Mahgub, who was so infuriated and enraged by the man’s frigid demeanor that he was forced to hide his feelings behind a smile, said, “Your Excellency doubtless knows many things.”
Since his soul would not allow him to deny this, he smiled mysteriously and said confidently, “Just be patient. Perceptive people will not have long to wait.”
“How about a reassuring comment?”
As his desire to torment Mahgub returned, he asked, feigning ignorance, “What’s scaring you?”
The young man’s bulging eyes widened in astonishment and he raised his eyebrows. Then he retorted sarcastically, “Aswan’s beautiful in August!”
Al-Ikhshidi shrugged his shoulders dismissively and replied, “Any place glory flourishes is fine.”
“So the rumors are well-founded then.”
Al-Ikhshidi was silent for a moment while he searched for an answer that would not make him look like a fool in the near future or thereafter. Then he said, “No one knows even now; beyond that, well, politics is crazy.”
Enraged and resentful, Mahgub returned to his office, telling himself: Mrs. Umm Salim’s son wants me to think he’s an astute politician. Damn him!
At noon, the ministry was filled with the rumor that the cabinet actually had resigned. Someone said he had telephoned Bulkeley and that the report had been confirmed. The office workers were agitated in a way seen only when cabinets fall. They congregated in the corridors speaking in raised voices about the new ministers. Mahgub was very upset and there was a glum look in his eyes. The messenger came to tell him that Qasim Bey had left the ministry. He contacted al-Ikhshidi by phone to ask which direction the bey had been heading when he left. He replied he didn’t know. Mahgub spoke with a bunch of friends in the different ministries—by telephone—and received these responses. “What news do you have, so-and-so?” “The situation is critical. What’s the latest news, sir?” “Shit. Anything new, so-and-so?” “They hit the one-eyed man’s good eye. Have you heard the strange rumors, my dear?” “About the cabinet? To hell, sir.” And so forth, until he felt certain that the cabinet was in its final throes.
His telephone rang, and it was his wife, Ihsan. He felt apprehensive. “Have you heard the news?”
“The cabinet?”
“Yes. It resigned.”
“How do you know?”
“A special edition of the newspapers.”
“So …”
“I’m calling to reassure you.”
“How? This doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it makes a lot of sense. I’ll give you the details when you come home. For now, you should know that the bey told me the new cabinet will be different but that the alliance remains intact.”
“You’re certain?”
“I have some other news that will delight you. You’ll hear it when you return.”
She hung up, and then the young man immediately rose and left the room. On the way home he heard newspaper vendors proclaiming as loudly as possible the fall of the government. Interest and excitement were in the air everywhere. Despotism was routed, the bloodshedder had been toppled, and the rope of tyranny had been removed from the necks of the Egyptians, or almost. No one felt the delight he did, and had it not been for the good word from his wife he would have burst into tears. He found Ihsan waiting for him. She received him with a sweet smile and proceeded to tell him her news. She repeated in person what she had said over the telephone and then asked him, “Do you know who your new minister is?”
He asked her in amazement, “Who?”
“Qasim Bey Fahmi.”
He stared at her dumbfounded, blushed, and then asked her, “Did he tell you that?”
“Yes.”
He was overwhelmed by a feeling of relief and delight, but that did not last long. He was soon picking at his left eyebrow as he said, “Minister! I wish he had kept his current post. A cabinet post is a transitory thing, not a life appointment. Who will be there for us tomorrow?”
But his suspicion had no effect on her. She imagined that the cabinet post was her own. She replied incredulously, “He’s the minister. Don’t you understand?”
“Yes, darling. It’s a happy opportunity. It’s just that cabinets are as short-lived as happy dreams. It will resign sooner or later and then we’ll find ourselves without a patron or at the mercy of merciless enemies.”
She did not respond. He communicated his infectious anxiety to her, and she secretly cursed it. Thinking quickly and with penetration, the young man began to weigh matters and their possibilities. Then he said, “This is our last chance. So either we know how to exploit it and we’re on easy street or we let it slip from our hands and are disgraced.”
Their eyes met. She grasped what he meant but waited till he explained his idea. Mahgub continued, “If he resigns when we’re in a reasonable position, we won’t have to regret his resignation.”
Then after a short silence, he concluded, “I must join his office staff.”
“As his secretary?”
He shook his head as if to say, That wouldn’t suffice. He continued, “His secretary is at the sixth level, which is useless, but his office manager is at the fourth level.”
“Is it possible to leap from the sixth to the fourth level?”
“I could be promoted to fifth in lieu of fourth. In the civil service there are interpretations broad enough to allow anything. What do you think?”
She bit her lip to hide her proud smile. She understood that any level to which he ascended was tantamount to hers. She entertained no doubt that the hoped-for fourth level could preserve her at the standard of living she currently enjoyed. She sincerely shared his feelings and stammered in a low voice, “I don’t think he would refuse me any request.”
So he responded enthusiastically and supportively, “Go for it. Go for it, champ! Our destiny rests on the result of your efforts.”
The next morning he picked up al-Ahram with interest and looked at the front page. He ran his eyes down a column of photographs, pictures of the new ministers, and found what he was looking for in the middle: a picture of Qasim Bey Fahmi. So his eyes rested on it, and he sighed deeply. Was it possible that his hope would be realized? Could a kiss, a look, or a sigh transport him from one status to another and promote him from one rank to the other?
39
With in a few days the new minister had taken up residence in Cairo—rather than Bulkeley—because of chronic asthma. On the fourth day after the bey’s appointment as minister, Mahgub learned that a decision had been made to choose him for the position of office manager. Ihsan greeted him with a smile and said proudly, “Congratulations!” His heart pounded with delight, and he was bowled over by the surprise—as if he had not focused his entire attention on this hope for the past four days. The aspiration had turned into a splendid reality. He would become a senior government official. The fifth level wasn’t anything to scoff at. So what if it was a stepping stone to the fourth? In his mind’s eye he could see the fourth boldly inscribed. Then the words evolved into images: an armchair surrounded by assistants as many people of all classes approached deferentially. Had he been able to see himself imagining this glory, he would have been as scornful as ever, because he was frowning haughtily and casting a lofty gaze around from a supercilious head. At that time he took pleasure in flipping through the pages of his recent past: those February nights, the ful shop in Giza Square, the trip to the Pyramids, his comings and goings between Giza, al-Fustat Street, and al-Ikhshidi—his hand extended to beg—his marriage, and then this culmination! His head, which was crammed full of daring and philosophy, seemed a lamp illuminating the right path. So he felt good and rubbed his hands together gleefully.
He went to the ministry early the next day and sat in his office, which he was about to quit and which seemed rather mean. He was, however, not the only person to arrive early. The door opened and Mr. Salim al-Ikhshidi appeared on his doorstep. He felt uncomfortable but naturally did not allow his d
iscomfort to show on his face. He rose smiling to welcome his guest. He was wondering what had inspired the man to swallow his pride and come to his office. Holding his hand out to him with delight, he said, “Welcome, Your Excellency. Come in and have a seat!”
They both sat down. Al-Ikhshidi volunteered one of his rare smiles and spoke in general terms about the new cabinet and the bey who would replace Qasim Bey. Then with his customary composure he said, “I have something I want to disclose to you. I’ve instructed your messenger not to allow anyone to enter.”
The young man guessed what he wanted to say and felt spiteful and resentful but in his welcoming, delighted tone said, “That’s fine. Here I am at your command.”
Al-Ikhshidi focused his round eyes on him and said, “The matter is deadly serious since it concerns our future and we definitely both stand to profit from it. But I would like to ask you first of all: Haven’t you found me to be a sincere friend?”
“Of course, the best of friends.”
Mahgub said that, feeling amazed by this pleasant, gracious tone, which he had not heard al-Ikhshidi use before. What had become of all the commanding, forbidding, and scolding? Where were the coldness and the haughtiness? He felt deep inside intrusive resentment and scorn. Then he heard him say, “Thank you. Our friendship is a precious treasure. Because of it we will be able to plunge into any difficulties like a hand in a glove.”
“As always, what you suggest is the wisest approach.”
He secretly observed: You may speak as much as treachery requires about friendship. Cunning devil, I know you as well as you know yourself. It’s enough for me to understand myself to understand you. Every bane has its corresponding nemesis!
Al-Ikhshidi gave him a piercing look and said, “I’ve learned that a memo is being drafted to appoint you the minister’s office manager.”
This was the essential point. Did he want him to relinquish the post to him? How stupid he was! How could he have forgotten that Mahgub was his pupil? Religion, morality, and etiquette could not keep him from this position. Did the man think that his “friendship” would succeed where all other powers had failed? He said calmly, “Yes. I learned that only yesterday.”
Al-Ikhshidi replied, “This pleases me as it does you, although I would like to direct your attention to the fact that the office manager position is at the fourth level and you’re at the sixth. If a fifth level had been vacant, you would have achieved your objective. If you take my position and let me have your new job, that will realize all our hopes.”
Mahgub wondered privately whether al-Ikhshidi was a numbskull or just pretending to be one. Didn’t he realize that he was aspiring to the fourth level itself? And suppose that a leap to the fourth level wasn’t feasible for him, was there any doubt that he would rather have both of them at the fifth level than have al-Ikhshidi pave the way for his eventual promotion? Looking at his companion with pretended concern, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”
Al-Ikhshidi said, “Tell the minister that you would be satisfied with my position.”
The critical moment had arrived. He realized that the friendship myth they had chanted in unison doubtless hung on a single word. He hesitated a little, remembering that al-Ikhshidi’s enmity was not something to be dismissed lightly, since he was not a man like Ali Taha or Ma’mun Radwan whose vengeance would be limited by their honor. This was a man—just like him—who had no morals and no principles and who knew everything. What could he do? He reflected for a time. He told himself his secret would certainly come out some day, if people like Ahmad Badir did not actually know it. And what effect had Badir’s mocking comments about the heroes of the party of the Society for Blind Women had on them? Tuzz! Then he shouldn’t hesitate. Let al-Ikhshidi and his friendship go to hell. As a storm of disdain swept through him, he said, “Don’t you think, Salim Bey, that this would mean rejecting an honor that the minister has chosen for me?”
Al-Ikhshidi cast him a look that seemed to say, “You son of a bitch!” With amazing self-control, though, he retained his composure. He was silent for a moment. He was ready to ask him to reconsider. One of his smiles was almost traced on his lips as graceful comments were lining up on his tongue. He almost said something about friendship and cooperation, but his will prevented all this. So he remained silent as his face and regard froze. He confined his commentary to asking in an expressionless voice, “Is that what you think?”
Mahgub replied nonchalantly after his guardian demon had gained the upper hand, “Yes. Don’t you agree with me?”
Turning his eyes away, al-Ikhshidi muttered, “That makes sense. You’re right. Thanks. Congratulations!”
He quit the room with unhurried steps, his pride having returned. Mahgub rested his elbows on his desk thoughtfully. He had previously lost Ali Taha and Ma’mun Radwan and had quickly forgotten. This time he was assailed by fear. Enraged by this fear, he clenched his fist angrily. Apparently wishing to forget his concern, he rose and left the room for the personnel office to see for himself the memo of his appointment.
40
Mr. Mahgub Abd al-Da’im—henceforth to be known as Mahgub Bey Abd al-Da’im—settled into the room reserved for the office manager. The senior staff of the ministry came in a delegation to congratulate him. It was a great day of memorable glory. Some of them congratulated him “in anticipation” on his promotion to the fourth level, as if it were a done deal. Salim al-Ikhshidi, however, did not come to offer his felicitations and thus frankly declared his enmity. News made the rounds in the ministry that al-Ikhshidi would transfer to Foreign Affairs, where he would be promoted to the fourth level. It was not difficult for Mahgub to guess the source of this rumor. He did not, however, discount its validity, because he knew of the man’s links to leading statesmen. He told himself: Al-Ikhshidi’s powerful—there’s no dispute about that. Had it not been for my wife, I wouldn’t have defeated him. He would have my place today. He felt delighted. If al-Ikhshidi really did transfer, that would clear the air for him and he would become the minister’s right-hand man just as his wife was already tops with the minister. Although he was no doubt overjoyed by this, his joy did not last long. He began brooding again about al-Ikhshidi’s anger and the forms his revenge might take. Soon his spirit of scornful contempt resurfaced and his good humor returned. He began to tell himself: People love appearances and are deceived by dissimulation. If he was forced to defend himself, he would provide them with all the deceptive surface gloss they wanted, even if he were obliged to join the Society for Muslim Youth, for example. So tuzz for everything, except not for people, at least not in public. He was incapable of banishing al-Ikhshidi and his anger from his mind, however. He had a thought that troubled him greatly. Why hadn’t this occurred to him before? Al-Ikhshidi was a former neighbor from al-Qanatir. Wasn’t it possible that his desire for vengeance would be so great that he would spill the secret in some manner to his parents? He swallowed with difficulty and his face turned a pale yellow. He started to tug at his eyebrow with pensive discomfort. He remained thoughtful and uncomfortable until he realized that he should not sacrifice his joy on this glorious day to whispered insinuations that might never materialize. He snorted with resentful rage, clenched his fist angrily, and told himself: The course has been set. What’s done is done. So let the results be what they may. It was quite a remote possibility that al-Ikhshidi would tell the truth about his marriage, because he himself knew facts about him that were no less damning. Moreover, al-Ikhshidi was too judicious to disclose a secret that would expose himself to Qasim Bey’s wrath. On the other hand, he should anticipate that his father would hear about his appointment. He had better arrange to provide for the man’s needs and to safe-guard his honor. Wishing to shake off his concerns, he spread a piece of paper on his desk and wrote down the sum of his new salary: twenty-five pounds. His protruding eyes rested on the figure till he beamed. He would receive that much on the first of October, which was not too far off. Could the owner of the beanery
in Giza Square imagine that? Indeed, not even Ma’mun Radwan himself would earn more after he returned from studying abroad—in eight years! Tuzz had scored a dazzling victory! He felt such relief at this realization that it consoled him for all the pain, discomfort, anxiety, and grief he had suffered. He felt a pure delight at his liberation from this imaginary but malignant malady called conscience or remorse. He did fear people at times, and jealousy tormented him on other occasions, but remorse was quite a different kettle of fish. His rejection of society and its values was dazzlingly complete. He certainly believed he would continue to be powerful and free to the end and that he would not soften or weaken even if stricken by ill health or forced to live in reduced circumstances. How beautiful it was to taunt death when dying and to stare at annihilation with an eye capable of processing what was happening without any terror about some imaginary force or nugatory god. In this way a free intellect could vanquish blind instincts and trumped-up superstitions. He recalled Qasim Bey Fahmi, al-Ikhshidi, and tens of others with whom he was in contact in his new life. All of them seemed to belong to his school. No—he haughtily rejected that idea. Those men did evil knowing it was evil. Some committed an act without distinguishing between good and evil. Others simply did not take the trouble to reflect. Some did evil believing it to be good. He was unlike all the others, because he denied the existence of both good and evil and spurned the society that had concocted them. He believed in himself and nothing else. Some things were pleasant or painful, useful or harmful, but good and evil were purely pointless fantasies. Many a person would say, “If everyone believed that, everyone would perish.” That was true. There was no debate about that. But he wasn’t a big enough fool to seek converts to his point of view, which he reserved for himself alone. If he did speak, it would be to men like himself who were liberated from those idiotic believers. Society tolerated people who were good at concealment—like him. Since society was only interested in its continued existence, it was hostile even to its well-wishers who sang about perfecting it—people like Ali Taha and Ma’mun Radwan. Society resembled a conceited woman who spurns any admirer she finds criticizing her. Thus society’s critics are destined to fatigue, struggle, and perhaps even prison.
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