The Time and the Place: And Other Stories

by Naguib Mahfouz

  He would blow at the steam from the tea, take a noisy sip, and nod his head without uttering a word. I would hand the rent to him—three pounds—and he would take it, smiling scornfully, and saying, as he counted the money off between his fingers, “Less than the price of a kilo of meat—and they call me a landlord!” Then, encouraged by my silence, he would continue, “It’s money that’s destined for orphans, I swear by God.”

  And I’d say, “Two wretches squabbling over nothing—but what’s to be done?”

  “If you weren’t occupying the house, I’d have sold it for a good amount.” Then, in an admonitory tone, “It’s on the way to collapsing. Didn’t the Council warn you?”

  “And are we to throw ourselves into the street?” I would inquire.

  I am always deprived of the feeling of stability and security, as well as of being clean and healthy. Even so, I am better off than others, for I am at least on my own—from lack of means rather than from choice, but I am nevertheless on my own: a lonely and repressed hermit in a house about to fall down in an alley buried under garbage. I perform miracles to obtain a tasty meal (though not all that often) and a suit of clothes to cover the self-respect of a branch office manager. I dream of a home like those I see in the advertisements of the cooperatives and a bride like those on view in the weekly “brides” page—or even like Sitt Fawziyya. I console myself by reading The Finery of the Saints, the lives of pious, ascetic saints who live trusting in God, casting worldly cares aside, and finding refuge in everlasting peace. However, some chance item of news about a house collapsing, or about the police forcibly evacuating a building immediately after one side of it has come apart, would shake me to the core. Such news would call me back from the paradise of the saints and fill me with terror. Where would the people go? What belongings would be left to them? How would they manage? My sense of loneliness would be redoubled, despite the fact that the family I belonged to was a veritable tribe, scattered over different parts of the city, brothers and sisters and other relatives. And yet, with all that, what a suffocating loneliness! There were kind enough feelings about, but not a house to welcome a newcomer. Each house had just enough room for its occupants, and each branch of the family bore its own troubles. I might well find shelter for a day or a week, but permanent residence would constitute a cancerous growth in any house.

  So I would hurry off to the café, my paradisiacal refuge. I would meet up with colleagues and find solace in exchanging complaints. And strange as it may seem, I was regarded among them as one of the lucky ones, being on my own and the load I carried being consequently light. My terrible solitude was something of value, something to be envied. How lucky you are—no wife, no daughter, no son! None of the problems of the generation gap, or of marrying off daughters, or of paying for private lessons. You are in a position to eat meat once a week, or even twice. A home just for yourself, which knows no arguments or quarrels. I would nod my head with satisfaction, but deep down I would wonder whether they had not forgotten the pains of repression and loneliness. Even so I would find in their continual moaning and groaning a certain comfort, like a flash of light being cast upon a tomb.

  Once one of them said to me, “I have a solution to all your difficulties.” I looked at him intently and waited. “A wedding,” he said, “that will provide you with a home and an easy life, and which won’t cost you a penny.” Then in a whisper, “A woman befitting your position.”

  At once I imagined a woman with nothing female about her beyond being so described on the civil register certificate: an abnormal way of salvation (like perversion and clandestine affairs), a life belt in the shape of a floating corpse. In truth I had lost hope, though I still retained my pride. For this reason they used to describe me as having a good nature, which was a synonym for stupidity.

  I would persevere and struggle on. I would return to The Finery of the Saints, and read the opposition newspapers. Sometimes, maybe, I would resort to the wiles of spongers—a pardonable offense. I would visit the homes of relatives, but avoiding mealtimes—thus assiduously demonstrating my innocence, yet still in the hope I might be invited to a banquet of a meal. But the spirit of the time no longer believed in such age-old traditions, and what is more, things are now different in relation to feasts and holidays. I am thus lucky if I get one or two good meals a year. On these occasions I would hear the voice of the lady of the house saying, “Don’t stand on ceremony, you’re not a stranger or a guest. Treat the house as your own.” And no sooner would the green light be given than I would swoop down like a ravenous eagle, as though seeing my last meal.

  Worse than all this, I was an ordinary person, a person without ambitions or imagination. I had had just sufficient education for the powers-that-be to put me into a certain department. Beyond that all I had hoped for was a nice girl and a small flat. But things did not turn out like that; I don’t know why. Thus my place of residence was destined to be the tumbledown house, and whenever my salary was raised I somehow found myself having less money—it was like one of those riddles they pose to radio audiences in the month of Ramadan. My youth melted away in inflation, and every day I wrestled against surging waves that threatened to drown me.

  Someone said, “Go abroad, there are a hundred and one advantages to traveling.” But I procrastinate and am attached to my homeland. However, I did not surrender to the grip of despair. From time to time in my darkened sky there flashed a gleam of light. I was stimulated by the statements of ministers, shots fired by the opposition, and anecdotes about the saints—such as the story that the great jurisprudent Ibn Hanbal, when convulsed with hunger, nevertheless was generous in his giving of alms. Sometimes I would amuse myself at my window watching Sitt Fawziyya strutting up and down the ditch between the two sides that were growing ever closer together.

  Then one day, after a long absence, I decided to visit the family burial vault, seeing that it was the final place of refuge if things came to the worst. There was after all the mourning room, and there was also a lavatory. It was a shelter for someone who had none.

  I saw the two old tombs open to the sky and the prickly pears growing in the corners. The mourning room, to the right as one entered, had become a veritable beehive: it surged with women and children and was piled high with tattered furniture, kerosene stoves, and pots and pans, the whole place redolent of garlic sauce, beans, eggplant, and frying oil. The residents regarded me with apprehension, and I read in the depths of their eyes a warning of challenge. I smiled in capitulation and stood directly in front of them, divested of all power and glory. I addressed a woman whose bulk reminded me of Sitt Fawziyya. “It’s all right, but what’s to be done if I need the room as a place to live?”

  “You’re the person with the rights,” she answered, laughing, “and we’re your guests. We’d give up a corner to you, because after all, people must help one another.”

  Outwardly showing gratitude, I said, “God bless you.”

  I went through to the two tombs to recite the opening chapter of the Koran over them. I imagined the many generations of whom nothing remained but skeletons—squadrons of craftsmen and traders and civil servants and housewives. I remembered too an uncle on my mother’s side, of whom, although I am not sure exactly when he was born, I have heard recounted the legend of his heroic death in the 1919 Revolution.

  I stood for a while in intimate conversation with them in an inaudible voice. “May God have mercy upon you, impart to me your faith. And, Uncle, please give me something of your courage!”

  Half a Day

  I proceeded alongside my father, clutching his right hand, running to keep up with the long strides he was taking. All my clothes were new: the black shoes, the green school uniform, and the red tarboosh. My delight in my new clothes, however, was not altogether unmarred, for this was no feast day but the day on which I was to be cast into school for the first time.

  My mother stood at the window watching our progress, and I would turn toward her from time to time,
as though appealing for help. We walked along a street lined with gardens; on both sides were extensive fields planted with crops, prickly pears, henna trees, and a few date palms.

  “Why school?” I challenged my father openly. “I shall never do anything to annoy you.”

  “I’m not punishing you,” he said, laughing. “School’s not a punishment. It’s the factory that makes useful men out of boys. Don’t you want to be like your father and brothers?”

  I was not convinced. I did not believe there was really any good to be had in tearing me away from the intimacy of my home and throwing me into this building that stood at the end of the road like some huge, high-walled fortress, exceedingly stern and grim.

  When we arrived at the gate we could see the courtyard, vast and crammed full of boys and girls. “Go in by yourself,” said my father, “and join them. Put a smile on your face and be a good example to others.”

  I hesitated and clung to his hand, but he gently pushed me from him. “Be a man,” he said. “Today you truly begin life. You will find me waiting for you when it’s time to leave.”

  I took a few steps, then stopped and looked but saw nothing. Then the faces of boys and girls came into view. I did not know a single one of them, and none of them knew me. I felt I was a stranger who had lost his way. But glances of curiosity were directed toward me, and one boy approached and asked, “Who brought you?”

  “My father,” I whispered.

  “My father’s dead,” he said quite simply.

  I did not know what to say. The gate was closed, letting out a pitiable screech. Some of the children burst into tears. The bell rang. A lady came along, followed by a group of men. The men began sorting us into ranks. We were formed into an intricate pattern in the great courtyard surrounded on three sides by high buildings of several floors; from each floor we were overlooked by a long balcony roofed in wood.

  “This is your new home,” said the woman. “Here too there are mothers and fathers. Here there is everything that is enjoyable and beneficial to knowledge and religion. Dry your tears and face life joyfully.”

  We submitted to the facts, and this submission brought a sort of contentment. Living beings were drawn to other living beings, and from the first moments my heart made friends with such boys as were to be my friends and fell in love with such girls as I was to be in love with, so that it seemed my misgivings had had no basis. I had never imagined school would have this rich variety. We played all sorts of different games: swings, the vaulting horse, ball games. In the music room we chanted our first songs. We also had our first introduction to language. We saw a globe of the Earth, which revolved and showed the various continents and countries. We started learning the numbers. The story of the Creator of the universe was read to us, we were told of His present world and of His Hereafter, and we heard examples of what He said. We ate delicious food, took a little nap, and woke up to go on with friendship and love, play and learning.

  As our path revealed itself to us, however, we did not find it as totally sweet and unclouded as we had presumed. Dust-laden winds and unexpected accidents came about suddenly, so we had to be watchful, at the ready, and very patient. It was not all a matter of playing and fooling around. Rivalries could bring about pain and hatred or give rise to fighting. And while the lady would sometimes smile, she would often scowl and scold. Even more frequently she would resort to physical punishment.

  In addition, the time for changing one’s mind was over and gone and there was no question of ever returning to the paradise of home. Nothing lay ahead of us but exertion, struggle, and perseverance. Those who were able took advantage of the opportunities for success and happiness that presented themselves amid the worries.

  The bell rang announcing the passing of the day and the end of work. The throngs of children rushed toward the gate, which was opened again. I bade farewell to friends and sweethearts and passed through the gate. I peered around but found no trace of my father, who had promised to be there. I stepped aside to wait. When I had waited for a long time without avail, I decided to return home on my own. After I had taken a few steps, a middle-aged man passed by, and I realized at once that I knew him. He came toward me, smiling, and shook me by the hand, saying, “It’s a long time since we last met—how are you?”

  With a nod of my head, I agreed with him and in turn asked, “And you, how are you?”

  “As you can see, not all that good, the Almighty be praised!”

  Again he shook me by the hand and went off. I proceeded a few steps, then came to a startled halt. Good Lord! Where was the street lined with gardens? Where had it disappeared to? When did all these vehicles invade it? And when did all these hordes of humanity come to rest upon its surface? How did these hills of refuse come to cover its sides? And where were the fields that bordered it? High buildings had taken over, the street surged with children, and disturbing noises shook the air. At various points stood conjurers showing off their tricks and making snakes appear from baskets. Then there was a band announcing the opening of a circus, with clowns and weight lifters walking in front. A line of trucks carrying central security troops crawled majestically by. The siren of a fire engine shrieked, and it was not clear how the vehicle would cleave its way to reach the blazing fire. A battle raged between a taxi driver and his passenger, while the passenger’s wife called out for help and no one answered. Good God! I was in a daze. My head spun. I almost went crazy. How could all this have happened in half a day, between early morning and sunset? I would find the answer at home with my father. But where was my home? I could see only tall buildings and hordes of people. I hastened on to the crossroads between the gardens and Abu Khoda. I had to cross Abu Khoda to reach my house, but the stream of cars would not let up. The fire engine’s siren was shrieking at full pitch as it moved at a snail’s pace, and I said to myself, “Let the fire take its pleasure in what it consumes.” Extremely irritated, I wondered when I would be able to cross. I stood there a long time, until the young lad employed at the ironing shop on the corner came up to me. He stretched out his arm and said gallantly, “Grandpa, let me take you across.”

  The Tavern of the Black Cat

  They were engaged in a sing-song when a stranger appeared at the door.

  There was not a single free chair in the tavern, which consisted of a square room in the basement of an old, dilapidated building. The room looked onto a rear alley through the iron bars of a single window, and its gloomy, tomblike atmosphere required it to be lit both day and night. Its walls had been painted a light blue and they exuded dark stains of dampness in various places. Its door opened onto a long narrow passageway that led to the street, and on one of the room’s sides were ranged barrels of the infernal wine. The tavern’s patrons were one big family tree whose branches were spread among the bare wooden tables. Some of them were bound by ties of friendship or by being colleagues at work, while all were joined in the brotherhood of being together in the same place and in the spiritual intimacy they shared there night after night. They were united too by conversation and the infernal wine.

  They were engaged in a sing-song when a stranger appeared at the door.

  It was not uncommon for one of them to be asked the question, “Why is it that you prefer the Tavern of the Black Cat?”

  Its real name is The Star, but it acquired its popular name because of its huge black cat, adored by the emaciated and angular Greek owner, and friend and mascot of the patrons.

  “I prefer the Tavern of the Black Cat because of its friendly, family atmosphere and because for a piaster or two you can fly without wings.”

  The black cat would roam about from table to table in search of bread crumbs and scraps of felafel and fish. It would hang about at people’s feet and rub itself against their legs with the coquetry of one deprived of God’s favors, while its Greek owner would lean his elbows on the table, gazing lifelessly into space. As for the old waiter, he would go around with the wine or fill up the small ribbed glasses from
the taps on the barrels.

  “And it’s the tavern with the most compassion for those with fixed incomes.”

  Witticisms and anecdotes would be exchanged, and hearts would grow closer by sharing grievances. Then someone with a fine voice would break into song, and that damp, tomblike place would overflow with happiness.

  “There’s no harm in our forgetting for a moment the plurality of children and the paucity of money.”

  “And to forget the heat and the flies….”

  “And to forget that there’s a world outside the iron bars.”

  “And to take pleasure in fondling the black cat.”

  In the moments of being together, their spirits would become serene, abounding with love for everything, freed from fear and bigotry and cleansed of the specters of disease, old age, and death. They would conceive themselves in a likeness to which they aspired, outstripping time by whole centuries.

  They were engaged in a sing-song when a stranger appeared at the door.

  The stranger looked all around but did not find an empty table. He disappeared from sight into the passageway, and they thought he had gone for good, but he returned carrying a rush chair—the chair of the Greek owner himself—placed it against the narrow door and sat down.

  He had come in with a sullen expression, and had returned and sat down with one. He looked at no one. His eyes revealed a stern, fierce look; a look that was absent, that was taking refuge in some unknown, faraway world and seeing none of those who were filling the small place. His appearance in general was dark, strong, and frightening, as if he were a wrestler, a pugilist, or a weight lifter. And his clothes went perfectly with his dark complexion; they accented it—the black sweater, the dark gray trousers, and the brown rubber-soled shoes. The only thing that shone in that gloomy form was a square-shaped patch of baldness that crowned a large hard-looking head.