Khan Al-Khalili

by Naguib Mahfouz

  From the outset their mother was fully aware of exactly what was going on. Rushdi was not one to hide secrets. Whenever he was at home, he would be by the window; when time came for tutorials, he would rush over to their neighbor’s home. A passion had grabbed him by the heart; signs of it were visible in the way he paid unusual attention to his appearance, in the nostalgic tone in his singing, and in the fact that he went out so early in the morning—the real reason for which was no longer a secret from anyone. In fact, the neighbor’s family seemed to be just as aware of something to which he had long since become inured; they all seemed to have high hopes for a happy outcome. Sitt Dawlat, the boys’ mother, was well aware of all of this. She questioned herself about it, but could not come up with any strong objections to the idea.

  “How long, O Lord,” she would sometimes mutter to herself sorrowfully, “How long must I wait until I can be like every other mother and celebrate my own sons being happily married?”

  But did Nawal really deserve her son? Why not? She was pretty and educated, from a good family; her father was a civil servant. Everything seemed right. But one thing troubled her: could Rushdi get married before his elder brother? But what was she supposed to do? She would have to wait and see what transpired in the days ahead, all in accordance with the all-prudent will of God Almighty.

  This time Rushdi had fallen victim to his own love game. What had started as a usual case of flirting had now turned into true love. He was feeling a genuine affection for Nawal. After all, she was his beloved neighbor at the window; companion on the morning road to the hills garlanded with fluffy clouds; infatuated student with whom he could exchange loving looks over the table while they did arithmetic, algebra, and geometry; and cinema companion every Friday morning. Love hovered over these two joyful hearts and joined them together in a craving for affection and felicity.

  By now Rushdi’s life had turned into a never-ending string of activities, one that preyed on his body and nerves. He was either focusing on his job at the bank, floating in a haze of passion, or carousing at the Ghamra Casino. He could only snatch a bit of sleep early in the morning. This new love of his had not managed to break his habits when it came to chronic gambling, indulgence in heavy drinking, or indeed in illicit sex. He told himself he was quite capable of handling such pleasures without any problems, and the plain fact that they had become habitual led him to forget entirely that they were actually major flaws in his character. Not for a single moment was he willing to forego his indulgence in all of them, nor did it occur to him that somehow his life might need to change. Money, booze, and love, those were the things he worshipped, although he may have had the occasional qualm over the amount of money and trouble this lifestyle managed to cause him.

  “When I get married,” he used to say by way of consolation, “I’ll put a stop to it all!”

  If he had been really honest with himself, he would have decided to forget about all this inappropriate frivolity in his life and to focus on marriage. However, what allowed him to make light of it all was that one day he managed to deposit the sum of fifty pounds in the bank—his profits from gambling. He told himself that if he could save enough of his salary for a whole year and add it to that amount, he would certainly have enough for his marriage expenses. But when would that year need to start?

  It was this plan that he kept postponing, surrendering himself instead to the tyrannical demands of his own desires. He had yet to learn how to control his passions, impose limits on his desires, or curb his will. Eventually, however, he did begin to pause to contemplate his dilemma, with one eye on the debauched life he had been leading and another on the girl he desired.

  30

  November went by, and the weather got a lot colder, the kind of cold rarely experienced in Cairo. Rushdi Akif got influenza, something he probably caught walking back to Khan al-Khalili very late at night. Ignoring all the symptoms, he just took a few aspirins whenever his headache was really bad. He kept up his normal activities, but the next day his condition worsened while he was working at the bank. First he shivered; then, teeth chattering, he started shuddering all over. He felt so weak that he had to close his eyes. Leaving the bank, he took a taxi home and stretched out on his bed feeling utterly exhausted.

  The bank’s doctor gave him a week off, but his condition worsened even more. His health collapsed incredibly quickly, and he lost a lot of weight; he looked like someone who had been ill for an entire month. Ahmad now realized that his younger brother no longer had the necessary resistance to disease that had allowed him to resist these attacks before.

  “You’re living in a dream world,” he told his brother, unable to resist the desire to preach. “Your body can’t cope any more with the strains you’re putting on it.”

  Rushdi was used to listening to these kinds of comments from his elder brother. “It’s just a cold,” he replied with a wan smile. “I’ll get over it.”

  “If you didn’t abuse your health so much,” Ahmad said angrily, “it wouldn’t have been able to make you so ill!”

  But nothing could deflect Rushdi from his usual behavior. “Haven’t you noticed that I don’t spend the entire evening on my own? All my friends are as fit and healthy as mules! It’s just a cold. God willing, it’ll go away!”

  Ahmad was well aware that his brother would stubbornly defend his lifestyle, so he stopped making pointed comments. He was no stranger when it came to offering Rushdi advice and encouragement, but now the exasperation and displeasure he was feeling made him go even further. It was as though he were using an excessive display of affection and concern to conceal his own feelings of sorrow and shame.

  “I still love him as much as ever,” he kept telling himself, “and he deserves nothing else. Had he known how I felt about the girl, he would never have done what he did. He’s entirely innocent. He loves me, and I do him.”

  But how could he ignore the anger and defiance boiling inside him? How could he forget the way he’d wished that his younger brother had never come back to Cairo? Indeed, how could he forget that for a single instant he’d actually wished that the world would be emptied of people, his brother among them of course? These thoughts and others like them made him feel miserable and plagued him with malicious ideas.

  One night, when Rushdi’s fever was particularly virulent, Ahmad had a strange dream. He had only managed to fall asleep after a good deal of agonized thought. In his dream he saw himself sitting on his bed. He was looking hopefully out of the window at Nawal’s balcony, but, before he knew it, there was Rushdi sitting on a chair between him and the window, smiling a sweet smile. That annoyed him, and he turned away from the window to stare at his brother. Rushdi tried to distract his attention by pretending that he had no idea what the problem was, but he did not succeed. Then he watched as Rushdi gradually turned into a huge balloon; the shock he felt made him forget completely about how angry he was. Such was his surprise at what he was witnessing that he was unable to suppress a loud cry. He watched his brother—shaped like a huge balloon—slowly floating upward as though he were about to head out of the window and high up into the sky. However, the window blocked his ascent; he stayed there stuck between the two sides of the window and blocking out all the light. At first Ahmad was merely shocked, but then he began to be afraid as well. His brother started laughing sarcastically at him; that got on his nerves, and he became very angry. It seemed to him that his brother was playing deceitful games and scoffing at him. He remonstrated with him, but his brother paid him absolutely no heed and kept on laughing. Ahmad went over to his desk, brought back his pen, and stabbed it into his brother’s stomach until it snapped. A cloud of smoke now appeared, filling the entire room with dust. His brother’s body started deflating slowly until it was back to its normal size, at which point he collapsed at Ahmad’s feet. Twisting in sheer agony, he started chewing the chair legs, screaming and coughing until his eyes bulged and blood came streaming out of his eyeballs. Ahmad started to panic and was
overwhelmed by a fearsome terror, at which point he woke up and realized that he had been dreaming. Good heavens, a pox on all dreams!

  No sooner had he recovered from the dream-induced terror than he heard a groan from beyond the closed door of his room. He listened and realized that it was his brother making the noise; he was groaning and grunting. He leapt out of bed, put on his slippers and went quickly to his brother’s room. He found Rushdi in bed moaning and his mother beside him rubbing his back, while his father sat close to the bed.

  “What’s the matter?” Ahmad asked.

  “Don’t worry, son,” his mother said. “It’s just the pain of the fever breaking.”

  Rushdi realized that Ahmad had come in.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said stifling his groans for a moment. “I’ve kept you all awake.”

  They all gave him encouragement and prayed for him. Ahmad sat down beside his mother, took his brother’s hand, and started stroking it tenderly, as though he felt the need to compensate for the angry feelings he had expressed during his dream. An hour of agony went by, with the family feeling as much pain as the sick young man. They all stayed by his bed until dawn.

  31

  Rushdi recovered and left his bed. It had not been easy for him to stay there for a whole week, particularly since he was the kind of person whose only delight in life involved games, nightlife, and pleasures. For that reason he balked when his brother suggested that he should stay at home and get some rest so he could recoup his energy.

  “It’s bad enough that I’ve wasted a week already,” he chuckled apologetically.

  Ahmad who had devoted most of his adult life to his brother got angry. “I think it’s a very bad idea to plunge straight back into the kind of life you’ve been leading. You keep squandering your youth away as though it’s an inexhaustible resource. You never get enough rest. What kind of insanity is this?”

  Rushdi detected in his brother’s tone of voice a note of jealousy because he, Rushdi, was always so healthy.

  “You’re a wonderful big brother!” he said with a beatific smile on his face. “May God grant me always to have the benefit of your large heart.”

  “It’s all for your own good!”

  “Do you think I have the slightest doubt about that?” the loving, grateful younger brother asked.

  Even though Rushdi did indeed have no doubts about his brother’s affections, he still ignored his advice. Next morning, Ahmad watched as Rushdi resumed his early morning departure. He was astonished.

  “What on earth are you doing?” he asked.

  “Going to the bank,” Rushdi replied somewhat nonplussed.

  “What’s the rush?”

  Rushdi decided to be brutally honest with his brother. “My dear brother,” he said, “this house makes me sick!”

  Ahmad was well aware of what was actually making him play fast and loose with his health. He was very distressed to hear what his brother had said, but hid his feelings by staring at his cup of coffee. Rushdi left. Their mother was sitting at the table as well, and she did her best to soften the blow caused by Rushdi’s unwillingness to follow his brother’s advice.

  “Your brother’s cure is in the outside world, Ahmad,” she said as a way of apologizing for Rushdi’s behavior, “not inside the house. Don’t blame him too much.”

  When Ahmad did not say anything, she assumed that he was still angry. “Isn’t he his mother’s son?” she asked with a smile. “Anyone like his mother can’t do too much that’s wrong. Don’t you notice how restless I get if I have to stick around the house and don’t get the chance to visit my friends? Both of us hate staying inside.”

  She chuckled with laughter, while he mustered a wan smile. It was obvious that nothing on earth was going to dissuade Rushdi from resuming the lifestyle he loved so much, so now once again he was about to throw himself into the quagmire of love-making, gambling, drinking, smoking, and women. He had recovered much of his usual energy, but his health had not recovered along with it. He was still very skinny, and his complexion was turning paler and paler, almost as though his illness had never actually left him.

  Ahmad spent a good deal of time offering his younger brother advice, but the latter had his mind on other things. One afternoon Rushdi came into his brother’s room—just before he was to go out to meet his friends at the Zahra Café. Rushdi gave his brother a sweet smile.

  “Can I talk to you for a bit?” he asked.

  Ahmad looked up. “Of course, Rushdi. Go ahead.”

  As Ahmad looked at his brother’s handsome, pale face, he could see that he looked unusually serious. That surprised him somewhat. He wondered what had made the perennial playboy turn so serious. He recalled that the only times he had seen his brother look this way were on those few tense occasions when he had heard that he had failed in some of his school exams. Ahmad was a bit worried and raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

  Rushdi sat down on the chair. “I need to talk to you seriously,” he said. “Life is not all fun and games.”

  If the entire topic were not one that touched a raw nerve for Ahmad, he would have burst out laughing. Instead he tensed, guessing with a degree of panic what topic his brother was about to broach.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said quietly, “life is not all fun and games.”

  “When I need advice,” Rushdi said, “you’re the one I turn to. I’ve come to see if you agree to the idea of my getting married.”

  His heart leapt as though what he had just heard was a complete surprise, something that had not even occurred to him. Even so, he was unwilling to show any sign of distress and put on a show of innocent surprise, indeed of happiness at the idea. “So at last you’ve come to talk about marriage,” he replied. “I’m utterly thrilled!”

  “That’s right, brother,” Rushdi told him excitedly. “Does that make you happy?”

  “Of course it does. This may be the very first time we’re both happy about something!”

  There now followed a moment of silence. Ahmad realized that the natural thing was to ask about the bride-to-be, but he was hoping that his brother would open the subject without him having to ask the question. Rushdi said nothing, however, so Ahmad saw no alternative but to swallow hard and ask. “So have you chosen a nice girl?”

  Rushdi sat up straight. “Oh yes, Ahmad!” he replied. “She’s the daughter of our dear neighbor, Kamal Khalil Effendi, your friend and mine.”

  All the advance planning he had done in order to ward off the impact of this announcement only helped a little. The mere hope of avoiding the penalty was of no use when the actual sentence was pronounced. But he fell back on his self-esteem and proceeded calmly.

  “May God grant you success in pursuing your happiness.”

  “Thank you so much, dear brother!”

  “Even so I need to ask you a question, just as a precaution. Have you learned everything you need to know about the family of which you’re proposing to become a part?”

  “I’ve gotten to know the family from close up. Not only that, but I know the girl personally.”

  That admission reopened his own wound, so he doubled his efforts at keeping calm and collected. “I’d simply remind you,” he said, “that, if word of this gets out, then any decision to back out will turn into a real scandal.”

  “My fickle days are over. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

  “No, except the girl herself, of course.”

  Again his heart leapt, and his imagination started forming a picture of the two of them alone together, talking about this wonderful, yet risky move. But he immediately squelched the image. “With God’s blessings then …,” he said in as happy a tone as he could muster.

  “Can I ask you to raise the topic with our father? Once that’s done, we can take the next steps.”

  Ahmad paused for a moment. “Yes, I’ll let our father know,” he said. “As far as next steps are concerned, …”
r />   “I’ll do anything necessary.”

  “We won’t set things rolling until you have fully recovered your health and at least regained the weight you lost when you were ill.”

  “That’s easy to do!” responded Rushdi with a laugh. “We won’t have long to wait.” He stood up to leave. “Thank you for everything, and I wish you likewise.”

  Rushdi changed his tone of voice, as though he had just remembered something. “By the way,” he went on, “why don’t you think of getting married too? Isn’t it proper for me to congratulate you before you congratulate me?”

  Should he now explain to his brother the decision he had come to about marriage? Ahmad wondered. Rushdi had no idea what he was saying; for that reason he was blissfully unaware of the fact that he was aiming poisoned darts at his elder brother. The mere question aggravated him; the long tongue of fate, it seemed, was mocking his misery even though he thought he had finally rid himself of it.

  “Oh,” Ahmad said derisively, “the time for me to marry is long past.”

  “Past?”

  “Forget about it, Rushdi. You know how busy I always am. God only gives a man one heart.”

  Rushdi left the room, shaking his head sadly. Ahmad looked at the floor, his expression a reflection of profound sadness and resignation to fate and despair. Now it was his task to arrange Rushdi’s marriage; in a sense he would be weaving his own shroud. The process would inevitably be painful, but at the same time there would be certain elements of pleasure and consolation. At least he would be able to feel that obscure pleasure that pain can bring, like a moth flitting around a lamp. There would be the additional pleasure of surrendering to the dictates of all-powerful fate and reflecting on those hidden feelings that kept disturbing him. Last but not least, there would be the pleasure of indulging his wounded self-esteem.