Arabian Nights and Days

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Ragab was reminded of his first friend, Sindbad, and said, “Come along with me, for God is a generous provider.”

  II

  In spirit and body he hovered around his family. What value would there have been in his life if he had been detached from both his family and his head? He went on following Rasmiya and Akraman until they settled themselves in a room in the residence building where Sanaan’s family were living. Without hesitation, he rented himself a room in the same building and became known as Abdullah the porter. In the clouds of his unrest it pleased him that it had been Umm Saad who had led his family to their new home. It pleased him that Umm Saad had not forgotten the fact that they had been neighbors of old and had not forgotten Rasmiya’s attempt to help her in her adversity. She would join with Rasmiya in making the sweetmeats, which Fadil Sanaan would peddle round to the advantage of both families. He was greatly pleased by that, as well as by having them as neighbors. He enjoyed seeing them and knowing they were well. He would express his love for them and carry out such duties of a husband and a father as he was able to from afar, his situation being known by no one. He expected that Fadil would marry his daughter Akraman, as agreed with Sanaan, just as he dreamed one day of marrying Husniya, Fadil’s sister.

  He went on in that strange life, at times feeling he was alive, at others that he was dead.

  III

  Indeed, he was both Abdullah the living and Gamasa the dead: a strange experience never before known to man. Working for his daily bread in the company of Ragab, he would remember that he was alive; then, crossing the street under his suspended head, or seeing Rasmiya and Akraman, he would remember that he was dead. Never losing sight of his miraculous escape from death, he resolved to walk along the path of godliness till the end. He would find his pleasure in worship and would take delight in his solitude through remembering God. He would inwardly address his suspended head with the words “May you remain a symbol of the death of a wicked man who long abused his soul,” though his heart would continually be filled with nostalgia for his short-lived persona, that persona that had crowned its life with a sincere repentance, ever stirred by the thought that a man could die when alive or live when dead. Who was there who could believe he was Gamasa al-Bulti in his hidden essence? Was it conceivable that he alone would possess this secret forever? Even Rasmiya and Akraman looked at him as if he were some stranger from foreign parts. He would thus feel before their indifferent gaze a cruel sense of alienation and of tortured injustice. Not once had they become aware of that deep-rooted love that lay behind his furtive glances. They gave back no echo to his feelings of longing. In their eyes the scene of the execution was repeated every morning and evening, and their sorrow at the memory of him cut into his soul as they immersed themselves in the daily worries of life. They would never believe that life had been granted to him by a miracle, nor be able to accept this fact. They had swallowed the agonies of his death and had suffered the grief. They had experienced life without him, and leaving their new situation would be as difficult as it had been to enter it. He would not venture to raze the new structure, would not be able to. He who had died must continue in death as a mercy to those he loves. It was up to him to get used to his death in his new life—let him be Abdullah the porter, not Gamasa al-Bulti. Let his happiness lie in work and worship. Nonetheless, his work often led him to the houses of his former friends and to the mansions of those with influence and positions of power: the world of outward piety and latent corruption. All that brought him back to thinking about himself and the circumstances of people, and it spoiled the serenity of his spiritual peace. He was pursued by crookedness and deviation as though his limbs had been taken by storm and their functions negated. He told himself that just as the stars proceed on their way in splendid order, so too must the concerns of God’s creatures.

  “But have I stayed on in life by a miracle in order that I might work as a porter?” he asked himself uneasily.

  IV

  Shahriyar looked at the specters of the trees that whispered together in the night. The sultan reclined in his seat on the back balcony despite the fact that autumn was retreating before the harbingers of winter. He was more able to bear the cold than to dispute with the flood of his thoughts. Turning toward his vizier Dandan, he inquired, “Do you dislike the dark?”

  “I like what Your Majesty likes,” the vizier said loyally.

  He was always asking himself whether the sultan had truly changed or whether it was a passing phase. But be patient. In the past he had been decisive, clear, cruel, and insensitive. Now a perplexed look was quick to flash in his eyes.

  “The nation is happy and profuse in its thanks,” said Dandan.

  “Ali al-Salouli was murdered,” muttered the sultan sharply, “and was quickly followed by Khalil al-Hamadhani.”

  “Good and evil are like day and night,” said Dandan with compassion.

  “And the genies?”

  “When faced with the leather mat of execution a criminal makes up what story he can.”

  “But I remember the stories of Shahrzad,” he said quietly.

  Dandan’s heart beat fast and he said, “A murderer must meet his punishment.”

  “The truth is that I was on the point of contenting myself with imprisoning Gamasa al-Bulti.” Then wrathfully, “But I executed him as a penalty for his insolent way of addressing me.”

  Dandan told himself that his master had changed only superficially. However, he said, “The villain in any case received his due.”

  “And I got my share of depression,” he said sharply.

  “Your Majesty, no doubt it is a transitory indisposition.”

  “No, it is one of the conditions of being—and did Shahrzad’s stories tell me of anything apart from death?”

  “Death!” said the vizier uneasily.

  “Peoples swallowed up by peoples, with a sole determined victor knocking finally at their door: the Destroyer of Pleasures.”

  “It is the will of God, may your continuance in life be long!”

  “The heart is a place of secrets,” he said in an even voice, “and melancholy is shy. The kings of old were cured at night by wandering round and investigating the circumstances of the people.”

  Grasping at the life buoy, Dandan said, “Wandering about and investigating people’s circumstances—what an inspiration!”

  He said to himself, “A being without limits to his power: he may show himself to be a flower or he may bring about an earthquake.”

  V

  Abdullah the porter continues on his rounds without pause: in the culs-de-sac and winding alleys, in the merchants’ and craftsmen’s quarters, along the boat routes, through the squares for shooting practice, hunting, and executions, and under the huge gates that act as boundaries, with aromas diffused like signposts: the penetrating smell of the druggist’s shop, the narcotic essences, the tickling cloths, the appetizing foods, the stinking hides. Rasmiya and Akraman pass by, and Umm Saad and Husniya. He extends a greeting with a tongue that is hesitant in this world and with a heart that has inhabited the other. In his wanderings he has got to know Fadil Sanaan and has cemented his relationship with him. Among the people are those who keep in touch, such as Hasan the druggist and Nur al-Din, while some avoid him like the Devil.

  Abdullah was anxious that the story of the genie should not be spread abroad lest it put an end to the future of Akraman and Husniya, both of whom were well set up for successful marriages. He loved Fadil Sanaan for his seriousness, his piety, and his courage, so he chose the stairway to the public fountain as a place to rest during his day’s work, and there they would meet and chat. Once he said to him, “You’re a pious young man who performs all his prayers, so why do you not safeguard your virtue by marrying?”

  “I cannot find the necessary expenses.”

  “Not much is needed.”

  “I have my self-esteem and pride.”

  “There’s Akraman right in front of you,” said Abdullah temp
tingly.

  Their eyes met in a smile that revealed many secrets.

  “And you, Uncle Abdullah, are forty or more and are not married,” said Fadil.

  “I’m a widower, and I too would like to safeguard my virtue.”

  “It seems that you are in no need of a matchmaker.”

  “The lady Rasmiya, the mother of Akraman,” he said gently.

  Fadil laughed and said, “Let’s wait a little and we’ll present ourselves together.”

  “Why wait?”

  “So that the memory of Gamasa al-Bulti may be erased.”

  His heart contracted: he wanted Rasmiya on the strength of his loyalty and piety. But if he obeyed his desires he would choose none other than Husniya. The day that Rasmiya accepted him he would rejoice with half his heart, while the other half would be in mourning.

  VI

  Whenever he found himself alone he would ask, “Have I been kept in life by a miracle that I might work as a porter?” He would also wonder, “Why did Singam not desert me at the crucial moment, as Qumqam did with Sanaan al-Gamali?” Filled with perplexity, like a vessel open to the rain, he found his legs had brought him to the house of Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi. He kissed his hand and sat down cross-legged in front of him, saying, “I am a stranger.”

  “We are all strangers,” the sheikh interrupted him.

  “Your name is like a flower that draws to it the wandering bees.”

  “Good actions are better than good words.”

  “But what are good actions? This is my difficulty.”

  “Did you not, on your coming, happen upon a man at his wit’s end?”

  “Where, master?”

  “Between the stations of worship and of blood?” he said gently.

  He trembled in fear and realized that the sheikh could see that which was veiled.

  “In the pitch-black night the full moon is not to be found,” he said with a sigh.

  “I have known three types of disciples,” said the sheikh.

  “In all cases, they are fortunate.”

  “People who learn the principles and strive in the world; people who penetrate deeply in learning and assume control of things; and people who persevere in journeying right up to the spiritual station of love—but how few they are!”

  Abdullah the porter thought for a while, then said, “But mankind is in need of supervision.”

  Without losing his composure, the sheikh said, “Each in proportion to his zeal.”

  Abdullah overcame his own hesitancy by saying, “Yet I have had you as my goal, master.” He stumbled in silence as though to collect his thoughts, and the sheikh said, “Do not speak to me of your goal.”

  “Why not?”

  “Each in proportion to his zeal.” And he lowered his eyelids, withdrawing into himself.

  Abdullah waited for him to open them again, but he did not do so. Bending over and kissing his hand, he made his departure.

  VII

  He told himself that the sheikh was privy to his apprehensions and had brought him back to himself. This he must accept, since he had put his trust in someone. Tomorrow the evildoers will meet their woe by the resolve of a penitent man and the guile of an experienced policeman. He continued in his work, earning serenity and concentration of thought, and from a compassion that spread through his heart his mind provided itself with thoughts that knew no compassion, thoughts as sharp as the blade of a sword. All too quickly life had taken him by surprise with its droll contradictions, gory outcomes, and promised happiness. He refused to retreat because he had refused to take the gift of life without paying the price. Then Husniya would appear before him like a ray of hope gleaming in the sky of another world. In the late afternoon he would take himself off to the stairway of the public fountain, where Fadil Sanaan met with him. It became evident that the young man had leapt over time more quickly than he had reckoned.

  “I am going to ask for the hand of Akraman,” said Fadil.

  “Were you not thinking it best to wait a while?” Abdullah said in astonishment.

  “No, I’ve changed my mind—and I shall ask on your behalf for the hand of the lady Rasmiya.”

  Abdullah stayed silent in thought. No doubt she was in need of a man in her ordeal, and she could not hope for someone better than him.

  “How lovely for mother and daughter to marry on the same night,” said Fadil joyfully.

  Having come to like and trust him, Fadil began to recount to him the stories of Sanaan al-Gamali and Gamasa al-Bulti.

  VIII

  When Fadil had finished his exciting tale, Abdullah commented, “God honors those He wishes to honor and humbles those He wishes to humble.”

  “Each in accordance with his zeal,” muttered Fadil Sanaan.

  The sentence hit him like the smell of pepper, and he wondered whether Fadil had learned the words from the same source. Preparing the way for a new direction in the conversation, he said, “And part of the perfection of zeal is caution.”

  Each of them turned about in his mind his own thoughts for a while, then Abdullah said, “We are on the point of becoming one family, and so I tell you that a porter enters houses that are open only to the elite.”

  Fadil guessed that his friend was about to deliver himself of a confidence. He gave him an inquiring look and Abdullah said, “In the houses of Yusuf al-Tahir the governor and Adnan Shouma the chief of police there are sometimes whisperings about the enemies of the state.”

  “It’s only to be expected,” said Fadil, feigning indifference.

  “No one imagines that I understand the meaning of what is going on or that I am paying any attention to it.”

  “You’re an unusual man, Uncle Abdullah, and you continue to astonish me.”

  “There is nothing astonishing about the astuteness of a man who has moved about in different places and circumstances.”

  “I’m truly happy to be with you,” said Fadil.

  Abdullah continued with what he had to say. “They are people obsessed with delusions. The more they go to excesses of criminality, the more they conjure up the specters of Shiites and Kharijites.”

  “I know that only too well.”

  “So it was that I said that part of the perfection of zeal is caution.”

  Fadil gave him a questioning look and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “You’re intelligent enough to know.”

  “You seem to be warning me.”

  “There’s no harm in that.”

  “I am nothing but a seller of sweets—is there anything about me to cause you disquiet?”

  He gave an enigmatic smile and said, “I like caution as much as I like the Shiites and Kharijites.”

  “To which group do you belong?” Fadil asked him eagerly.

  “Neither to these nor to those, but I am the enemy of evildoers.” Abdullah found himself before an open invitation, but, as a former policeman, he preferred to proceed in his own fashion.

  IX

  Abdullah the porter darted out like an arrow into the sky of his perceived holy war. Calling upon his strength of former times, he subdued it on this occasion to his pure and firm will. Immediately, Buteisha Murgan, the private secretary, was felled, murdered. It happened as he was making his way among his guards from the house of government to his own house after midnight, when, from out of the darkness, an arrow struck him, lodging in his heart. He was sprawled across his mule among the lances and lanterns of his guards, who swooped down on the surrounding quarters, arresting every passerby they came across, the loafers and those sleeping about in corners. His house was consumed with grief and the house of government was rocked, with Yusuf al-Tahir going out like a madman at the head of his forces. The news reached the vizier Dandan, who was made sleepless with terror till morning. And with morning the news had spread through the quarter and the whole city.

  People were in a state of agitation and rumors were rife. It was a new link in the chain of the violent deaths of al-Salouli and al-Hamadhani,
a new confirmation of the mysterious world of genies. Or was it the Shiites or the Kharijites? Or perhaps it was an isolated incident behind which lay concealed a woman’s jealousy or a man’s envy?

  The skies opened up with heavy rain, which continued for the whole day so that mud piled up and water covered with scum flowed in the alleys and lanes, spoiling the arrangements for Buteisha’s funeral and burial, and warning of a cruel winter. Abdullah the porter slipped in among the common folk at the Café of the Emirs, his senses alert with concealed attention. The murder became the subject of all conversation, views differing between the declared thoughts of the elite and the whispered exchanges of the common folk. Abdullah spotted Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant engaged in a long conversation with Karam al-Aseel the millionaire and his heart tightened. He did not forget the penetrating look Sahloul had given him under his suspended head and he remembered seeing him circling around the retinue of the private secretary when he, Abdullah, had been about to shoot the arrow. So how was it that he had not been arrested? How had he vanished from the sight of the guards? Abdullah’s heart contracted with fear. He was surprised that, during the whole of his time as chief of police, the only man in the quarter about whom he had not come to know some secret was Sahloul. He was conversant with the circumstances of all the persons of position, with what was known and what was hidden, except for this man, who was a closed riddle.

  X

  The fever heat of those in positions of responsibility did not abate, nor the harsh measures taken by them. As for the rest of the people, they became used to the incident, grew bored with talking about it, then forgot about it. Soon the demands of life took over from the events of history, and Umm Saad, the widow of Sanaan, said to the lady Rasmiya, the widow of Gamasa al-Bulti, “With the blessing of God and His wisdom, my son Fadil would like to marry Akraman.”