The Thief and the Dogs

by Naguib Mahfouz

  The Thief and the Dogs

  Naguib Mahfouz

  Naguib Mahfouz is Egypt's most famous novelist and his leading role in Arabic literature remains assured. He is now the author of no fewer than thirty novels and more than a hundred short stories; in Egypt each new publication is regarded as a major cultural event and his name is inevitably among the first mentioned in any literary discussion from Gibraltar to the Gulf. If only because of his impact on the Arab world, Mahfouz must be considered an author of international importance.

  "This is a psychological novel, impressionist rather than realist; it moves with the speed and economy of a detective story. Here Mahfouz uses the "stream of consciousness" technique for the first time to show the mental anguish of the central figure consumed by bitterness and a desire for revenge against the individuals and the society who have corrupted and betrayed him and brought about his inevitable damnation. It is a masterly work, swiftly giving the reader a keenly accurate vision of the workings of a sick and embittered mind doomed to self-destruction."

  From the Introduction by Trevor Le Gassick

  Naguib Mahfouz

  The Thief and the Dogs

  Introduction

  No writer of the modern Arab world has enjoyed a success in literature to approach that of Naguib Mahfouz. His work has become appreciated as a voluminous and sharply focused reflection of the Egyptian experience through the turbulent changes of the twentieth century. His fame within the Middle East is consequently unrivalled and the importance of his score of published works has been widely noted abroad. Many of his stories have previously appeared in English and other foreign languages and he has received honorary awards and degrees from Denmark, France and the Soviet Union. His achievements are all the more extraordinary for his having remained employed full-time for over thirty years in various departments of the Egyptian civil service in which he reached administrative positions of importance before his retirement in 1972.

  The work of Mahfouz, then, reveals many of the changes of aspiration and orientation of Egyptian intellectuals over the span of his lifetime. In the thirties, a time when Mahfouz was emerging from Cairo University with a degree in Philosophy, Egyptians were struggling for equilibrium between the contradictory pulls of pride in Islam or in Ancient Egypt.

  Their dilemma was compounded by their awareness of the attitude of foreigners towards their national heritage. They witnessed every day in the streets of Cairo the enthusiasm of archaeologists and tourists for the treasures of their ancient tombs and pyramids but they also knew of the glories of their religious, architectural, cultural and, above all, language heritage from Islam and the Arabs. And they were only too aware of the disdain of foreigners for the state of their contemporary government and society.

  Mahfouz's dilemma in orientation lasted, however, only for the thirties, during which period he composed a rather strange medley of short stories dealing with the life of his own time and several works on the ancient history of his country. He translated an English text on ancient Egypt and wrote three historical novels depicting aspects of the lives and times of the pharaohs. In them his particular concern was for the relationships between rulers and the people and the uprising of the Egyptians against the Hyksos invaders, subjects of obvious interest to his readers critical of the despotic Egyptian monarchy under King Farouk, himself dominated by the strong British presence in the country. By the early forties, however, Mahfouz had abandoned his plan of constructing a massive series of novels based on ancient history and almost all his work since has related specifically to the Egypt that he has himself witnessed.

  In that middle period of his work, then, he wrote a series of novels, first published obscurely and later to achieve great and continuing popularity, that dealt both with his own milieu, the Muslim middle-class of Cairo, and with that of the colorful characters of the conservative quarters of the ancient city. These were followed by his Trilogy that caused a literary sensation in the late fifties and consequently drew attention back to his earlier works. A voluminous work, the Trilogy presents a detailed panorama of the life experiences of three generations of a Cairo merchant-class family over the turbulent first half of this century. It is a fascinating study of the social, political, religious and philosophical strains experienced by his countrymen at that time of fast transition and the consequent effects on their personal relationships.

  Following the 1952 Revolution of General Naguib and Colonel Nasser, Mahfouz wrote nothing for seven years. His 1959 Awlad Haritna (translated as Children of Gebelawi) was serialized in the daily newspaper al-Ahram and never since republished in Egypt. It is a pessimistic portrayal in allegorical form of man's struggle for comprehension and solution of the problems of his existence. Discouraged by the furor the novel caused in traditional and religious circles, Mahfouz again refrained from writing for some time, until his publication of his present novel The Thief and the Dogs in 1961. This was well received and was followed by a stream of fine novels in the sixties that detailed with delicacy and great courage the crisis of identity and conscience suffered by Egyptian intellectuals during that period of pervasive malaise and dissatisfaction.

  His more recent works, following the 1967 war with Israel, have been circumspect and philosophical and he has favored the short story and the short play for expression of his frequently allegorical themes. However, al-Hubb Tahta al-Matar (love in the Rain) published in mid-1973 in book form only, without serialization in the widely-read daily press, contrasted (and by implication criticized) the free and at times immoral life which continued in Cairo with the soldiers' endless waiting, in discomfort and fear of death, for the inevitable renewal of warfare with Israel.

  The present novel, then, was first published in 1961 and both its subject treatment and style marked distinct changes from Mahfouz' earlier work.

  This is a psychological novel, impressionist rather than realist; it moves with the speed and economy of a detective story. Here Mahfouz uses the "stream of consciousness" technique for the first time to show the mental anguish of his central figure consumed by bitterness and a desire for revenge against the individuals and the society who have corrupted and betrayed him and brought about his inevitable damnation. It is a masterly work, swiftly giving the reader a keenly accurate vision of the workings of a sick and embittered mind doomed to self-destruction. And, as he inevitably comes to the protagonist's disillusionment and despair, the reader gains intimate and authentic impressions of the values and structures of Egyptian society of the period.

  Trevor Le Gassick

  The thief and the dogs

  ONE

  Once more he breathed the air of freedom. But there was stifling dust in the air, almost unbearable heat, and no one was waiting for him; nothing but his blue suit and gym shoes.

  As the prison gate and its unconfessable miseries receded, the world — streets belabored by the sun, careening cars, crowds of people moving or still — returned.

  No one smiled or seemed happy. But who of these people could have suffered more than he had, with four years lost, taken from him by betrayal? And the hour was coming when he would confront them, when his rage would explode and burn, when those who had betrayed him would despair unto death, when treachery would pay for what it had done.

  Nabbawiyya. Ilish. Your two names merge in my mind. For years you will have been thinking about this day, never imagining, all the while, that the gates would ever actually open. You'll be watching now, but I won't fall into the trap. At the right moment, instead, I'll strike like Fate.

  And Sana? What about Sana?

  As the thought of her crossed his mind, the heat and the dust, the hatred and pain all disappeared, leaving only love to glow across a soul as clear
as a rain-washed sky.

  I wonder how much the little one even knows about her father? Nothing, I suppose. No more than this road does, these passers-by or this molten air.

  She had never been out of his thoughts, where bit by bit she'd taken shape, like an image in a dream, for four long years. Would luck now give him some decent place to live, where such love could be equally shared, where he could take joy in being a winner again, where what Nabbawiyya Ilish had done would be no more than a memory, odious, but almost forgotten?

  You must pull together all the cunning you possess, to culminate in a blow as powerful as your endurance behind prison walls. Here is a man — a man who can dive like a fish, fly like a hawk, scale walls like a rat, pierce solid doors like a bullet!

  How will he look when he first sees you? How will his eyes meet yours? Have you forgotten, Ilish, how you used to rub against my legs like a dog? It was me, wasn't it, who taught you how to stand on your own two feet, who made a man of a cigarette-butt cadger? You've forgotten, Ilish, and you're not the only one: She's forgotten, too, that woman who sprang from filth, from vermin, from treachery and infidelity.

  Through all this darkness only your face, Sana, smiles. When we meet I'll know how I stand. In a little while, as soon as I've covered the length of this road, gone past all these gloomy arcades, where people used to have fun. Onward and upward. But not to glory. I swear I hate you all.

  The bars have shut down and only the side streets are open, where plots are hatched. From time to time he has to cross over a hole in the pavement set there like a snare and the wheels of tramcars growl and shriek like abuse. Confused cries seem to seep from the curbside garbage. (I swear I hate you all). Houses of temptation, their windows beckoning even when eyeless, walls scowling where plaster has fallen.

  And that strange lane, al-Sayrafi Lane, which brings back dark memories. Where the thief stole, then vanished, whisked away. (woe to the traitors). Where police who'd staked out the area had slithered in to surround you.

  The same little street where a year before you'd been carrying home flour to make sweetmeats for the Feast, that woman walking in front of you, carrying Sana in her swaddling clothes. Glorious days — how real they were, no one knows — the Feast, love, parenthood, crime. All mixed up with this spot.

  The great mosques and, beyond them, the Citadel against the clear sky, then the road flowing into the square, where the green park lies under the hot sun and a dry breeze blows, refreshing despite the heat — the Citadel square, with all its burning recollections.

  What's important now is to make your face relax, to pour a little cold water over your feelings, to appear friendly and conciliatory, to play the planned role well. He crossed the middle of the square, entered Imam Way, and walked along it until he came close to the three-storey house at the end, where two little streets joined the main road. This social visit will tell you what they've got up their sleeves. So study the road carefully, and what's on it. Those shops, for instance, where the men are staring at you, cowering like mice.

  "Said Mahran!" said a voice behind him.

  "How marvelous!"

  He let the man catch up with him; they said hello to each other, hiding their real feelings under mutual grins. So the bastard has friends.

  He'll know right away what all these greetings are about. You're probably peeking at us through the shutters now, Ilish, hiding like a woman.

  "I thank you, Mr. Bayaza."

  People came up to them from the shops on both sides of the street; voices were loud and warm in congratulation and Said found himself surrounded by a crowd — his enemy's friends, no doubt — who tried to outdo one another in cordiality: "Thank God you're back safe and sound."

  "We congratulate ourselves, being your close friends!"

  "We all said we wished you'd be released on the anniversary of the Revolution."

  "I thank God and you, gentlemen," he said, staring at them with his brown, almond-shaped eyes.

  Bayaza patted him on the shoulder. "Come into the shop and have a cold drink to celebrate."

  "Later," he said quietly. "When I'm back."

  "Back?"

  One man shouts, directing his voice to the second storey of the house: "Mr. Ilish!

  Mr. Ilish, come down and congratulate Said Mahran!" No need to warn him, you black beetle! I've come in broad daylight. I know you've been watching.

  "Back from what?" said Bayaza.

  "There's some business I have to settle."

  "With whom?" said Bayaza.

  "Have you forgotten I'm a father? And that my little girl's with Ilish?"

  "No. But there's a solution to every disagreement.

  In the sacred law."

  "And it's best to reach an understanding," said someone else.

  "Said, you're fresh out of prison," a third man added in a conciliatory tone. "A wise man learns his lesson."

  "Who said I'm here for anything other than to reach an understanding?"

  In the second storey of the building a window opened, Ilish leaned out, and they all looked up at him tensely. Before a word could be said, a big man wearing a striped garment and police boots came from the front door of the house. Said recognized Hasaballah, the detective, and pretended to be surprised.

  "You shouldn't have disturbed yourself. I have only come to reach an amicable settlement," he said with feeling.

  The detective came up and patted him all over, searching with practiced speed and skill.

  "Shut up, you cunning bastard. What did you say you wanted?"

  "I've come to reach an understanding about the future of my daughter."

  "As if you knew what understanding meant!"

  "I do indeed, for my daughter's sake."

  "You can always go to court."

  Ilish shouted from above: "Let him come up.

  Come up all of you. You're all welcome."

  Rally them round you, coward. I've only come to test the strength of your fortifications. When your hour arrives neither detective nor walls will do you any good.

  They all crowded into a sitting room and planted themselves in sofas and chairs. The windows were opened: flies rushed in with the light. Cigarette burns had made black spots in the sky-blue carpet and from a large photograph on the wall Ilish was staring, holding a thick stick with both his hands. The detective sat next to Said and began to play with his worry-beads.

  Ilish Sidra came into the room, a loose garment swelling round his barrel-like body, his fat round face buttressed by a square chin. His huge nose had a broken bridge. "Thank the Lord you're back safe and sound!" he said, as if he had nothing to fear. But no one spoke, anxious looks passed back and forth, and the atmosphere was tense until Ilish went on talking: "What's over is done with, such things happen every day; unhappiness can occur, and long-established friendships often break up. But only shameful deeds can shame a man."

  Conscious that his eyes were glittering, that he was slim and strong, Said felt like a tiger crouched to spring on an elephant. He found himself repeating Ilish's words: "Only shameful deeds can shame a man." Many eyes stared back at him; the detective's fingers stopped playing with his beads; realizing what was passing in their minds, he added as an afterthought, "I agree with every word you say."

  "Come to the point," the detective broke in, "and stop beating about the bush."

  "Which point?" Said said innocently.

  "There's only one point to discuss, and that's your daughter."

  And what about my wife and my fortune, you mangy dogs! I'll show you. Just wait. How I'd like to see now the look you'll have in your eyes. It would give me respect for beetles, scorpions, and worms, you vermin. Damn the man who lets himself be carried away by the melodious voice of woman. But Said nodded in agreement.

  One of the sycophants said, "Your daughter is in safe hands with her mother. According to the law a six-year-old girl should stay with her mother. If you like, I could bring her to visit you every week."

  Said raise
d his voice deliberately, so that he could be heard outside the room: "According to the law she should be in my custody. In view of the various circumstances."

  "What do you mean?" Ilish said, suddenly angry.

  "Arguing will only give you a headache," said the detective, trying to placate him.

  "I have committed no crime. It was partly fate and circumstances, partly my sense of duty and decency that drove me to do what I did. And I did it partly for the sake of the little girl."

  "A sense of duty and decency, indeed, you snake! Double treachery, betrayal, and infidelity! O, for the sledge hammer and the axe and the gallows rope! I wonder how Sana looks now. "I did not leave her in need," Said said, as calmly as he could, "She had my money, and plenty of it."

  "You mean your loot," the detective roared, "the existence of which you denied in court!"

  "All right, call it what you like. But where has it gone?"

  "There wasn't a penny, believe me, friends!"

  Ilish protested loudly, "She was in a terrible predicament. I just did my duty."

  "Then how have you been able to live in such comfort,"

  Said challenged, "and spend so generously on others?"

  "Are you God, that you should call me to account?"

  "Peace, peace, shame the devil, Said," said one of Ilish's friends.

  "I know you inside out, Said," the detective said slowly. "I can read your thoughts better than anyone. You will only destroy yourself.

  Just stick to the subject of the girl. That's the best thing for you."

  Said looked down to hide his eyes, then smiled and said, in a tone of resignation, "You're quite right, officer."

  "I know you inside out. But I'll go along with you. Out of consideration for the company here present.

  Bring the girl, someone. Wouldn't it be better to find out first what she thinks?"

  "What do you mean, officer?"