom sat Shaykh Ali al-Manufi. Although a year and a half had passed since the death of al-Sayyid Ahmad, Amina did not attend the reception, promising instead to offer her congratulations later.
When Khadija had invited her to this low-key wedding, Aisha had shaken her head in amazement, replying nervously, “I only attend funerals”. Although she was offended by this remark, Khadija had grown accustomed to observing exemplary restraint with Aisha.
The upper floor at Sugar Street had been furnished for a second time with a bride's trousseau. Yasin had outfitted his daughter properly and, to finance this expenditure, had sold the last of his holdings, except for the house in Palace of Desire Alley.
Karima, who looked exceptionally beautiful, resembled - especially in the warmth of her gaze her mother, Zanuba, at her prime. The girl had only reached the legal age of consent during the last week of October. Khadija, as was only appropriate for the mother of the groom, seemed happy. Availing herself of a moment alone with Kamal, she leaned toward him to say, “At any rate, she is Yasin's daughter and, no matter what, a thousand times better than the workshop bride.”
A small buffet dinner had been set out in the dining room for the family and another in the courtyard for Abd al-Muni'm's bearded guests, from whom he differed in no respect, since he too had let his beard grow. At the time, Khadija had commented, “Religion's lovely, but what need is there for this beard, which makes you look like Muhammad al-Ajami, the couscous vendor?”
Members of the family sat in the parlor, except for Abd al-Muni'm, who kept his friends company. After helping his brother welcome them for a time, Ahmad returned to the parlor, where on joining his family he said jovially, “The gentlemen's parlor has reverted a thousand years back into history.”
Kamal asked, “What are they discussing?”
“The battle of El Alamein… loudly enough to make the walls rattle.”
“What's their reaction to the British victory?”
“Anger, naturally. They are enemies of the English, the Germans, and the Russians, too. And so they don't spare the bridegroom even on his wedding night.”
Seated next to Zanuba, Yasin, who in his finery looked ten years her junior, said, “Let the armies eat each other alive, so long as they don't do it here. It's our Lord's mercy that He has not made Egypt a war zone.”
Smiling, Khadija remarked, “You probably want peace so you'll be free to do as you like”. Then she cast Zanuba a sly look that made everyone laugh, for it had recently been reported that Yasin had flirted with the new tenant in his building and that, having caught him in the act, or almost, Zanuba had hounded the woman until she had vacated the apartment.
To hide his discomfort, Yasin said, “How can I do as I like when my home is under military rule?”
Zanuba protested resentfully, “You're not embarrassed not even in front of your daughter?”
Yasin replied plaintively, “I'm innocent and the woman wrongly accused.”
“I'm in the wrong? I'm the one who was caught knocking on her door at night and who then excused himself by saying he had lost his way in the dark? Huh? You spend forty years in a building and then can't find your apartment?”
They roared with laughter, but Khadija said ironically, “He often loses his way in the dark.”
“And in the daylight as well.”
Then Ibrahim Shawkat asked Ridwan, “How are you getting along with Muhammad Effendi Hasan?”
Yasin corrected his brother-in-law: “Muhammad Effendi Scum!”
Ridwan replied furiously, “He's now enjoying my grandfather's fortune, which went to my mother.”
Yasin said argumentatively, “It's a considerable inheritance, but whenever Ridwan approaches her for assistance with some small purchase or other, her insolent husband makes problems for the boy and interrogates him about his expenses.”
Khadija told Ridwan, “You're her only child. It would be better if she'd let you enjoy her money while she's still alive”. Then she added, “And it's time for you to get married, isn't it?”
Ridwan laughed feebly and answered, “When Uncle Kamal does.”
“I've given up on your uncle Kamal. There's no need for you to imitate him.”
Kamal listened resentfully to these remarks, but did not allow it to show on his face. If she had despaired of him, so had he. In order to acknowledge consciousness of his guilt, he had stopped walking along Ibn Zaydun Street. He would stand near the streetcar stop, where he could watch her on the balcony without being seen. He could no more overcome his desire to see her than he could deny his love for her or ignore his alarmed aversion to the thought of marrying her. Riyad had told him, “You're sick and refuse to recover.”
Ahmad Shawkat asked Ridwan in a knowing tone, “Would Muhammad Hasan interrogate you about your expenditures if your Sa'dist Party were in power?”
Ridwan laughed bitterly and answered, “He's not the only one who calls me to account nowadays. But patience… it's only a matter of a few more days or weeks.”
Sawsan Hammad asked him, “Do you think the days of the Wafd Party are numbered, as its foes suggest?”
“The length of its rule depends entirely on the English. In any case the war won't drag on forever. Then it will be time to settle accounts.”
With great earnestness, Sawsan said, “Primary responsibility for the tragedy lies with the people who helped the Fascists stab the English in the back.”
Khadija gazed at Sawsan scornfully and disapprovingly, astonished that her daughter-in-law would join the conversation in such a manly fashion. She could not keep from remarking, “We're supposed to be at a wedding party. Let's talk about more suitable things.”
To avoid a clash, Sawsan fell silent, while Ahmad and Kamal exchanged a smiling look. Ibrahim Shawkat laughed and remarked, “Their excuse is that our weddings aren't what they used to be … May God be compassionate to al-Sayyid Ahmad and provide him with a fine dwelling in paradise.”
Yasin said regretfully, “I've been married three times, but I've never had a proper procession with a shivaree.”
Zanuba asked acidly, “You blab about yourself and forget your daughter?”
Laughing, Yasin replied, “We'll have the proper festivities the fourth time, God willing.”
Zanuba remarked sarcastically, “Postpone that until you've escorted Ridwan to his bride.”
Ridwan was annoyed but said nothing. “God's curse on all of you and on marriage too,” he thought. “Don't you realize that I'll never marry? I'd like to kill anyone who brings up this damn subject.”
After a short silence, Yasin said, “I wish I could stay at the ladies' buffet, to avoid mingling with those bearded fellows, who frighten me.”
“If they knew what you've done, they'd stone you,” Zanuba taunted him.
Ahmad said scornfully, “Their beards will get in the food. It will be more like a battle than a dinner. Does my uncle Kamal like the Brethren?”
Smiling, Kamal answered, “I like one of them at least.”
Turning to the silent bride, Sawsan asked affectionately, “What does Karima think about her husband's beard?”
Karima hid her laughter by ducking her crowned head but said nothing. Zanuba answered for her, “Few young men are as pious as Abd al-Muni'm.”
Khadija remarked, “I admire his piety, which is a characteristic of our fimily, but not his beard.”
Laughing, Ibrahim Shawkat said, “I must acknowledge that both my sons - the Believer and the apostate - are crazy.”
Yasin roared his mighty laugh and commented, “Insanity is also a characteristic of our family.”
Khadija gave him a look of protest. Before she could say anything, he attempted to humor her by adding, “I mean I'm crazy. I think Kamal's crazy too. But if you want, I'm the only crazy one.”
“That is the unvarnished truth.”
“Does it make sense for a man to condemn himself to bachelorhood so he can have time to read and write?”
“He'll marry sooner or later and be eminently sensible.”
Ridwan asked his uncle Kamal, “Why don't you marry, Uncle? Td like to know at least the basis for your objections so I can defend myself in a similar way if I need to.”
Yasin asked, “Are you planning to boycott marriage? I'll never give you permission to do that so long as I live. Just wait until your party is in power again. Then you can have a spectacular political wedding.”
But Kamal told his nephew, “If there's nothing to prevent it, you ought to get married at once.”
“How handsome this young man is,” Kamal mused. “And he has expectations of status and of wxalth. If A'ida had seen him when she was young she would have fallen in love with him. If he favored Budur with a glance in passing, she would become wildly infatuated with him”. Kamal went around in circles while the whole world advanced. He kept asking himself, “Are you going to get married or not?” Life seemed to offer nothing but gloomy confusion. His opportunity was neither ideal nor worthless. Love was difficult. It was characterized by controversy and suffering. If only she would marry someone else so he could free himself from this confusion and torment.
Then Abd al-Muni'm, preceded by his beard, came to announce, “Please help yourself to the buffet. Our festivities today are limited to the stomach.”
162
AT ABOUT ten o'clock one Friday morning Kamal was strolling along Fuad I Street, which was crowded with pedestrians. The weather was pleasant, as it normally is for most of November. He was very fond of walking and had grown accustomed to assuaging his emotional isolation by plunging into crowds of people on his day off. He would wander about aimlessly, entertaining himself by observing people and places.
On his way, he had run into more than one of his young pupils, who had greeted him with a salute. He had returned their greetings politely and cheerfully. How many pupilshe had! Some had already found employment. Others were at the University. Most of them were in either elementary or secondary school. Fourteen years of service to learning and education was quite a substantial contribution. Kamal's traditional appearance was little altered: neat suit, glistening shoes, fez planted squarely on hishead, gold-rimmed spectacles, and bushy mustache. Not even his civil service rank trie sixth had changed in fourteen years, although there were rumors that the Wafd was thinking about rectifying such inequities. One visible change was the gray spreading through the hair at his temples. He seemed delighted by the salutations of these pupils, who loved and respected him. No other teacher had garnered a comparable popularity, and he had accomplished this in spite of his huge head and nose and the unruly deviltry in vogue among students.
When his meanderings brought him to the intersection of Fuad I and Imad al-Din streets, he suddenly found himself face to face with Budur. Hisheart pounded as if a siren had gone off inside. The paralyzed stare of his eyes lasted for a few moments, and then he started to smile in an attempt to obviate some of the awkwardness of the situation. But she turned her eyes away, clearly pretending that she did not know him. She did not soften her expression at all as she walked past him. Then, and only then, did he notice that her arm was around a young male companion's.
Kamal stopped and followed her with his eyes. Yes, it was Budur, in an elegant black coat. Her escort, who was just as dapper, was probably not yet thirty. Kamal did his best to control himself, but the surprise had given him a jolt. He wondered with interest who the young man might be … not her brother or her lover, for lovers do not parade their relationship down Fuad I Street, especially not on Friday morning. Could he be?… Kamal'sheart beat apprehensively. Then without any hesitation he started after them. His eyes never left them, and his attention was fixed so keenly on them that he sensed his temperature rising, along with his blood pressure. The pounding of hisheart sounded like a death knell. He saw them pause before the display of a store selling suitcases. He slowly drew closer, directing his eyes toward the girl's right hand until he could see the gold ring. He felt scorched by a burning sensation that seemed a symptom of his profound pain.
Four months had passed since the incident on Ibn Zaydun Street. Had this young man been spying on him from the end of the street, just waiting to take his place? There w
as no cause for astonishment. Four months was a long time, long enough for the world to be turned upside down. Kamal stood in front of a toy store a short distance away, as if examining the toys. She seemed prettier today than ever before … the spitting image of a bride. But what was the black color that had transformed all her garments? A black coat was nothing unusual. Although that was quite fashionable, why was her dress black too? Was it attributable to style or mourning? Had her mother died? He was not in the habit of reading through the obituaries, and how did it concern him? What really mattered was that Budur's page in the book of his life had been turned. Budur was finished. The anxious question, to marry or not, had a conclusive answer. After all his anxiety and suffering, he should be happy. He had often wished she would marry someone else, so his torment would end. Lo and behold, she had. He should be delighted to be released from his suffering. He imagined that a person being executed might experience the sensationshe was feeling then as the gates of life closed in his face and he was expelled beyond its walls.
He saw them turn and move his way, passing by him nonchalantly. He followed them with his gaze and considered trailing after them but changed his mind almost irritably. He loitered by the toy display and gazed at it without seeing anything. Then he looked after them one last time, as if to bid her farewell. She got ever fartier away, vanishing at times behind other people only to appear again. He saw one side of her once and then the other. All the strings of hisheart were murmuring, “Farewell”. The tormented feeling that gripped him was accompanied by mournful melodies, which were no strangers to him. He was reminded of a comparable situation in the past. This emotion pulsed through him, carrying with it various associated memories. It could have been a mysterious tune, evoking the most sublime pain but at the same time bringing veiled hints of pleasure. It was a single emotion in which pain met pleasure, just as night and day encounter each other at dawn. Then she disappeared, perhaps forever, exactly as her sister had before her.
The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street Page 143