Palace Walk tct-1

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Yasin stood before him still, silent, with his head bowed, as though he were about to melt away into the darkness. When the father had screamed as much as he could, he turned his back on him and left the place, cursing him and his father and mother. In his rage, he thought that Yasin’s slip was a crime deserving the ultimate punishment. In his fury, he neglected to remember that his own past was a long and repeated series of slips like Yasin's. He had persisted with this conduct even halfway through his fifth decade, when his children were growing up and some were married. His rage did not really make him forget, but he allowed himself liberties he did not permit any of his family. He had a right to do what he wanted, but they were expected to adhere to the limits he imposed on them.

  His anger was possibly greater at the elements present in Yasin’s offense of challenge to his will, disdain for his existence, and distortion of the image he wanted to have of his children than at the offense itself. But as usual his anger did not last long. Its flames soon died down and its blaze abated. He slowly became calm, although his façade, and just his façade, remained despondent and distressed. He was now able to see Yasin’s "crime" from more than one angle. He could contemplate it with a clear head. Its darker side faded to reveal its various comic aspects, which entertained his enforced solitude. The first thing that occurred to him was to look for an excuse for the guilty party. It was not from any love of lenience, for he hated to be lenient at home. He wanted to use this excuse as an explanation for Yasin’s apparent violation of his will. He seemed to be telling himself, "My son did not disobey me… Far from it! His excuse is such and such".

  Should his youth be considered an excuse, since it was a time of recklessness and rashness? Certainly not… Youth might be an excuse for the offense, but it was no excuse for defying his will. Otherwise Fahmy and even Kamal would be allowed any extremes in ignoring his instructions. The excuse should be sought, then, in his status as a man. It was his manhood that gave him a right to free himself from his father’s will, if only to a limited extent, and spared al-Sayyid Ahmad from bearing responsibility for his son’s deeds. The father seemed to be telling himself, "He did not disobey me. Far from it! He’s just reached an age when it’s not an offense to deviate from my will". Needless to say, he would not admit this truth to Yasin and would never have forgiven his son if Yasin had dared to make this demand. Indeed, he would not admit it to himself unless there was a rebellious act requiring some justification. To reassure himself, he did not forget even under such circumstances to remind himself that he had been unusually hard on his son when he was growing up. Few fathers were so strict. Yasin had submitted totally to this discipline in a way that few sons would have.

  He turned his mind thoughtfully to Zaynab, but he felt no sympathy for her. He had tried to comfort her out of respect for her father, who was his dear friend, but he felt the girl was not really worthy of her father. It was not appropriate for a good wife to implicate her husband in a scandal as she had, no matter what the circumstances. How she had wailed! How she had screamed! What would he have done if Amina had surprised him one day in a comparable situation? But what was she compared with Amina? Moreover, how shamelessly she had recounted to him everything she had seen… Pshaw! Pshaw! If this girl had not been Muhammad Iffat’s daughter, Yasin would have been within his rights to discipline her for what she had done. He himself would not have been happy to allow this incident to pass without a scolding to punish her. Yasin had made a mistake, but she had made an even greater one.

  Then his thoughts quickly returned to Yasin. With inner joy he thought about the temperament they both shared. They had no doubt inherited it from the grandfather. It might well be blazing in Fahmy’s chest behind a veil of culture and morality. In fact, did he not remember how he had come home unexpectedly one day and heard Kamal singing "O bird, you up in the tree"? He had waited outside the door, not merely to pretend he had arrived after the song was completed but also to follow the voice, savoring its timbre and probing its length of breath. When the boy had finished the tune, he had banged the door and coughed when he entered. He had concealed inside his breast his delight, which no one had detected. He was pleased to see himself flourishing once more in the lives of his sons-at least during calm and serene times. But not so fast… Yasin’s disposition was peculiar to him and not something they shared. They did not have a single temperament, if the precise meaning of the word was to be respected. Yasin was a blind animal… He had assaulted Umm Hanafi once and had been caught again with Nur. He thought nothing of wallowing in the mud. He himself was not like that!

  Yes, he could understand how vexing it had been for Yasin to be forced to spend the night in something like a prison. He understood, because he had endured it too, feeling depressed and sad, as though he had lost a loved one. Suppose he had been strolling around the roof garden like the boy and had come upon a maid-assuming she was to his liking-would he have embarked on this adventure? Certainly not… absolutely not! But what obstacle would have restrained him? Perhaps the location? The family! Perhaps his maturity… Oh, he became irritated when this last possibility came to mind. He imagined that he envied Yasin both his youthful appetite and the folly of his slip… No, however that might be, they had two different temperaments.

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad was not infatuated with women per se, with no conditions or stipulations. His lust was always distinguished by a taste for luxury. It was propelled by a refined sense of selection. It was concerned about social qualifications, which it lumped together with the customary physical ones. He was infatuated with feminine beauty in all its flesh, coquetry, and elegance. Jalila, Zubayda, Maryam’s mother, and tens more like them had all possessed at least some of these characteristics. In addition to that, it was not like him to be comfortable or content without a delightful setting and a congenial gathering, along with the wine, pleasant conversation, and music that went with such occasions. He did not need to spend much time with a new lover before she would realize what he desired and prepare the kind of setting his soul yearned for, with a fragrant atmosphere redolent of roses, incense, and musk.

  Just as he loved beauty in the abstract, he loved it in its glittering social framework. He liked to be noticed and to have a widespread reputation. Therefore he enjoyed sharing his love and lovers with his special friends, except on those rare occasions when circumstances required him to be discreet and secretive, as with Maryam’s mother. This social use of his love did not require him to sacrifice beauty, for in his circle beauty and reputation went hand in hand, like an object and its shadow. Beauty was most often the magic wand that opened the door to reputation and noteworthy status. He had been the lover of some of the most famous entertainers of his time. Not one of them had disappointed his yearning for beauty or his craving for loveliness.

  For these reasons he thought scornfully of Yasin’s conquests. He repeated disapprovingly, "Umm Hanafi!.. Nur!.. What a beast he is!" He himself was innocent of such abnormal lusts, although he did not need to wonder too long about their source. He had not forgotten the woman who had given birth to Yasin. She had passed on to him her character with its passion for the sordid. He was responsible for the strength of Yasin’s lust, but she had to answer for the nature of this lust and its base inclinations.

  The next morning he thought seriously about the issue again. He almost summoned the couple to try to reconcile them with each other and with him, but he deferred it to a more appropriate time than morning.

  When Fahmy asked Yasin why he stayed away from the breakfast table, he answered tersely, "It’s just some trivial thing. I'll tell you about it later".

  Fahmy remained in the dark about the secret reason his father was angry with Yasin until he learned that the maid Nur had disappeared. He was then able to guess everything. The morning started off in an unusual way for the family, because Yasin left the house early and Zaynab stayed in her room. Then the other men of the family left the house. They were agitated and careful not to look at the soldiers.
Behind the peephole of the window, the mother prayed for God to protect them from any harm.

  Amina did not want to become involved in the "incident" on the roof. She went down to the oven room and waited from one moment to the next for Zaynab to join her as usual. She would not admit that Zaynab had a right to be angry about her honor. She considered it a form of coquetry of which she disapproved. She began to ask herself, "How can she claim rights for herself that no other woman has ever claimed?"

  It was clear that Yasin had done something wrong. He had defiled a pure house. But he had wronged his father and stepmother, not Zaynab… "I'm an angel compared with that girl…"

  As the waiting became protracted, she could no longer pretend to ignore the girl. She convinced herself that it was her duty to go console her. She went up to her apartment and called her. She entered the room and found no trace of her. She went from room to room, calling her until she had searched the whole house. Then she struck her hands together and exclaimed, "O Lord… has Zaynab seen fit to leave her home?"

  59

  Amina found no relief from her anxiety all day long. The possibility that the soldiers would stop one of her men going or coming never left her head. Fahmy was the first to return. On seeing him, she felt slightly less anxious, but when she noticed he was frowning she asked, "What’s the matter, son?"

  He complained, "I hate these soldiers".

  The woman told him apprehensively, "Don't let them see it. If you love me, don't do it".

  Even without her entreaty he would not have. He was not bold enough to challenge them with even a look as he walked along at their mercy. He kept his eyes from turning to gaze at any of them. On his way home he had asked himself sarcastically what they would do with him if they knew he was returning from a demonstration during which a violent confrontation had taken place and that early in the morning he had distributed tens of handbills inciting people to resist the soldiers.

  He sat down to pass in review the events of the day. He recalled a few of them as they had actually happened but most as he wished they had been. It was his notion to work during the day and dream in the evening. In both cases, he was motivated by the most sublime and most hideous emotions: patriotism and a desire to kill and devastate. His dreams would intoxicate him for some time and then he would rouse himself, sad that they were impossible to carry out and depressed because they seemed silly. The fabric of these dreams was woven from the battles he would lead like Joan of Arc. Having seized the enemy’s weapons, he would attack, achieving the defeat of the English, and then deliver his immortal speech in Cairo’s Opera Square. The English would be forced to announce the independence of Egypt. Sa'd would return triumphant from exile. Fahmy would meet the leader, who would address the nation. Maryam would be present at the historic inauguration. Yes, his dreams were always crowned by the image of Maryam, even though, like the moon hidden behind storm clouds, she had been tucked away all this time in a remote corner of his heart that was beset by distractions.

  Before he knew what was happening, his mother, tightening the kerchief around her head, told him uneasily, "Zaynab’s angry and has left for her father’s home".

  Oh… he had almost forgotten what had happened to his brother and family that morning. His speculations when he learned that the maid, Nur, had disappeared were now confirmed. He avoided his mother’s eyes in embarrassment. He did not want her to discern what was passing through his mind, especially since he was sure she knew the truth of the matter. He thought it likely that she realized he knew about it too or at least suspected he did. He did not know what to say, since in his conversations with her he was not accustomed to pretending things he did not feel. He hated nothing so much as having wiles replace candor in their relationship. He limited himself to muttering, "May our Lord remedy the situation".

  Amina said nothing more, as though the disappearance of Zaynab was a trivial event to be dismissed with a declarative statement and a pious wish.

  Fahmy had to hide a smile, which almost betrayed that he knew more than he was saying. He realized that his mother was suffering too. She was uneasy because she had no natural talent for acting. She was not good at lying. Even if she was forced to prevaricate at times, her temperament, which was too straightforward to allow the veils of deception to cling, would give her away.

  Their confusion did not last long, for in a few minutes they saw Yasin heading toward them. From the way he looked up at them, they imagined he did not realize what problems lay in store for him in the house, although even they did not know the extent of the trouble. Fahmy was not surprised, for he knew that Yasin paid little attention to problems other people found oppressive.

  Yasin was overwhelmed by the breathtaking sensation of having emerged triumphant from an adventure that had caused him to forget most of his problems, if only temporarily. He had been on his way to the house when a soldier, apparently popping up from nowhere, had blocked his way. Yasin had trembled all over, expecting unprecedented evil or at least a distressing insult that would be observed by the shop owners and passers by. He had not hesitated to defend himself, addressing the soldier gently and ingratiatingly, as though asking permission to pass: "Please, sir".

  The soldier had asked for a match and smiled. Yes, he had smiled. Yasin had been so astonished to see him smile that he had encountered difficulty understanding what he wanted until the soldier repeated his request. He had never imagined that an English soldier would smile that way. Even if English soldiers smiled like other human beings, he would not have thought one would smile at him so politely. He had been transported by delight and remained frozen for a few moments, neither offering an answer nor making a motion. Then with all the energy he could muster, he had tackled this simple assignment for the mighty, smiling soldier. Since he did not smoke and did not carry any matches, he had gone at once to al-Hajj Darwish, who sold beans, and purchased a box of matches. Then he had rushed back to the soldier, holding it out to him. The soldier had taken it and said, in English, "Thank you".

  Yasin had not yet recovered from the impact of that magical smile. Now here was "thank you". It was like a glass of beer a person drinks to refresh himself when he has had enough whiskey. It filled Yasin with gratitude and pride. His pudgy face blushed and beamed as though the words "thank you" were a high decoration with which he had been publicly invested. It practically guaranteed that he would be able to go and come as he pleased in perfect safety. As soon as the soldier gave the first sign of moving away, Yasin told him in a friendly manner that came straight from his heart, "Good luck, sir".

  Yasin proceeded to the house almost reeling with joy. What good luck he had had… An Englishman-not an Australian or an Indian-had smiled at him and thanked him… An Englishman-in other words, the kind of man he imagined to embody all the perfections of the human race. Yasin probably detested the English as all Egyptians did, but deep inside he respected and venerated them so much that he frequently imagined they were made from a different stuff than the rest of mankind. This man had smiled at him and thanked him… Yasin had answered him correctly, imitating English pronunciation so far as his mouth would allow. He had succeeded splendidly and had merited the man’s thanks.

  How could he believe the brutal acts attributed to them? Why had they exiled Sa'd Zaghlul if they were so gracious? His enthusiasm faded the moment his eyes fell on Mrs. Amina and Fahmy. From their expressions he could grasp that something was wrong. His worries, from which he had been temporarily severed, wound round him like a rope. He realized that he was confronted once more by the problem from which he had fled early that morning. Pointing upstairs, he asked, "Why isn't she sitting with you? Is she still angry?"

  Amina exchanged a glance with Fahmy. Then she muttered nervously, "She’s gone to her father".

  He raised his eyebrows in astonishment or alarm. Then he asked her, "Why did you let her go?"

  Amina replied with a sigh, "She slipped out without anyone noticing".

  He felt he ought to s
ay something to defend his honor in front of his brother and stepmother. He declared scornfully, "Whatever she wants".

  Fahmy decided to resist his urge to keep silent. He wanted his brother to think he knew nothing about his secret and also wished to dispel any suspicion that he had heard it from his mother. He asked simply, "What caused this misfortune?"

  Yasin gave him a searching look. He waved his large hand and grimaced as if to say, "Nothing’s caused any misfortune". Then he observed, "Girls today no longer have the ability to get along with people". Looking at Mrs. Amina, he asked, "Where are the ladies of yesteryear?"

  Amina bowed her head, apparently from embarrassment but actually to hide a smile that got the better of her when her mind tried to reconcile the image of Yasin now-contemplative, hortatory, and victimized-with the Yasin of the previous evening when he had been caught on the roof. All the same, Yasin’s discomfort was far greater than the circumstances allowed him to admit. Despite the oppressive disappointment he had sustained in his married life, he had never thought for a moment of terminating it. He found in marriage a secure haven and refuge, not to mention the promise of imminent fatherhood, which he welcomed enthusiastically. He had always hoped to have his marriage waiting for him when he returned from his various sorties like an explorer returning to his homeland at the end of the year. He was not oblivious to the new conflict between him and his father as well as Mr. Iffat that would result from his wife’s departure. All of this would be further clouded by the scandal. Its odor would be diffused until it stopped up everyone’s nostrils… The bitch! He had been fully determined to bring her around gradually to confessing that her error was more serious than his. Indeed, he may even have been so convinced that he felt it would certainly happen. He had sworn to make her apologize and to discipline her, but she had departed. She had turned his plans upside down and left him in an extremely awkward crisis. The bitch!