Palace Walk tct-1

by Naguib Mahfouz

  "We heard the news that Sa'd had been released when we were at school. I was really ecstatic. Were you expecting that? Then the teachers suggested joining the large demonstration outside. I didn't feel like it and thought I'd slip off home but was forced to walk with them until I could get an opportunity to escape. Then I found myself in a swirling sea of people. There was an electric atmosphere of enthusiasm. Before I knew it, I forgot myself and merged with the stream. I was as zealous and optimistic as a person can be. Please believe me".

  Fahmy shook his head and murmured, "Amazing…"

  Yasin laughed out loud and asked, "Did you think I had lost my sense of patriotism? The thing is, I don't like noise and violence. I don't have any problem reconciling love of country and love of peace".

  "What if that reconciliation is shattered?"

  Yasin smiled and answered without any hesitation, "I put love of peace first. I come first… Is it impossible for my country to be happy unless it consumes my life? God’s deliverance! I'm not taking any chances with my life, but I'll love my country so long as I'm alive".

  "That’s very wise," Amina commented. Then, looking at Fahmy, she asked, "Does my master think otherwise?"

  Fahmy replied calmly, "Of course not. It’s very wise, as you said…"

  Kamal was not happy to be left out of the conversation, especially since he was convinced that he had played a vital role that day. He volunteered, "We went on strike too, but the headmaster told us we were still children and would be trampled underfoot if we left school. He gave us permission to demonstrate in the school courtyard. So we assembled there and chanted for a long time, 'Long live Sa'd.'" He repeated the chant in a loud voice. "After that we didn't go back to the classes, because the teachers had left the school to join the demonstrators outside".

  Yasin threw the boy a sarcastic look and remarked, "But your friends have gone…"

  "To hell," Kamal said, in spite of himself. The comment did not express his true feelings at all, but he felt that circumstances required it and, faced with Yasin’s sarcasm, he wished to mask his defeat. In his heart he felt bewildered and slandered. He could not forget how, on his return from school, he had stood in the deserted campsite, casting his eyes in every direction in painful silence as tears welled up in his eyes. It would be a long time before he forgot tea on the sidewalk by the cistern, the admiration his singing had garnered, his affectionate treatment by the soldiers and especially by Julian, and the friendship that linked him to those outstanding gentlemen whom he believed to be superior to the rest of mankind.

  Amina said, "Sa'd Pasha’s a lucky man. The whole world is chanting his name. Not even 'Our Effendi' Abbas II was treated like that. Sa'd’s no doubt a Believer, because God grants real victories only to Believers. Sa'd’s been victorious over the English, who even defeated the Zeppelin. What greater victory can you ask for? The man was born auspiciously on the Night of Destiny in Ramadan, which commemorates the Qur'an’s descent".

  "Do you love him?" Fahmy asked with a smile.

  "I love him, since you do".

  Fahmy spread his hands out and raised his eyebrows disapprovingly. "That doesn't mean anything," he said.

  She sighed somewhat uneasily and explained, "Whenever I got some sad news, tearing my heart to pieces with sorrow, I would ask myself, 'Do you suppose this would have happened if Sa'd had not started his rebellion?' But a man loved by everyone must also be loved by God". Sighing audibly, she continued: "I grieve for those who have perished. How many mothers are weeping sorely now? How many a mother finds that today’s joy only adds another sorrow to her regrets?"

  Fahmy winked at Yasin and told her, "A really patriotic mother would trill with joy at her son’s martyrdom".

  She put her fingers in her ears and shouted, "May God be my witness to what the young master has said… A mother trills with joy when her son is martyred? Where? On this earth? Not here or even underground where the devils reside".

  Fahmy laughed loudly. He thought for a while. Then with twinkling eyes he said, "Mama… I'm going to tell you a terrible secret that can be revealed now. I participated in the demonstrations and met death face to face".

  She looked at him gravely and incredulously. With a bewildered smile she said, "You?… Impossible. You're part of my flesh and blood. Your heart comes from mine. You're not like the others…"

  Smiling at her, he declared, "I swear to you by God Almighty that it’s true.

  Her smile disappeared and her eyes grew wide with consternation. She looked back and forth between him and Yasin, who was also staring inquisitively at Fahmy. After swallowing, she mumbled, "O Lord!.. How can I believe my ears?" Shaking her head in helpless agony, she exclaimed, "You!"

  He had expected her to be upset, but not to the extent that she clearly was. After all, his confession came after the danger had passed. Before she could say anything more, he told her, "That’s ancient history. It’s over and done with. There’s no reason to be alarmed now".

  She responded with nervous insistence, "Hush! You don't love your mother. May God forgive you".

  Fahmy laughed disconcertedly. With a mischievous smile, Kamal told his mother, "Do you remember the day I was fired on in the pastry shop? I saw him in the deserted street on my way home. He warned me not to tell anyone I had seen him". Then he turned to Fahmy and asked with avid interest, "Tell us, Mr. Fahmy, what you experienced in the demonstrations. How did the battles start? What happened when people fell dead? Were you armed?"

  Yasin interrupted the conversation to tell the mother, "It’s ancient history, dead and buried. It would be better to thank God he’s safe than get alarmed".

  She asked him harshly, "Did you know about it?"

  He quickly replied, "No, by my mother’s grave". For fear that might not be adequate, he added, "And by my religion, faith, and Lord".

  He rose to go to her. He put a hand on her shoulder and told her tenderly, "Did you relax when you should have been alarmed only to be alarmed now that you can relax? Declare that God is one. The danger has passed and peace has returned. Here’s Fahmy in front of you…" He laughed. "By tomorrow well be able to walk the length and breadth of Cairo by day or night without fear or anxiety".

  Fahmy said earnestly, "Mama, please don't spoil our good spirits with pointless sorrow".

  She sighed and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, even though her lips moved. She smiled wanly to announce her compliance with his request. Then she bowed her head to hide her eyes filled with tears.

  70

  By the time Fahmy fell asleep that night he had made up his mind to get back into his father’s good graces no matter what it cost him. The next morning he decided to act on his resolve without delay. Although he had never harbored any angry or defiant feelings toward his father during his rebellion, a guilty conscience was a heavy burden for his sensitive heart, which was imbued with dutiful obedience. He had not defied his father verbally but had acted against his will and had done so repeatedly. Moreover, he had refused to swear an oath the day his father had asked him to, announcing with his tears that he would stick to his principles despite his father’s wishes. To his unbearable regret, all these acts had put him in the position, regardless of his good intentions, of being wickedly disobedient. He had not attempted to make peace with his father earlier from fear of scraping the scab off the wound without being able to bandage it. He had assumed his father would ask him to take the oath again as penance for what he had done and that he would be forced once more to refuse, thus reviving his rebellion when he wanted to apologize for it.

  The situation today was different. His heart was intoxicated with joy and victory, and the whole nation was drunk on the wine of delight and triumph. He could not stand for a barrier of suspicion to separate him from his father a moment longer. They would be reconciled and he would receive the pardon he craved. Then there would be true happiness, unblemished by any defect.

  He entered his father’s room a quarter of an hour befo
re breakfast and found his father folding up the prayer rug as he mumbled a prayerful entreaty. The man no doubt noticed him but pretended not to and went to sit on the sofa without turning toward his son. He sat facing Fahmy, who stood at the door, looking ashamed and confounded. Al-Sayyid Ahmad stared at him impassively and disapprovingly as though to ask, "Who is this person standing there and why has he come?"

  Fahmy got the better of his consternation and quietly walked toward his father. He leaned over his hand, which he took and kissed with the utmost respect. He was silent for some time. Then in a scarcely audible voice he said, "Good morning, Papa".

  His father continued to gaze at him silently, as though he had not heard the greeting, until the boy lowered his eyes in confusion and stammered in a despairing voice, "I'm sorry…" Al-Sayyid Ahmad persisted in his silence.

  "I'm really sorry. I haven't had a moment’s peace of mind since…" He found his words were leading him up to a reference to something he wanted with all his heart to skip over. So he stopped.

  Before he knew what was happening, his father asked him harshly and impatiently, "What do you want?"

  Fahmy was overjoyed that the man had abandoned his silence and sighed with relief as though he had not noticed the harsh tone. He entreated his father, "I want your approval".

  "Get out of my sight".

  Feeling the grip of despair loosening a little around his neck, Fahmy said, "When I have your approval".

  Becoming sarcastic suddenly, al-Sayyid Ahmad asked, "My approval!.. Why not?… Have you, God forbid, done anything to make me angry?"

  Fahmy welcomed his father’s sarcasm twice as much as his renunciation of silence. Sarcasm with his father was the first step toward forgiveness. When he was really angry, he would slap, punch, kick, curse, or do all at once. Sarcasm was the first sign of a change of heart.

  "Seize the opportunity," Fahmy told himself. "Speak. Speak the way a man preparing to be a lawyer should speak. This is your opportunity. Say, 'Answering the call of the nation should not be considered rebellion against your will, sir. I really didn't do much by way of patriotic deeds… distributing handbills to friends… What did that amount to? What am I compared with those who willingly gave their lives? I understood from your words, sir, that you were afraid for my life, not that you really rejected the idea of patriotic duties. I simply did a little of my duty. I'm confident that I actually did not disobey your wishes.'… And so forth and so on".

  Then Fahmy did say, "God knows it never occurred to me to disobey you".

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad responded sharply, "Empty words. You pretend to be obedient now that there’s no reason to rebel. Why haven't you asked for my approval before today?"

  Fahmy said sadly, "The world was full of blood and grief. I was preoccupied by sorrow".

  "Too preoccupied to ask for my approval?"

  Fahmy replied ardently, "I was too preoccupied to think about myself". In a low voice he added, "I can't live without your approval".

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad frowned, not from anger as he made it appear, but to hide the good impression his son’s words had made on him. "This is the way a person should speak," he reflected. "Otherwise, forget it. He’s really good at using words. This is eloquence, isn't it? I'll repeat what he said to my friends tonight to see what impact it makes on them. What do you suppose they'll say? The boy takes after his father… That’s what they ought to say. People used to tell me that if I had completed my education I would have been one of the most eloquent attorneys. I'm quite an eloquent person even without a higher education and a law practice. Our daily conversation is exactly like the law in revealing one’s gift for eloquence. How many attorneys and important civil servants have cowered like sparrows before me at our parties. Not even Fahmy will be able to replace me one day. They'll laugh and say the boy’s really a chip off the old block. His refusal to swear that oath still troubles me, but don't I have a right to be proud that he participated in the revolution, even if only remotely? Since God has allowed him to live to see this day, I wish he had done something important in it. From now on, I'll say he waded into the midst of the revolution. Do you think he was content just to distribute handbills as he claimed? The son of a bitch threw himself into the bloody stream of events. 'Al-Sayyid Ahmad, we must acknowledge your son’s patriotism and courage. We did not wish to tell you this during the danger, but now that peace has come, there’s no harm saying it.' Do you disown your patriotic feelings? Didn't the people collecting donations for the nationalist Wafd Party commend you? By God, if you were young, you would have done much more than your son has. But he defied me! He defied your tongue and obeyed your heart. What can I do now? My heart wishes to forgive him, but I'm afraid he'll think then that it’s okay to disobey me?

  He finally spoke: "I can never forget that you disobeyed me. Do you think the meaningless oration you have delivered this morning, before I even had breakfast, can influence me?"

  Fahmy started to speak, but his mother entered at that moment to announce, "Breakfast is ready, sir".

  She was astonished to find Fahmy there. She looked from one to the other and tarried a little in hopes of hearing part of what was being said. But the silence, which she was afraid her arrival had caused, made her leave the room quickly. Al-Sayyid Ahmad rose to go to the dining room, and Fahmy moved out of his way. The boy’s intense sorrow was evident to his father, who hesitated a few moments before finally saying in a conciliatory voice, "I hope that in the future you won't insist on being so stupid when you address me".

  He walked off, and the young man followed after him with a grateful smile. As they went through the sitting room he heard his father say sarcastically, "I suppose you put yourself at the head of those who liberated Sa'd".

  Fahmy left the house happy. He went at once to al-Azhar, where he met with his colleagues on the supreme student committee. They were discussing arrangements for the enormous, peaceful demonstrations the authorities were allowing so that the nation could express its delight. It had been decided that representatives of all segments of the population would participate.

  The meeting lasted quite a while. Then the participants separated, each going off about his business. Fahmy rode over to Ramses Square in front of the central railroad station, after learning of his assignment to supervise the groups of students from the secondary schools. Although the tasks he was customarily assigned could be considered rather secondary, compared with those of the others, he undertook them with precision, care, and joy, as though each was the happiest moment of his life. Even so, his industry was accompanied by a slight feeling of discontent, which he did not share with anyone else, originating from his conviction that he was less daring and forward than his other comrades. Yes, he had never hesitated to attend a demonstration the committee supported but he became discouraged when the trucks carrying soldiers appeared, especially once shots were fired and victims started to fall. One time he had sought refuge in a coffee shop, trembling. Another time he had run so far he ended up in the cemetery for theology students. What was he compared with the man who had carried the flag in the Bulaq demonstration, or massacre, as it had come to be called? That fellow had died a martyr, clasping the flag with his hands, standing his ground at the head of the procession, shouting at the top of his lungs for everyone to stand firm. What was Fahmy compared with that martyr’s companions who had rushed to raise the flag again only to be shot down around him with their breasts decorated heroically by bullet holes? What was he compared with that martyr who had grabbed the machine gun from the hands of the enemy at al-Azhar? What was he compared with all those men and the others whose heroism and martyrdoms were always in the news? Heroic acts appeared to him to be so dazzling and magnificent that they were breathtaking. He frequently heard an inner voice daring him to imitate the heroes, but his nerves had always let him down at the decisive moment. When the fighting started, he would find himself at the rear, if not hiding or fleeing. Afterward he would regain his determination to double his efforts
to struggle tenaciously, but with a tortured conscience, an anxious heart, and a limitless desire for perfection. He would console himself at times by saying, "I'm just an unarmed warrior. Even if stunning deeds of heroism have passed me by, it’s enough that I've never hesitated to throw myself into the thick of the fray".

  On his way to Ramses Square, he began to observe the streets and vehicles. It appeared that everyone was heading his way: students, workers, civil servants, and ordinary folk, riding or walking. They had a relaxed look about them, appropriate for people going to a peaceful demonstration sanctioned by the authorities. He too felt the way they did. It was not the same as when he had searched for the appointed place with an excited soul and a heart that pounded hard whenever he thought about perishing. That was in a former time. Today he went along, feeling secure, with a smile on his lips. Was the struggle over? Had he emerged from it safely with no losses or gains? No gains?… If only he had suffered something like the thousands who had been imprisoned, beaten, or wounded slightly by gunfire. Wasn't it sad that security should be the reward for a person with a heart and enthusiasm like his? He was like a diligent student unable to obtain a diploma.

  "Do you deny you're happy that you're safe? Would you have preferred to be a martyr? Certainly not… Would you have liked to be one of those wounded but not killed? Yes. That was in your reach. Why did you recoil from it? There was no way to guarantee that the wound wouldn't be fatal or the imprisonment temporary. You don't regret your current deliverance, but you wish you had been afflicted in some way that wouldn't interfere with this happy ending. If you ever engage in another struggle like this again, you had better have your fortune told. I'm going to a peaceful demonstration with a calm heart and an uneasy conscience".

  He reached the square around one o'clock. It was two hours before the demonstration was due to commence. He took his place at the spot assigned to him, the door of the railroad station. There was no one in the square except for supervisory personnel and scattered groups from various religious factions. The weather was mild, but the April sun poured down on those exposed to its scorching rays. He did not have long to wait, for groups began to throng into the square from the different streets leading to it. Each group went to the location where its banner was displayed. Fahmy set to work with pleasure and pride. Although the task was simple, consisting of nothing more than the organization of each of the schools behind its banner, Fahmy was filled with pride and conceit, especially since he was supervising many students who were older than he was. His nineteen years did not seem like much in a mass of students with twisted mustaches going on twenty-two or twenty-four.