The Cairo Trilogy

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Umm Hanafi remarked, “The movement has tired him, but with some rest he'll recover his strength.”

  Yasin leaned over his father to say, “You need to sleep. How do you feel now?”

  The man gazed with dull eyes at his eldest son and mumbled, “Praise God. My left side doesn't feel good.”

  Yasin asked, “Should I call a doctor for you?”

  The father waved his hand testily and then whispered, “No. It's better if I sleep.”

  Starting to retreat, Yasin gestured for the family to leave the room, and the man raised his scrawny hand again. They walked out, one after the other, leaving only Amina. Once they were assembled in the sitting room, Abd al-Muni'm asked his uncle Kamal, 'What did you do? We hurried down to the reception room in the courtyard.”

  Yasin volunteered, “We went downstairs to our neighbors' apartment on the ground floor.”

  Kamal said anxiously, “Fatigue has sapped Papa's strength.”

  Yasin asserted, “But he'll regain hishealth by sleeping.”

  “What can we do if there's another raid?”

  No one answered, and there was a heavy silence, until Ahmad complained, “Our houses are ancient. They won't stand up to these raids.”

  Wishing to dissipate the lingering cloud of despair, since it was upsetting him, Kamal coaxed a smile from his lips and said, “If our houses are destroyed, they'll have the honor of being demolished by the most advanced inventions of modern science.”

  152

  KAMAL HAD barely reached the stairway door after showing out the last visitors of the evening when an alarming din reached his ears from above. His nerves were still on edge, and he feared the worst as he bounded up the steps. The sitting room was empty, but through the closed door of his father's chamber he could hear the loud voices of several people, who were all speaking at once. Rushing to the door, he opened it and entered, expecting something unpleasant but refusing to think what it might be.

  His mother's hoarse voice was exclaiming, “Master!”

  Aisha was calling curtly for “Papa!”

  Mumbling to herself, Umm Hanafi stood riveted to her spot by the head of the bed. When Kamal looked in that direction, he was overcome by desperate alarm and mournful resignation, for he saw that the bottom half of his father's body lay on the bed while the upper half rested on Amina's breast. The man's chest washeaving up and down mechanically as he emitted a strange rattling sound not of this world. His eyes had a new blind look, which suggested that they could not see anything or express the man's internal struggle. Kamal, near the end of the bed, felt that his feet were glued to the floor, that he had lost the ability to speak, and that his eyes had turned to glass. He could think of nothing to say or to do and had an overwhelming sense of being utterly impotent, forlorn, and insignificant. Although aware that his father was bidding farewell to life, Kamal was in all other respects as good as unconscious.

  Glancing away from her father's face long enough to look at Kamal, Aisha cried out, “Father! Here's Kamal. He wants to talk to you.”

  Umm Hanafi abandoned her murmured refrain to say in a choking voice, “Get the doctor.”

  With angry sorrow, the mother groaned, “What doctor, you fool?”

  The father moved as if trying to sit up, and the convulsions of his chest increased. He stretched out the forefinger of his right hand and then that of the left. When Amina saw this, her face contracted with pain. She bent down toward his ear and recited in an audible voice, “There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the Messenger of God”. She kept repeating these words until his hand became still. Kamal understood that his father, no longer able to speak, had asked Amina to recite the Muslim credo on his behalf and that the inner meaning of this final hour would never be revealed. To describe it as pain, terror, or a swoon would have been a pointless conjecture. At any rate it could not last long, for it was too momentous and significant to be part of ordinary life. Although his nerves were devastated by this scene, Kamal was ashamed to find himself snatching a few moments to analyze and study it, as if his father's death was a subject for his reflections and a source of information for him. This doubled his grief and his pain.

  The contractions of the man's chest intensified and the rattling sound grew louder. “What is this?” Kamal wondered. “Ishe trying to get up? Or attempting to speak? Or addressing something we can't see? Ishe in pain? Or terrified?… Oh…”. The father emitted a deep groan, and then hishead fell on his breast.

  With every ounce of her being Aisha screamed, “Father!… Na'ima!… Uthman!… Muhammad!” Umm Hanafi rushed to her and gently shoved her out of the room. The mother raised a pale face to look at Kamal and gestured for him to leave, but he did not budge.

  She whispered to him desperately, “Let me perform my last duty to your father.”

  He turned and exited to the sitting room, where Aisha, who had flung herself across the sofa, was howling. He took a seat on the sofa opposite hers, while Umm Hanafi went back into the bedroom to assist her mistress, closing the door behind her. But Aisha's weeping was unbearable, and rising again, Kamal began to pace back and forth, without addressing any comment to her. From time to time he would glance at the closed door and then press his lips together.

  “Why does death seem so alien to us?” he wondered. Once his thoughts were collected enough for him to reflect on the situation, he immediately lost his concentration again, as emotion got the better of him. Even when no longer able to leave the bedroom, alt Sayyid Ahmad had defined the life of the household. It would come as no surprise if on the morrow Kamal found the house to be quite a different place and its life transformed. Indeed, from this moment on, he would have to accustom himself to a new role. Aisha's wails made him feel all the more distraught. He considered trying to silence her but then refrained. He was amazed to see her give vent to her emotions after she had appeared for so long to be impassive and oblivious to everything. Kamal thought again of his father's disappearance from their lives. It seemed almost inconceivable. Remembering his father's condition in the final days, he felt sorrow tear at hisheartstrings. When he reviewed the image of their father at the height of his powers and glory, Kamal felt a profound pity for all living creatures. But when would Aisha ever stop wailing? Why could she not weep tearlessly like her brother?

  The door of the bedroom opened, and Umm Hanafi emerged. During the moment before it was shut again, he could hear his mother':; lamentations. He gathered that she had finished performing her final duty to his father and was now free to cry. Umm Hanafi approached Aisha and told her brusquely, “That's enough weeping, my lady”. Turning toward Kamal, she remarked, “Dawn is breaking, master. Sleep, if only a little, for you have a hard day ahead of you.”

  Then she suddenly started crying. As she left the room, she said in a sobbing voice, “I'll go to Sugar Street and Palace of Desire Alley to announce the dreadful news.”

  Yasin rushed in, followed by Zanuba and Ridwan. Then the silence of the street was rent by the cries of Khadija, whose arrival caused the household's fires of grief to burn at fever pitch, as wails mixed with screams and sobs. It would not have been appropriate for the men to mourn on the first floor, and they went up to the study on the top floor. They sat there despondently, overwhelmed by a gloomy silence, until Ibrahim Shawkat remarked, “The only power and strength is God's. The raid finished him off. May God be most compassionate to him. He was an extraordinary man.”

  Unable to control himself, Yasin started crying. Then Kamal burst into tears too. Ibrahim Shawkat said, “Proclaim that there is only one God. He did not leave you until you were grown men.”

  With morose sorrow and some astonishment Ridwan, Abd al-Muni'm, and Ahmad gazed at the weeping men, who quickly dried their tears and fell silent.

  Ibrahim Shawkat said, “It will be morning soon. Let's consider what has to be done.”

  Yasin answered sadly and tersely, “There's nothing novel about this. We've gone through it repeatedly.”

 
Ibrahim Shawkat responded, “The funeral must suit his rank.”

  Yasin replied with conviction, “That's the least we can do.”

  Then Ridwan commented, “The street in front of the house isn't wide enough for a funeral tent that can hold all the mourners. Let's put it in Bayt al-Qadi Square instead.”

  Ibrahim Shawkat remarked, “But it's customary to install the tent in front of the home of the deceased.”

  Ridwan replied, “That isn't so important, especially since cabinet ministers, senators, and deputies will be among the mourners.”

  They realized that he was referring to his own acquaintances. Yasin commented indifferently, “So let's erect it there.”

  Thinking about the part he was to play, Ahmad said, “We won't be able to get the obituary in the morning papers….”

  Kamal said, “The evening papers come out at about three p m Let's have the funeral at five.”

  “So be it. The cemetery's not far, at any rate. There'll be time to have the burial before sunset.”

  Kamal considered what they were saying with some amazement. At five o'clock the previous day his father had been in bed, listening to the radio. At that time the following day… next to Yasin's two young children and Fahmy. What was left of Fahmy? Life had done nothing to diminish Kamal's childhood desire to look inside his brother's coffin. Had his father really been preparing to say something? What had he wanted to say?

  Yasin turned toward Kamal to ask, “Were you there when he died?”

  “Yes. It was shortly after you left.”

  “Did he suffer much?”

  “I don't know. Who could say, brother? But it didn't last more than five minutes.”

  Yasin sighed and then asked, “Didn't he say anything?”

  “No. He probably wasn't able to speak.”

  “Didn't he recite the credo?”

  Looking down to hide his tearful expression, Kamal replied, “My mother did that for him.”

  “May God be compassionate to him.”

  “Amen.”

  They were silent for a time until finally Ridwan remarked, “The funeral pavilion must be large, if there's to be room for all the mourners to sit.”

  Yasin said, “Naturally. We have many friends”. Then, looking at Abd al-Muni'm, he added, “And there are all the Muslim Brethren”. He sighed and continued: “If his friends had been alive, they would have carried his coffin on their shoulders.”

  The funeral went off according to their expectations. Abd al-Muni'm had the most friends in attendance, but Ridwan's were higher iti rank. Some of them attracted attention because they were well known to readers of newspapers or magazines. Ridwan was so proud they were there that his pride almost obscured his grief. The people of the district, even those who had not known al-Sayyid Ahmad personally, came to bid farewell to their lifelong neighbor. The only thing missing from the funeral was the deceased man's friends, who had all preceded him to the other world.

  At Bs.b al-Nasr, as the funeral cortege made its way to the cemetery, Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad materialized. Staggering from advanced age, he looked up at the coffin, squinted his eyes, and asked, “Who is that?”

  One of the men from the district told him, “Al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, God rest his soul.”

  The man's face trembled unsteadily back and forth as a questioning look of bewilderment spread across it. Then he inquired, “Where washe from?”

  Shaking hishead rather sadly, the other man replied, “From this district. How could you not have known him? Don't you remember al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad?”

  But th e shaykh gave no sign of remembering anything and after casting a final glance at the casket proceeded on his way.

  153

  “NOW THAT my master has left this house, it's no longer the place I called home for more than fifty years. Everyone around me weeps. I receive the unflagging attentions of Khadija, who is my heart filled with sorrow and memories as well as the heart of everyone who has a heart. In fact, she's my daughter, sister, and, at times, my mother. I do most of my crying surreptitiously, when I'm alone, for I have to encourage them to forget. Their grief is hard for me to bear. God forbid that one of them should be tormented by sorrow. When I'm by myself, my only consolation comes from weeping, and I cry till I exhaust my tears. If Umm Hanafi disturbs my tearful solitude, no matter how unobtrusively, I tell her, ‘Leave me and my affairs alone, may God have mercy on you.’ She complains, 'How can I when you're in this state? I know how you feel. But you're the mistress and a Believer, indeed the mistress of all women Believers. From you we learn forbearance and submission to God's decree.'

  “That's a beautiful thought, Umm Hanafi, but how can a grieving heart hope to comprehend it? This world is no longer any concern of mine. I have no further tasks to perform here. Every hour of my day is linked to some memory of my master. He was the pivot of the only life I've ever known. How can I bear to live now that he has departed, leaving nothing behind him? I was the first to suggest changing the furniture in the dear room. What could I do? Their eyes would gaze at his empty bed, and then they would break into tears…. My master is certainly entitled to the tears shed for him, but I can't stand to see them cry. I worry about their tender hearts. I attempt to console them with the same ideas you use on me, Umm Hanafi. I ask them to submit to God and His decree. That's why after the old furniture was taken out I moved into Aisha's room. To keep that room from being abandoned, I transferred the sitting-room furniture and the coffee hour in there. When we gather around the brazier we talk a lot and our conversations are interrupted by tears.

  “Nothing preoccupies us so much as getting ready to visit the cemetery, and I myself supervise the preparation of the food we distribute to the poor there. That's just about the only task I don't entrust 1o Umm Hanafi, to whom I have relinquished so many of my duties… that dear loyal woman who has certainly earned her place in our family. We both prepare this mercy offering. We cry together. We remind each other of the beautiful days. She's always with me, assisting me with her spirit and her memory. Yesterday when the evening celebrations of Ramadan were mentioned, she launched into a description of what my master did during Ramadan from the time he woke up late in the morning until he returned to have breakfast with us before sunrise the next day. For my part, I mentioned how I used to scurry to the latticed balcony to watch the carriage bring him home and to listen to the laughter of the passengers, those men who have departed to God's rnercy, one after the other just as our sweet days have departed, along with youth, health, and vigor. O God, grant the children a long life and comfort them with its joys.

  “This morning I saw our cat under the bed. She was sniffing around where she had nursed her beloved kittens that I gave away to the neighbors. The sight of her, so sad and bewildered, broke my heart and I cried out from the depths of my soul, ‘God grant you patience, Aisha.’ Poor dear Aisha…. Her father's death has awakened all the old sorrows, and she weeps for her father, her daughter, her sons, and her husband. How hot tears are…. I, who once found the loss of a child such a bitter experience that I seemed to weep away my heart's blood, am today afflicted with the death, of my master. My life, which he once filled completely, is empty. Of all my duties, the only one left is preparing the mercy offering I give on his behalf or collecting it from Sugar Street or Palace of Desire Alley. This is all I have.

  “No, son. You should find yourself some gathering other than our mournful one, for I fear it will depress you…. Why are you so despondent? Grief is not for men. A man can't bear his normal burdens and sorrow too. Go up to your room and read or write the way you used to. Or get out of the house in the evening and see your friends. Since God created the world, loved ones have left their kin. If everyone fell victim to sorrow, no one would remain alive on the face of the earth. I'm not as forlorn as you think. A Believer should not feel dejected. If God so wills, we'll live and forget. ‘There's no way to catch up with the dear one who has gone on ahead until God decrees it.’ That
's what I tell him, and I go out of my way to appear composed and collected. But when Khadija, the living heart of our household, turns up and weeps with abandon, I can't keep from bursting into tears.

  “Aisha told me she'd seen her father in a dream. He was grasping Na'ima's arm with one hand and Muhammad's with the other. Uthman was sitting on his shoulders. He told her he was fine, that they were all fine. She asked about the secret meaning of the window of light she had once seen in the sky only to have it disappear for good. His sole response was the look of censure in his eyes. Then she asked me what the dream meant. How helpless you make your mother feel, Aisha…. AH the same, I told her that the dear man, although dead, was still concerned about her and, for that reason, had visited her in a dream and had brought her children from paradise so that the sight of them would cheer her. ‘So don't spoil their peace of mind by clinging to your sorrow.’ I wish the old Aisha would come back, even for an hour…. If the people around me would get over their grief, I could devote myself entirely to my duty to grieve profoundly.

  “I got Yasin and Kamal together and asked, ‘What shall we do with these dear items?’ Yasin said, ‘I'll take the ring, for it fits my finger. Kamal, you take the watch. And, Mother, the prayer beads are for you…. What about his cloaks and caftans?’ I immediately mentioned Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad, the only survivor from the dear man's friends. Yasin said, ‘He's as good as dead, for he's oblivious to the world and has no fixed abode.’ Frowning, Kamal remarked, ‘He no longer knew who Father was. He had forgotten his name and nonchalantly turned away from the funeral procession.’ I was shocked and said, ‘How amazing! When did that happen?’ Even in his last days, my master asked about him. He always loved the shaykh and had seen him only once or twice since his visit to our house the night of Na'ima's wedding. But, my Lord, what's become of Na'ima and ofthat whole portion of our lives? Then Yasin suggested giving the clothes to the messenger boys in his office and the janitors at Kamal's school because no one deserved the clothes more than poor people like them who would pray for him. And the beloved prayer beads will not leave my hands until I leave this life.