Palace Walk tct-1

by Naguib Mahfouz

  He noticed eyes that were looking at him with interest and lips that were whispering about him. He heard his name, accompanied by his title, being repeated by some tongues: "Fahmy Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, representative of the supreme committee". That touched the strings of his heart. He pressed his lips together to keep them from smiling, out of concern for his dignity. Yes, he must look the part of a representative of the supreme committee by being serious and stern, as was only proper for the elite corps of young freedom fighters. He wanted to leave room for the imaginations of those looking at him to guess what deeds of heroism and valor were concealed behind his imposing façade. Let the spectacular deeds he had been unable to carry out in reality be performed in their imaginations. He had no desire to discourage them but was stung by the unvarnished truth. He had distributed handbills and been part of the rear guard. That was all he had been. Today he was entrusted with supervision of the secondary schools and had a leadership role. Did others think he had played a more important part than he did himself? How much respect and affection they were awarding him… They had not had a meeting without taking time to hear his opinion.

  "Oratory? There was no need for you to deliver speeches, isn't that so? You can be great without being an orator, but what a pity it will be for you on the day the supreme committee appears before the great leader if, when the orators try to outdo each other, you take refuge in silence. No, I won't remain silent. I'll speak. I'll say exactly what I feel, whether or not I excel at it. When will you stand before Sa'd? When will you see him for the first time and feast your eyes on him? My heart is pounding and my eyes long to weep. It will be a great day. All of Egypt will come out to welcome him. What we're doing today will be like a drop of water in the sea compared with that time. O Lord! The square’s full. The streets feeding into it are full: Abbas, Nubar, al-Faggala. There’s never been a demonstration like this before. A hundred thousand people, wearing modern fezzes and traditional turbans-students, workers, civil servants, Muslim and Christian religious leaders, the judges… who could have imagined this? They don't mind the sun. This is Egypt. Why didn't I invite Papa? Yasin was right… A person forgets himself in a crowd of people. He rises above himself. What are my personal ambitions? Nothing. How my heart is pounding. I'll talk about this for a long time tonight and after that too. Do you suppose Mama will tremble with fear once again? It’s a magnificent spectacle, which humbles a person and calms him. I would like to be able to gauge its impact on those devils. Their barracks overlook the square. Their cursed flag is fluttering in the wind. I see heads in the windows there. What are they whispering to each other? The sentry’s like a statue, seeing nothing. Your machine guns did not stop the revolution. Do you understand that? Soon you'll be seeing Sa'd return victoriously to this square. You exiled him by force of arms and we are bringing him back without any weapons. You'll see, before you evacuate".

  The enormous parade began to move. Successive waves rolled forward, chanting patriotic slogans. Egypt appeared to be one great demonstration… united in one person and a single chant. The columns of the different groups stretched out for such a long distance that Fahmy imagined the vanguard would be approaching Abdin Palace before he and his group had budged from their position in front of the railroad station. It was the first demonstration that machine guns had not interrupted. No longer would bullets come from one side and stones from the other.

  Fahmy smiled. He saw that the group in front of him was starting to move. He turned on his heels to direct his own personal demonstration. He raised his hands and the lines moved in anticipation and with enthusiasm. Walking backward, he chanted at the top of his lungs. He continued his twin tasks of directing and chanting until the beginning of Nubar Street. Then he turned the chanting over to one of the young men surrounding him, who had been waiting for their chance with anxious, excited voices, as though they had labor pains that would only be relieved by being allowed to lead the chants. He turned around once again to walk facing forward. He craned his neck to look at the procession. He could no longer see the front of it. He looked on either side to see how crowded the sidewalks, windows, balconies, and roofs were with all the spectators who had begun to repeat the chants. The sight of thousands of people concentrated together filled him with such limitless power and assurance it was like armor protecting him, clinging tightly to him so that bullets could not penetrate.

  Now the police force was helping to maintain order, after they had been unable to suppress the demonstrations by their attacks. The sight of these men going back and forth on their horses, like guards associated with the demonstration, delegated to assist it, was the most eloquent proof of the victory of the revolution. The chief of police!.. Was that not Russell Bey? Of course, he recognized him perfectly. There was his deputy trotting along behind him, looking at everything impassively and haughtily as though protesting silently against the peace reigning over the demonstration. What was his name? How could he forget a name that everyone had been repeating during the bloody, dark days? Did it not begin with a "g" or a "j"? "Ja… Ju… Ji…" He could not recall it. "Julian!" Oh, how did that hated name slip into his mind? It fell on him like dirt, putting out the fire of his zeal. "How can we respond to the call of zeal and victory when the heart is dead? My heart dead? It wasn't dead a minute ago. Don't surrender to sorrow. Don't let your heart become separated from the demonstration. Haven't you promised yourself to forget? In fact, you really have forgotten. Maryam… who is she? That’s ancient history. We live for the future, not the past. Guise, Mr. Guise, I think that’s the name of the deputy police chief, may God curse him. Start chanting again to shake off this dusty cloud of regret".

  Fahmy’s own part of the demonstration slowly approached Ezbekiya Garden. The lofty trees could be seen over the banners that were displayed all along the street. Then Opera Square was visible in the distance looking like an endless mass of heads that all seemed to spring from a single body. He was chanting forcefully and enthusiastically, and the crowd repeated his chants with a sound that filled the air like the rumble of thunder. When they came near the wall of the garden, suddenly there was a sharp, resounding pop. He stopped chanting and in alarm looked around questioningly. It was a familiar sound that had often assaulted his ears during the past month and had frequently echoed in his memory during the quiet nights, although he had never gotten used to it. The moment it rang out he became pale and his heart seemed to stop pumping.

  "A bullet?"

  "Incredible. Didn't they sanction the demonstration?"

  "Did you forget to allow for treachery?"

  "But I don't see any soldiers".

  "Ezbekiya Garden is an enormous camp, packed full of them".

  "Perhaps the explosion was an automobile tire blowing out".

  "Perhaps".

  Fahmy listened intently to what was going on around him without regaining his peace of mind. It was only a few moments before a second explosion was heard. "Oh… There could no longer be any doubt. It was a bullet like the one before. Where do you suppose it hit? Isn't it a day of peace?"

  He felt the uneasiness moving through the ranks of the demonstrators, coming from the front like the heavy wave that a steamboat plowing down the center of a river sends to the shore. Then thousands of people started to retreat and spread out, creating in every direction insane and unruly outbursts of confusion and consternation as they collided with each other. Terrifying shouts of anger and fear rose from the masses. The orderly columns were quickly scattered and the carefully arranged structure of the parade collapsed. Then there was a sharp burst of shots in close succession. People screamed in anger and moaned in pain.

  The sea of people surged and swelled, and the waves thrust through every opening, sparing nothing in its way and leaving nothing behind it.

  "I'll flee. There’s no alternative. If the bullets don't kill you, the arms and feet will". He meant to run or retreat or turn, but he did not do anything. "Why are you standing here when everyone has scattered? You
're in an exposed position. Flee".

  His arms and legs began a slow, limp, disjointed motion. "How loud the clamor is. But what are they screaming about? Do you remember? How quickly memories are slipping away. What do you want? To chant? What chant? Or just call out? To whom? For what? There’s a voice speaking inside you. Do you hear? Do you see? But where? There’s nothing. Nothing. Darkness and more darkness. A gentle motion’s pushing with the regularity of the ticking of a clock. The heart is flowing with it. There’s a whisper accompanying it. The gate of the garden. Isn't that so? It’s moving in a fluid, rippling way and slowly dissolving. The towering tree is dancing gently. The sky… the sky? High, expansive… nothing but the calm, smiling sky with peace raining from it".

  71

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad heard footsteps at the entrance to the store. He glanced up from his desk and saw three young men approaching him. They looked serious and grave. They stopped just in front of his desk and said, "Peace to you and the compassion of God".

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad rose and with his customary politeness responded, "And to you peace and the compassion of God and His blessings". He motioned to the chairs and said, "Please sit down".

  They graciously declined his invitation. The boy in the center asked, "Sir, are you Mr. Ahmad Abd al-Jawad?"

  The proprietor smiled, although there was a questioning look in his eyes, and replied, "Yes, sir".

  "What do you suppose they want?" he asked himself. "It’s not likely that they came to purchase anything. Their military gait and serious tone wouldn't be appropriate if they were buying something. Moreover, it’s after seven o'clock. Don't they see that al-Hamzawi is putting the bags up on the shelves to show that the store is closing? Are they collecting donations? But Sa'd’s been released, and the revolution has concluded. I'm not fit for anything now except my evening party. Fellows, you should understand that I haven't bathed my head and face with cologne, combed my hair and mustache, adjusted my cloak and caftan just to meet you. What do you want?"

  When he looked at the young man who had addressed him, the face seemed familiar. Had he seen him before? Where? When? He tried to remember. He was certain this was not the first time he had seen him. Then the proprietor’s face relaxed and he asked with a smile, "Aren't you the fine young man who came forward to save us just in time the day people attacked us in the mosque of al-Husayn, may God be pleased with him?"

  The youth said in a subdued voice, "Yes, sir".

  "So I was right," he thought. "Fools say that wine weakens the memory? But why are they looking at me that way? See! These stares don't look like good news. O God, make it good. I take refuge in God from Satan, who should be pelted with stones. For some reason I feel depressed. They've come about something relating to…"

  "Fahmy?" he asked. "Have you come looking for him?… Perhaps you…"

  The young man lowered his eyes and said in a trembling voice, "Our mission is hard, sir, but it’s a duty. May our Lord grant you endurance".

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad suddenly leaned forward, supporting himself on the edge of the desk. He cried out, "Endurance?… For what!.. Fahmy?"

  The young man said with obvious sorrow, "We are sad to inform you of the death of our brother freedom fighter Fahmy Ahmad…"

  Although there was an unmistakable look of belief and dismay in his eyes, the father rejected the news, shouting, "Fahmy?"

  "He fell a martyr in the demonstration today".

  The boy on his right said, "A noble patriot and sterling martyr was conveyed to a world of pious souls".

  Their words fell on ears deafened by misery. His lips were sealed and his eyes gazed blankly and vacantly. They were all silent for a time. Even Jamil al-Hamzawi was frozen to the spot where he stood beneath the shelves, looking dazed and staring at his employer with sorrowful eyes. Finally the young man murmured, "His loss has deeply saddened us, but we have no choice but to submit to God’s decree with the patient endurance of Believers, of whom you, sir, are one".

  "They are offering you their condolences," al-Sayyid Ahmad realized. "Doesn't this young man know that I excel in offering condolences in circumstances like these? What meaning do they have for an afflicted heart? None! How could words put out the fire? Not so fast… Didn't your heart feel something was dreadfully wrong even before he spoke? Yes… the specter of death appeared before my eyes. Now that death is a reality, as you hear, you refuse to believe it. How can I believe that Fahmy is really dead? How can you believe that Fahmy, who requested your approval just hours ago, when you were short with him-Fahmy, who was full of health, good spirits, hope, and happiness when we left home this morning-is dead? Dead! I'll never see him again at home or anywhere else on the face of the earth? How can I have a home without him? How can I be a father if he’s gone? What has become of all the hopes attached to him? The only hope left is patience… Patience? Oh… Do you feel the searing pain? This really is pain. You were mistaken previously when you occasionally claimed to be in pain. No, before today you've never known pain. This is pain…"

  "Sir, be strong and turn your concerns over to God".

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad looked up at the young man. Then in a sick voice he said, "I thought the time for killing had passed".

  The youth answered angrily, "The demonstration today was peaceful. The authorities had given permission for it. Top men from all walks of life participated in it. At first it proceeded safely, until the middle section reached Ezbekiya Garden. Before we knew what was happening, bullets fell upon us from behind the wall, for no reason at all. No one had confronted the soldiers in any manner. We had even forbidden any chants in English to avoid provoking them. The soldiers were suddenly stricken by an insane impulse to kill. They got their rifles and opened fire. Everyone has agreed to send a strong protest to the British Residency. It’s even been said that Allenby will announce his regrets for what the soldiers did".

  In the same sick tone, the proprietor complained, "But he will not bring the dead back to life".

  "Alas, no".

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad, racked by distress, said, "He’s never participated in any of the violent demonstrations. This was the first demonstration he took part in".

  The young men looked knowingly at each other but did not utter a word. Al-Sayyid Ahmad seemed to be growing impatient with the way they were separating him from Fahmy and the rest of the world. He moaned and said, "The matter’s in God’s hands. Where can I find him now?"

  The young man answered, "In the Qasr al-Ayni Hospital". When he saw that the proprietor was in a hurry to leave, he gestured for him to wait. "There will be a funeral procession for him and thirteen of his fellow martyrs at exactly three o'clock tomorrow afternoon".

  The father cried out in distress, "Won't you allow me to begin his funeral procession at his home?"

  The young man said forcefully, "No, his funeral will be with his brothers in a public ceremony". Then he entreated the man, "Qasr al-Ayni is cordoned off by the police. It would be better to wait. We intend to allow the families of the martyrs to pay their last respects to them in private before the funeral procession. It would not be right for Fahmy to have an ordinary funeral like a person who dies at home". In parting he held his hand out to the bereaved father and said, "Endure patiently. Endurance is from God".

  The others shook hands with al-Sayyid Ahmad, repeating their condolences. Then they all departed. He leaned his head on his hand and closed his eyes. He heard the voice of Jamil al-Hamzawi offering his condolences in a sobbing voice, but he seemed distressed by kind words. He could not bear to stay there. He left his seat and moved slowly out of the store, walking with heavy steps. He had to get over his bewilderment. He did not even know how to feel sad. He wanted to be all alone, but where? The house would turn into an inferno in a minute or two. His friends would rally round him, leaving him no opportunity to think. When would he ponder the loss he had undergone? When would he have a chance to get away from everyone? That seemed a long way off, but it would no doubt come. It was the m
ost consolation he could hope for at present. Yes, a time would come when he would be all alone and could devote himself to his sorrow with all his soul. Then he would scrutinize Fahmy’s life in light of the past, present, and future, all the stages from childhood to the prime of his youth, the hopes he had aroused and the memories he had left behind, giving free rein to tears so he could totally exhaust them. Truly he had before him ample time that no one would begrudge him. There was no reason to be concerned about that. Consider the memory of the quarrel they had had after the Friday prayer at al-Husayn or that of their conversation that morning, when Fahmy had appealed for his affection and he had reprimanded him-how much of his time would they require as he reflected, remembered, and grieved? How much of his heart would they consume? How many tears would they stir up? How could he be distressed when the future held such consolations for him? He raised his head, which was clouded by thought, and saw the blurred outline of the latticed balconies of his home. He remembered Amina for the first time and his feet almost failed him. What could he say to her? How would she take the news? She was weak and delicate. She wept at the death of a sparrow. "Do you recall how her tears flowed when the son of al-Fuli, the milkman, was killed? What will she do now that Fahmy’s been killed… Fahmy killed? Is this really the end of your son? O dear, unhappy son!.. Amina… our son was killed. Fahmy was killed… What?… Will you forbid them to wail just as you previously forbade them to trill with joy? Will you wail yourself or hire professional mourners? She’s probably now at the coffee hour with Yasin and Kamal, wondering what has kept Fahmy. How cruel! I'll see him at Qasr al-Ayni Hospital, but she won't. I won't allow it. Out of cruelty or compassion? What’s the use, anyway?"