The Cairo Trilogy

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “Even so, most beautiful of women…. To your health.”

  “And yours…. Atiya may be late, since her son is sick.”

  “She didn't mention that last time.”

  “No. Her son fell ill this past Saturday. The poor darling - her son is the apple of her eye. When anything happens to him, she loses her head.”

  “She's a fine woman who has had rotten luck. I've long felt her character convincing evidence that only dire necessity could have forced her to enter this profession.”

  In a jovial but sarcastic tone Jalila replied, “If a man like you is embarrassed by his honorable profession, why should she find hers satisfying?”

  The maid passed back through the room with an incense burner wafting a pleasant scent. The moist autumn breeze entered through a window at the rear of the parlor, and the alcohol was bitter but potent. Jalila's comment about his profession reminded him of something he might otherwise have forgotten to tell her, and he said, “I was almost transferred to Asyut, Auntie. If the worst had happened, I would be packing my bags now to go there.”

  Striking her hand against her breast, Jalila exclaimed, “Asyut! How do you like those dates! May your worst enemy be sent there. What happened?”

  “It has turned out all right, praise God.”

  “Your father knows more people in the government ministries than there are ants.”

  He nodded hishead as if in agreement but did not comment. She stil] pictured his father in his old glory and had no way of knowing that when Kamal had informed his father of the transfer al-Sayyid Ahmad had lamented, “No one knows us anymore. What has become of our friends?”

  Before telling his father, Kamal had gone to see his old friend Fuad Jamil al-Hamzawi, thinking he might know one of the top men in the Ministry of Education. But the illustrious judge had told him, “I'm very sorry, Kamal. Since I'm a judge, I can't ask anyone for favors.”

  With enormous embarrassment, Kamal had finally contacted his nephew Ridwan, and that same day the transfer had been rescinded. What an illustrious young man he was! They were both employed by the same ministry at the same rank, but Kamal was thirty-five and Ridwan only twenty-two. But what could a teacher in an elementary school expect? It was no longer possible for him to find consolation from philosophy or from claiming to be a philosopher. A philosopher is not a parrot who merely repeats what other philosophers have said. Any current graduate of the Arts Faculty could write as well as or better than he did. He had once hoped a publis her would bring out a collection of his essays, but those didactic works were no longer of any particular value. How many books there were nowadays…. In that ocean of learning he was an invisible drop. He had grown so weary that boredom oozed from every pore. When would his carriage reach death's station? He looked at the glass in his aunt's hand and then at her face, which clearly revealed her considerable age.

  He could not help marveling at her and asked, “What does drinking do for you, Auntie?”

  Displaying her gold teeth, she answered, “Do you call what I'm doing now 'drinking'? That time has passed. Liquor no longer has any taste or effect. It's like coffee. Nothing more or less. Toward the beginning of my career I once got so drunk at a wedding party in Birguwan that the members of my troupe were forced to carry me to my carriage at the end of the evening. May our Lord spare you anything like that!”

  “Liquor's still the best thing a bad world has to offer,” he reflected. Then he asked, “Have you experienced total intoxication? I used to reach it in two glasses. Today it takes me eight. I don't know how many I'll need tomorrow. But it's an absolute necessity, Aunt. Once intoxicated, the wounded heart dances with joy.”

  “Nephew, you have a sensitive heart that responds joyfully to music, even without any alcohol.”

  Hisheart…joyful? What of his sorrow… that constant companion? What of the as hes left from the bonfire of his hopes? … As a bored man, he had no goal beyond filling himself with liquor, in either this parlor or that bedroom, once the woman tending her sick son arrived. He and his favorite prostitute had reached the same point in life that of a person whose life was not worth living.

  “I'm afraid Atiya won't come.”

  “She'll come. When someone's ill, there's even more need for money.”

  “What a response!” he thought. But she did not give him a chance to brood about it, for, turning toward him, she examined him with interest for a time. Then she said in a low voice, “It's only a matter of days.”

  Without understanding what she actually meant, he replied, “May God grant you a long life and never deprive me of you.”

  Smiling, she said, “I'm going to give up this life.”

  Astonished, he sat up straight and cried out, “What did you say?”

  She Laughed and then answered in a mildly sarcastic tone, “Never fear. Atiya will take you to another house as safe as this one.

  “But what's happened?”

  “I've grown old, nephew, and God has given me more riches than I need. Yesterday, the police raided a nearby brothel and took the macam to the station. I've had enough. I'm planning to repent. I must change my ways before I meet my Lord.”

  He fiuished his drink and refilled the glass. Then, as if he did not believe what he had heard, he remarked, “All that's left is for you to board the boat to Mecca and perform the pilgrimage.”

  “May our Lord give me the power to do what's right.”

  After wondering about this for a while, he roused himself from his stupor to ask, “Did all this happen suddenly?”

  “Of course not. I don't reveal a secret until I'm ready to act on it. I've been thinking about this for a long time.”

  “You 're serious?”

  “Absolutely. May our Lord be with us.”

  “I don't know what to say. But in any case may our Lord give you the strength to do the right thing.”

  “Amen”. Then, laughing, she added, “Relax. I won't close this house until I've made provisions for your future.”

  He laughed out loud and asked, “Isn't it absurd to think that I could ever find a house where I would feel as much at home as here?”

  “You can depend on me to pass you on to a new madam, even if I'm in Mecca.”

  “Everything seems ridiculous,” Kamal thought. “But alcohol will always be the direction toward which sorrowful people turn their prayerful attentions. Circumstances have changed. Fuad Jamil al-Hamzawi's star has risen, and that of Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad has declined. Yet alcohol will always bring a smile to the face of a grieving person. Kamal once amused Ridwan by carrying the young boy on his shoulder. Now the day has come for Ridwan to grasp Kamal in order to keep him from stumbling. Still, alcohol remains a lifeline for melancholy men.”

  Even Madam Jalila was planning to repent at the very time that he was searching for a new brothel. But liquor would continue to be his last resort.

  “An invalid,” he concluded, “finds everything boring, even boredom, but alcohol will always be the key to a happy release.”

  “Whenever I hear good things about you it makes me happy,” he told her.

  “May God guide you and bring you happiness.”

  “Perhaps I had better go? …”

  She placed a finger in front of his mouth to silence him and exclaimed, “God forgive you! This is your house so long as it is mine. And whatever house I settle in will be yours, nephew.”

  Washe expiating some ancient curse of unknown origin? How could he escape from the anguish engulfing his life? Jalila herself was thinking seriously about transforming her life. Why should he not follow her example? A drowning man either finds a boulder to cling to or drowns. “If life has no meaning, why shouldn't we create a meaning for it?” he asked himself. “Perhaps it's a mistake for us to look for meaning in this world, precisely because our primary mission here is to create this meaning.”

  Jalila gave him a peculiar look, and he realized too late that he had unconsciously spoken these last words. Laughing, Jalila inq
uired, “Have you gotten drunk so fast?”

  He masked his discomfort with a loud laugh and replied, “Wartime liquor's like poison. Forgive me. When do you suppose Atiya's coming?”

  151

  KAMAL LEFT jalila's house at one-thirty in the morning. The world was veiled in a darkness tempered by silence as he slowly made his way to New Street and then turned toward al-Husayn. How long would he live in this sacred district that had lost all of its spiritual significance for him? He smiled wanly. The only remaining vestige of the liquor was a hangover. His blazing desires had died away, and he plodded along lethargically. Often at a time like this when lust had been satisfied, something not regret or a wish to repent would scream from his inner depths, imploring and urging him to cleanse and free himself from the grip of physical appetites once and for all, as if the receding waves of desire had laid bare sub merged boulders of asceticism. When he raised hishead skyward to commune with the stars, an air-raid siren ripped through the stillness of the night. Hisheart raced fiercely, and his sleepy eyes opened wide. He headed instinctively for the nearest wall, to walk along beside it. Looking up at the sky once more, he saw that searchlights were sweeping across the heavens at great speed. They met at times, only to veer off wildly on separate paths. Still hugging the walls, he increased his pace. He had an oppressive sense of being alone, as though he were the only person left on the face of the earth.

  A shrill whistling sound, unlike anything he had ever heard before, plummeted from the sky, and it was followed by an enormous explosion that rocked the earth beneath his feet. Was it near or far? He did not have time to review his information about air raids, since the explosions came in such rapid succession that it took his breath away. There were repeated bursts of antiaircraft fire, and mysterious unidentifiable flashes of light streaked the air like lightning. It seemed to him that the whole earth was ilying apart in a burst of sparks. Heedless of his surroundings, he shot off at a gallop toward Qirmiz Alley to shelter under its historic vaults. The guns were firing with an insane rage, as bombs pounded their targets and made the earth shake. After a few terrifying seconds he reached the passageway, which was packed with a multitude of people, whose bodies gave substance to its gloom. Panting, he slipped in among them. In the pervasive darkness, the prevailing sense of terror was voiced by little moans of alarm. From time to time, the entrance and exit to the vaulted section were illuminated by light reflected from the streaks in the sky.

  The bombs had stopped falling - or so it seemed but the anti-aircraft guns kept on firing as wildly as before, and their impact on the soul was no less distressing than that of the bombs. There was a babbling confusion of shrieks, sobs, and scolding reprimands from various men, women, and children.

  “This raid's not like the others.”

  “Our ancient district can't take this new kind of raid.”

  “Spare us your chatter. Say, Lord!'”

  “We are saying, Lord!'”

  “Be quiet. Be quiet! May God be compassionate to you.”

  While watching flashes of light illuminate the exit, Kamal saw a new group approach. He thought he recognized his father among them, and hisheart pounded. Was it really his father? How could the man have gotten all the way to the alley? Indeed, how could he have gotten out of bed? Kamal pushed through the agitated throngs of people until he reached the end of the vault. In a glimmer of light, he saw the whole family his father and mother, Aisha, and Umm Hanafi. He made his way to them and then, standing beside them, whispered, “It's Kamal. Are you all right?”

  His father did not answer. Utterly exhausted, he was leaning against the wall, between Kamal's mother and Aisha. The mother said, “Kamal? Praise God. This is atrocious, son. It's not like before. We thought the house was going to tumble down on our heads. Our Lord gave your father enough strength to get out of bed and come with us. I have no idea how he made it or how we got here.”

  Umm Hanafi muttered, “Compassion is from Him. What is this terror? May our Lord be gracious to us.”

  Suddenly, Aisha cried out, “When will these guns be still?”

  Fearing that her voice suggested her nerves were at the breaking point, Kamal went to Aisha and took her hand between both of his, for he had recovered some of his presence of mind on finding himself with people who needed his support. The guns were still firing with a wild rage, but their fury started to abate by barely perceptible degrees. Kamal leaned toward his father and asked, “How are you, Father?”

  The man replied in a feeble whisper, “Where wxre you, Kamal? Where were you when the raid started?”

  To set the man's mind at ease, Kamal said, “I was near the alley. How are you?”

  In a shaky voice the father said, “God only knows… how I got out of bed and rushed along the street. God knows… I wasn't conscious of what I was doing…. When will things return to normal?”

  “Shall I take off my jacket for you to sit on?”

  “No. I can stand, but when will things calm down?”

  “The raid seems to have ended. Don't worry about getting up so suddenly. Surprises often work miracles in an illness.”

  He had hardly finished speaking when the ground trembled from thiee explosions in a row, and the anti-aircraft guns went on the rampage again. The passageway was filled with screams.

  “It's right over our heads!”

  “Declare the unity of God.”

  “Don't make things worse than they are with your talk.”

  Kamal released Aisha's hand to take both of his father's in his grasp. It was the first time in his life he had done that. Al-Sayyid Ahmad':D hands were trembling, and Kamal's were too. Umm Hanafi, who had thrown herself on the ground, wailed noisily.

  An agitated voice called out irritably, “I've had enough screaming! I'll kill anyone who screams.”

  But the screaming grew louder, and the gunfire continued. Nervou:; tension increased as they waited for the next shock wave. This expectation of more explosions had a stifling effect on them, as the firing of the guns went unanswered.

  “The bombing's over!”

  “It only stops to start up again.”

  “It's far away. If it were close, the houses around us would not have survived.”

  “The bombs fell in al-Nahhasin.”

  “It seems that way to you, but they may have fallen on the ordnance depot.”

  “Listen, will you? Hasn't the gunfire started to die down?”

  It had. Soon firing was audible only in the distance. Then it was intermittent, coming at intervals of a whole minute eventually.

  Finally silence descended, spread, and became firmly entrenched. People felt free to talk again, and whispered expressions of tearful hope could be heard. They had so many things to remember as they came back to life and sighed with cautious but anxious relief. Kamal tried in vain to inspect his father's face, for the flashes of light had disappeared and the world was dark.

  “Father, things will calm down now.”

  The man did not answer but wiggled his hands, which his son still grasped, to show that he was alive.

  “Are you all right?” Kamal asked. The hands moved once more, and the son felt so sad that he was on the verge of tears.

  A siren went off to mark the end of the raid. Afterward, the jubilant shoutsheard on all sides were reminiscent of the cries of children after the cannon fires to mark the start of a holiday or to signal the hour for feasting during Ramadan. The alley and the neighboring area were the scene of unlimited commotion as doors and windows banged open, agitated conversations grew loud, and the people packed into the vaulted part of the alley began to move out in waves.

  Sighing, Kamal said, “Let's go home.”

  Placing one arm over Kamal's shoulder and the other over Amina's, al-Sayyid Ahmad walked along between them, a step at a time. They began to wonder how he was and what effect this grim outing would have on him___But he stopped walking and said in a weak voice, “I've got to sit down.”

  Kamal suggeste
d, “Let me carry you.”

  The exhausted man protested, “You won't be able to.”

  Putting one arm around the man's back and the other under his legs, Kamal picked him up. It was not a light load, but little was left of his father in any case. Kamal walked along very slowly, and the others followed him apprehensively.

  Aisha suddenly started sobbing. When her father said in a tired voice, “There's no call for a scene,” she put a hand over her mouth.

  When they reached the house, Umm Hanafi helped Kamal carry the master. They took him upstairs slowly and cautiously. Although he submitted gracefully to this treatment, his stream of mumbled pleas for God's forgiveness betrayed his grief and discomfort. They deposited him carefully on the bed. When the light was turned on, they could see that his face was very pale, as if the exertion had drained his blood. His chest washeaving violently up and down, and his eyes were closed from his exhaustion. He began moaning and moaning. Eventually he got the better of his pain and sank into silence. They stood in a row beside his bed, watching him wit h apprehensive dread. At last Amina inquired in a trembling voice, “Is my master well?”

  He opened his eyes, and took his time looking at the faces, which tie did not always seem to recognize. Then he sighed and said in a scarcely audible voice, “Praise God.”

  “Sleep, master. Sleep to regain your strength.”

  They heard the ring of the bell outside, and Umm Hanafi went to open the door. They exchanged questioning glances, and Kamal suggested, “Probably someone from Sugar Street or Palace of Desire Alley has come to see if we're all right.”

  His supposition was confirmed, for Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad soon entered the room, and they were followed by Yasin and Ridwan. Approaching al-Sayyid Ahmad's bed, they greeted those present. The man glanced at them listlessly. As though speech were beyond him, he contented himself with raising a thin hand to them in greeting. Kamal recounted in an abbreviated form what his father had experienced that alarming night. Then Amina whispered, “An atrocious night may our Lord never repeat it.”