She grabbed hold of him from behind and gently righted him, while he moaned. He stood motionless as a statue, and Nargis jumped to the floor and fled. With great difficulty the old man, leaning on Mubarka’s arm, returned to his armchair. Some time passed as he sat there in silence with the woman ceaselessly asking him how he was. He motioned with his hand to set her mind at rest, then leaned his head against the back of the chair, his legs stretched out, breathing deeply. He closed his eyes to collect himself.
All at once he remembered a commemorative celebration in honor of someone who had died, a memory deeply rooted in his soul. He had returned from the platform after delivering an appropriate speech and had sat down beside a friend. The friend had leaned across and whispered some complimentary words in his ear. But who was that friend? Ah, he was confident he would bring him back to mind. How distressed he was to have forgotten him! The friend had said something that likewise he could not possibly forget. He would certainly recall it. The clapping and cheering rang out. The meowing of cats grew louder, every eye wept. He could hear the shouting of children. Once again his friend leaned over toward him and spoke. He was sure that he would take possession of the memories, of all of them.
And in no time he had sunk into sleep.
A Day for Saying Goodbye
Life was going on with all its clamor, just as though nothing had happened. Every human being embraces his own secret, possesses it on his own. I cannot be the only one. If the inclinations of the inner self were to assume concrete form, crimes and acts of heroism would be rife. For myself, the experience has come to an end, all because of a blind impulse. Nothing remains but a farewell outing.
At the crossroads, emotions flare up, memories are resurrected. How great is my distress! An extraordinary strength is required to control myself, otherwise the moments of saying goodbye will disappear. Look and enjoy everything, move from place to place, for in every corner there is some forgotten happiness that you must bring to mind. What a crushing blow, filled with bitterness, fury, and hate! I have plunged headlong recklessly, quite oblivious of the consequences. A life that was not bad has been scattered to the winds. Look and remember, be happy, then be sad. For reasons there is no time to enumerate, the angel turned into a devil. How often decay afflicts everything that is good! Love had been uprooted from my heart and it had turned to stone. Let us ignore all that in the short time that remains. What a crushing blow! Of what significance was it?
Port Said Street stirs under an umbrella of white autumnal clouds. The fumes that rise from my chest darken the beauty of things. The nostalgic beckonings from the distant past rap at the doors of my heart. My feet drag me to pay a visit to my sister. Her calm pallid face gazes at me from behind the door. It lights up with happiness. “A rare and unexpected pleasure at this early hour,” she says.
She went off to make the coffee, and I sat down to wait in the living room. Our parents and brothers and sisters, who had passed away, looked down at me from their photographs hanging above the tables. No one was left to me except this widowed sister who, being childless, had given her abundant love to me and to Samira and Gamal. Had I come here to commit my son and daughter to her care? She returned with the coffee. She wore a white dressing gown. “Why didn’t you go to the office?”
“I took the day off because I felt out of sorts.”
“You don’t look well—is it a cold?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t neglect yourself.”
My face had begun to betray me. What, I wondered, was now happening in my unhappy flat?
“Yesterday Samira and Gamal paid me a visit.”
“They love you just as you love them.”
“And how is Seham?”
What an innocent question!
“She’s fine.”
“Haven’t things got better between you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m always nice to her but I feel she’s uneasy with me.”
I was seized with grief and kept silent.
“The times we live in need patience and wisdom.”
I wanted to ask her to look after Samira and Gamal, but how to do so? Later she would realize the import of my visit. Would Samira and Gamal forgive me for what I had done? How great is my distress!
“What if I went with you now to the doctor’s?”
“That’s not necessary, Siddiqa. I’ve got to go and do certain jobs.”
“How can I be sure you’re all right?”
“I’ll visit you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Once again I am walking in the street. Look and enjoy, and move from place to place. The Sporting Club beach is solitary, devoid of human beings, the waves clapping out their summons and no one answering. The heart beats under the tightly closed envelope of worries. The moment she emerged from the water with her slim body, the skin tinged by the sun’s gossamer, she wrapped herself in her beach robe and hurried to the cabin to seat herself by her parents’ feet. I was walking by, in shorts, and our eyes met. I was pervaded by a sensation of pleasure to which my heart responded. A voice called to me, and I answered and thus found myself in her company, for the person who had called was her uncle, a colleague of mine in the firm. We were introduced, and some casual conversation between us followed—but how enjoyable it was! Moments of sheer unadulterated happiness, moments that were not to be repeated, moments that refused to be repeated. Now they circle around my heart in the form of a passing yearning that has its warm existence despite the fact that the threads that one day bound them to reality have been torn apart. And her saying that day, “You’ve a good heart and that is something beyond price.” Was it true? Who, then, was it who said that there was no one more vile and despicable than you? And who was it who said that the Lord had created you to torture her and make her miserable? Love should have risen up and stood against the disparities of temperament, but it was the disparities that had put an end to love. Each of us had been stubborn, we had each had as our slogan All or nothing. You were crazy about inane outward appearances and would shout at me saying I was retarded. In terror Samira and Gamal would take refuge in their rooms. How greatly we had harmed them! The love between us had suffered hour by hour and day by day till it breathed its last. It had been choked in the hubbub of continuing arguments, quarrels, and exchanges of abuse. Yet it was in this outdoor café, in this actual corner, that I had disclosed to her uncle my admiration for her.
“Though she hasn’t been to university, she is well-educated. Her father had his own policy. After completing her secondary education, the girl was prepared by him for being a housewife, in view of her being sufficiently well provided for.”
“That’s very convenient,” I had said.
He had invited us both to dinner at Santa Lucia, and afterward we had met in the Pelican Garden. The days of courtship, of dreams and impeccable behavior. I hear a beautiful, rapturous tune, though all the strings on which it was played have been broken. What a crushing blow! What is happening in the flat now? Why isn’t life made up of perpetual days of courtship? Oh, the masks of lies we hide behind! A salutary method of knowing oneself is indispensable.
“Mr. Mustafa Ibrahim?”
I looked at the man who was calling my name and found him to be an inspector at the firm, no doubt on his way to work. “Hullo, Amr Bey.”
“On holiday?”
“Slightly unwell.”
“It’s only too clear. Would you like me to give you a lift somewhere?”
“No thanks.”
He was perhaps the first witness. No, my neighbor the doctor had already seen me as I left the flat. Had he noticed anything unusual? The concierge had seen me too. That was of no importance. I had never thought of making my escape. I would be waiting until the end. Had it not been for my final eagerness to say goodbye, I would have gone by myself.
It was not possible to discard life of my own accord. It had been wrenched from me by force. I had never sought this ending. I had still five year
s to go before I was fifty. Despite the suffering, life was sweet. Seham had not been able to make it hateful to me. Should I visit Samira and Gamal at the College of Science? They had left without my seeing them, and I had not foreseen what had occurred. I would not find the courage to look them in the eye. It pained me to leave them to their fate. I could imagine them knocking at the door and their mother not hastening to open it. The day would leave its mark until the end of life. And if they cursed me, they would be entitled to do so.
When would I put my grief behind me and dedicate myself to saying goodbye? Look and enjoy, and move from place to place. The market. The day we walked in the market to make our purchases. A man with a bride feels that he is about to take possession of the world itself, feels that happiness may be anything in the world—but not like methylated spirit that just evaporates. With love I say, “To San Giovanni.” And she says joyfully, “I’ll phone Mummy.”
Graciousness, sweetness, and angelic gentleness during our first days together. When and how had the new Seham made her appearance? After becoming a mother, but not at any precisely definable time. How had the sensation of dashed hopes taken control of me? Samira once said, “How quickly and violently you become angry, Father.” And I once admitted to Seham, “I may forget myself when I get angry, but it’s always for a good reason.”
“And for no reason. It’s a misunderstanding.”
“You squander our life on trivialities.”
“Trivialities? You don’t understand life.”
“You’re autocratic. You set no store by reason. What you have in your head must come about regardless of anything.”
“Had I respected your opinions we would have been in a real mess.”
Look and enjoy, and move from place to place. Abu Qir is the ideal summer resort. Let’s have a fish lunch. Fill your stomach and stimulate it with some white wine. We sat together at this place, and here we taught Samira and Gamal to swim when they were young. It is said that despair is one of the two states of rest. Would it not have been better to divorce her?
“Divorce me and set me free.”
“I’d like nothing better, if it weren’t for my concern for Samira and Gamal.”
“You should rather have some concern for yourself and realize that you’re an unbearable person.”
The truth is that I often wished for your death. However, the fates are not in my hand. Any hardships are easy to bear alongside the hellfire of my hatred. We exchange hatred without making a secret of it. After exchanging the most awful and cruel words, how is it that I am able to partake of my food with appetite? Truly, despair possesses a happiness that is not to be underrated. From the radio issued the song “I, the torment, and your love,” and my heart trembled. It was a song I came to love greatly during that fraudulent month of honeymoon. How is it that happiness vanishes after being stronger than existence itself? It is dispersed from the heart and attaches itself to the atmosphere of places after its starting point has been erased. Then, like a bird, it alights on dry ground, adorning it with the embroidery of its wings for several seconds. I, the torment, and your love—and this crushing blow.
Perhaps it was the day that, in your madness, you hurled yourself at Samira. In fear I pushed you from her, and you fell and hit your head. There gleamed in your eyes an inhuman look that spat out poison. “I hate you.”
“So what?”
“I hate you until death.”
“Go to hell.”
“Once my heart is disturbed how impossible for it to become cloudless!”
It is, unfortunately, the truth. O you with the black heart that found no way to apologize or make up or be amiable. After that no conversation took place between us other than about necessities and the household budget. Vengeance became mingled with the cost of living. The spring of compassion ran dry. As with a prisoner, my dreams revolved around escape. The desires of my heart dried up, and desolation closed over it. And all the while she behaved like a free woman, going and coming without permission or even letting me know. Silence enveloped her, and she uttered no word unless she had to. Pride encompassed her secret, and she complained of me to no one but my sister Siddiqa. When Siddiqa did not do what Seham expected, but sought to make peace between us, she hated her in turn. She said that it was not the madness of one man but a madness running in the family.
Seizing the opportunity of being alone with Samira and Gamal, I asked their opinion of what they had seen of our situation. “Your situation is not a happy one, Father,” Gamal had said. “It’s like the situation of our country, or even worse, and I’m planning to emigrate at the first opportunity.”
I know his recalcitrance well, but as for Samira, she is a sensible girl, religious and modern at one and the same time, and yet she said, “I’m sorry, Father, but neither on your side nor on hers is there any tolerance.”
“I was defending you, Samira.”
“I wish you hadn’t done so. She would have made it up with me after an hour, but you get angry so quickly, Father.”
“But she’s unreasonable.”
“Our whole home is unreasonable.”
“I chose you to be a judge.”
“No, I’m in no way entitled to be that.”
“I have found no comfort from either of you.”
To which Gamal said, “We have no comfort for you or for ourselves.”
If these two have not loved me as I have loved them, then what good do I wish for in this existence? Ah, look and enjoy, and move from place to place. As for the life that is being lost, live the moment that you are in and forget the past completely. Take your fill, for you will not see again that which you are leaving. Every moment is the last. From a world with which I am not satiated and whose pleasures I have not renounced, a world that has been snatched from me in a hasty outburst of anger. Which of these streets has not seen us together? Or has not seen our whole family, with Samira and Gamal going ahead of us? Was there no way of repairing the discord?
The cruelest punishment is having to bid farewell to Alexandria in the splendor of its white autumn—and in the prime of mature manhood. And here is the silent sea on the other side of Abu Qir, and together we sing, “O for the bliss you are in, my heart.” In a dialogue of song between two watchful hearts. With Samira and Gamal breathlessly counting the number of fishing boats at anchor above the moon’s sparkling reflections. Is a single day sufficient for making a tour of the landmarks of a quarter of a century? Why do we not record the sweet avowals at the time so that they may be of benefit to us in the hour of dryness? Memories are as numerous as the leaves of the trees, and the period of time remaining is as short as happiness. Happiness, when it presents itself, dispels awareness, and double-crosses us when it vanishes.
And who have I to bring me together with Dawlat? There is no possibility of that today. And were it possible it would only make matters worse and compromise me prematurely. And what is the point of pretending to a love that is nonexistent? Despair is what pushed me into it. She never stopped hinting at marriage, without caring about the fate of Samira and Gamal. It is not love but rather a whim of revenge. If only I had halted there and not crossed over to the fatal blow.
As evening falls, the search for me no doubt intensifies. So let me wait in Asteria, the place I love best of all for passing the evening. The meeting place of families, lovers, and rosy dreams. Beer and a light supper. Perhaps I shall be the only one by myself. Forgive me, Samira. Forgive me, Gamal. I had met the morning with a sincere and open heart, but anger hurls us into the path of perils. I entreated that the hour might be put back by just one minute. And when the violent tensions had vanished, nothing was left but despair with its icy, tongue-tied face. I undertook this farewell excursion with death sometimes following at my back, sometimes preceding me. Life has been abbreviated into hours, and I have understood life more than at any time past. How happy are the people around me, and were they to know my secret they would be happier still! Amiably, the waiter asks me, “Wh
ere’s Madam?”
“She’s out of town,” I answer with hidden dejection.
There was no time left. Soon two or more men would approach me. “You are Mustafa Ibrahim?”
“Yes sir.”
“Would you be good enough to come with us?”
I answer with total calm. “I was waiting for you.”
By a Person Unknown
There was nothing unusual in the flat to attract attention, nothing that could be of any help to an investigator. It consisted of two rooms and an entrance hall, and in general was extremely simple. What was truly worthy of surprise was the fact that the bedroom should have remained in its natural state, retaining its normal tidiness despite the ghastly murder that had been committed there. Even the bed was undisturbed, or altered only to the extent that occurs when a bed has been slept in. However, the person lying on it was not asleep but had been murdered, the blood not yet dry. As evidenced by the mark of the cord around the neck and the protruding eyeballs, he had been strangled. Blood had coagulated around the nose and mouth, but apart from this there was no sign of any struggle or resistance in the bed, in the bedroom, or in the rest of the flat. Everything was normal, usual, familiar.
The officer in charge of the case stood aghast, his trained eyes searching out the corners, examining and noting, but achieving nothing. Without doubt he was standing before a crime, and there was no crime without a criminal, and the criminal could not be brought to light other than through some clue. Here all the windows were securely closed, so the murderer had come in and gone out by the door. Also, the murdered man had died of strangulation with a cord. How, then, had the murderer been able to wind the cord around the man’s neck? Perhaps he had been able to do so while his victim was asleep. This was the acceptable explanation, there being no trace of any resistance. Another explanation was that he had taken his victim unawares from behind, done him in, laid him out on the bed, put everything back in order, and then gone off without leaving a trace. What a man! What nerves! He operated with patience, deliberation, calm, and precision, as happens only in fiction. In control of himself, of the murdered man, of the crime, and of the whole location—then off he goes, safe and sound! What a murderer!
The Time and the Place: And Other Stories Page 9