Ahmad whispered merrily in his brother's ear, “What could my offense be then, since I don't?”
After that, no one felt like speaking. Ahmad asked himself why the three older men had been arrested. Had the charges been theft, fighting, drunkenness, or rowdy behavior? Clad in his overcoat, he had often written about “the people” in his beautiful study. Here they were - cursing or snoring in their sleep. For a few seconds by the light of the torch he had seen their wretched sullen fices, including that of the man who was scratching hishead and armpits. At this very moment his lice might be advancing resolutely toward Ahmad and his brother.
“You are devoting your life to people like this,” he told himself. “Why should the thought of contact with them worry you? The person on whom mankind's hopes for salvation are pinned should stop snoring and awake to his historic role. Let him rear up and rescue the entire world.”
Ahmad advised himself, “Without regard to the differences of taste between us, our common human condition has united us in this dark and humid place: the Muslim Brother, the Communist, the drunkard, and the thief. Despite dissimilarities in our luck and success at looking after ourselves, we are all human beings.”
He wondered, “Why don't you busy yourself with personal affairs as the officer suggested? I have a beloved wife and plenty of money. The truth is that a man may be happy with his niche as a spouse, an employee, a father, or a son and yet be condemned to suffer various travails or even death by virtue of the fact that he is a man.”
Whether Ahmad was sentenced to prison this time or released, the heavy, glowering prison gates would always hover at the horizons of his life. He asked himself again, “What is pushing me down this dazzling and dangerous road unless it is the human being that lurks deep inside of me, the man who is conscious of himself and aware of his common, historic, human condition? What distinguishes a man from all other creatures if not his ability to condemn himself to death by his own free will?”
Ahmad felt dampness coursing through his legs and weakness penetrating his joints. Snores echoed through the room with a regular rhythm. Then, between the bars of the small window, the first feeble rays of delicate light were visible.
169
KAMALDESPONDENTLY FOLLOWED the physician out of the bedroom. Catching up with the man in the sitting room and gazing at him with questioning eyes, Kamal heard him say calmly, “I'm sorry to inform you that the paralysis is total.”
Feeling miserable, Kamal asked, “Is that serious?”
“Of course! And she's also suffering from pneumonia. I'm prescribing an injection so she can get some rest.”
“Isn't there any hope she'll recover?”
The doctor was silent for a time and then replied, “Our lives are in God's hands. For what it's worth, my judgment as a physician is that she has three days at the most.”
Kamal received this prediction of death resolutely and escorted the physician to the door of the house before returning to the bedroom. His mother was asleep or so it seemed. The thick blanket revealed only a pale face with lips closed but slightly awry. Aisha, who was standing by the bed, walked toward him, asking, “What's wrong with her, brother? What did the doctor say?”
From her station by the head of the bed, Umm Hanafi observed, “She's not speaking, master. She hasn't said a single word.”
Kamal reflected, “Her voice will never be heard again”. Then he told his sister, “An attack of high blood pressure combined with a slight cold. The injection will help her rest.”
Aisha commented, perhaps to herself, “I'm afraid. If she lies in bed like this for a long time, life in our house will surely be unbearable.”
Turning from her to Umm Hanafi, he inquired, “Have you told the others?”
“Yes, master. Mrs. Khadija and Mr. Yasin will be here at once. What's wrong with her, master? This morning she was hale and hearty.”
She had been! He could attest to that. As always each morning, he had passed by the sitting room before rushing off to al-Silahdar School. Taking the cup of coffee she had handed him, he had said, “Don't go out today. It's very cold.”
Showing him her gentle smile, she had replied, “How can I have a good day if I don't visit your master al-Husayn?”
He had protested, “Do as you like. You're stubborn, Mother.”
She had murmured, “Your Lord preserves us”. When he was leaving, she had said, “May our Lord make all your days happy ones.”
That was the last time he would see her conscious. The news of her illness had reached him at school this noon, and he had returned home, accompanied by the doctor who had just predicted her death. Only three days were left. How many more did he have?
Going over to Aisha, he asked, “When and how did this happen?”
Umm Hanafi answered for her: “We were in the sitting room. She rose and started toward her room to put on her coat prior to going out. She told me, ‘When I finish my visit to al-Husayn, I'll call on Khadija.’ She went to the bedroom, and the moment she entered I heard something fall. Rushing inside, I found her stretched out on the floor between the bed and the wardrobe. I ran to her, calling for Mrs. Aisha.”
Aisha said, “I came as fast as I could and discovered her here. We carried her to the bed, and I started asking her what was the matter. But she didn't respond. She didn't say anything. When is she going to speak, brother?”
He answered uneasily, “When God wills.”
Retreating to the sofa, he sat down and began to look sorrowfully at the pale, silent face. Yes, he should gaze at it for a long time. Soon he would be unable to. This very room would no longer be the same, and the characteristics of the whole house would change as well. There would be no one in the building to call “Mother”. He had not imagined that her death would cause hisheart such pain. Washe not already well acquainted with death? Of course he was. He was old enough and experienced enough not to be frightened by death, but the sting of an eternal separation was agonizing. Perhaps hisheart could be criticized for suffering like a novice's despite all the pain it had experienced. How much she had loved him! How much she had loved all of them! How much she had loved everything in existence!
“But your soul only pays attention to such fine qualities when losing someone,” Kamal thought. “At this critical moment your memory is crowded with images of places, times, and events having a profound impact on you. Light overlaps darkness as the blue of early morning blends with the roof garden, the glowing brazier of the coffee hour mingles with religious legends, and the dove's cooing mixes with sweet songs. Heart of an infidel, this was a magnificent love. Tomorrow you may truly declare that death has claimed the person you loved most. Perhaps your eyes will fill with tears until old age reproves you. The tragic vision of life is not free of an infantile Romanticism. It would be far worthier of you to view life courageously as a drama with a happy ending called ‘death.’ But ask yourself how much longer you will continue wasting your life. Your mother dies after concluding a lifetime of achievements. What have you done?”
He was roused by footsteps as Khadija entered the room in a state of shock. She made straight for the bed, calling to her mother and asking what had happened. His pain was compounded by this scene, and fearing that his sangfroid would desert him, he fled to the sitting room. Yasin, Zanuba, and Ridwan arrived almost immediately. After shaking hands with them, Kamal told them about his mother's condition without going into details. They went into the bedroom, leaving him alone until Yasin emerged to ask, “What did the doctor tell you?”
Kamal answered despondently, “Paralysis and pneumonia. Everything will be over in three days.”
Yasin bit his lip and said mournfully, “There is not any power or might save God's”. Taking a seat, he muttered, “The poor woman the whole thing comes so suddenly. Hadn't she complained of feeling poorly of late?”
“Not at all. As you know, she never complained. But she did seem tired at times.”
“Shouldn't you have called the doctor earlier
?”
“She detested nothing so much as consulting a physician.”
Ridwan joined them after a while and told Kamal, “I think she should be moved to the hospital, Uncle.”
Shaking hishead sadly, Kamal answered, “It wouldn't do any good. The pharmacist will send a nurse he knows to administer the injection.”
They fell silent, their concern evident on their faces. At this moment Kamal remembered a matter that courtesy required he should not neglect. So he asked Yasin, “How is Karima?”
“She'll have her baby this week, or that's what the woman physician says.”
Kamal murmured, “May our Lord take her by the hand….”
Yasm lamented, “The baby will come into the world while the father is in detention.”
The doorbell rang. It was Riyad Qaldas. After greeting his friend, Kamal escorted him to the study. On the way up, Riyad explained, “I asked for you at the school, and the secretary gave me the news. How is your mother?”
“She's paralyzed, and the doctor says it will all be over in three days.”
Riyad looked glum and inquired, “Can't anything be done?”
Kamal shook hishead disconsolately and remarked, “Perhaps it's lucky that she's unconscious and knows nothing of the destiny awaiting her”. When they were seated, he added in an ironic tone, “But who among us knows what destiny awaits us?”
Riyad smiled without replying. Then Kamal continued: “Many think it wise to make of death an occasion for reflection on death, when in truth we ought to use it to reflect on life.”
Smiling, Riyad answered, “I think that is better. So let's ask ourselves when anyone dies what we are doing with our lives.”
“As for me, I'm not doing anything with my life. This is what I was thinking about.”
“But you're only halfway down the road….”
“Perhaps yes, perhaps no,” Kamal thought. “Although it's always good for a person to ponder the dreams that tempt him. Mysticism is an evasion of responsibility and so is a passive faith in science. There is no alternative to action, and that requires faith. The issue is how we are to mold for ourselves a belief system that is worthy of life.”
He asked, “Do you think I've done my duty to life by sincerely pursuing my vocation as a teacher and by writing my philosophical essays?”
Riyad answered affectionately, “There's no doubt that you have.”
“But like any other traitor, I live with a guilty conscience.”
“Traitor?”
Sighing, Kamal said, “Let me share with you what my nephew Ahmad told me when I visited him at the jail before his transfer to the prison camp.”
“By the way - any new developments concerning them?”
“They've gone with many others to the prison camp at al-Tur in Sinai.'”
Riyad inquired jovially, “The one who worships God and the one who doesn't?”
“You must worship the government first and foremost if you wish your life to be free of problems.”
“ [n any case, being detained without trial is, I think, a lesser evil than being sentenced to prison.”
“That's one way of looking at it. But when will this affliction be removed? When will martial law be lifted? When will the rule of natural law and the constitution be restored? When will the Egyptians be treated like human beings again?”
Riyad started to fiddle with the wedding ring on his left hand. Pie remarked sadly, “Yes, when! Well, never mind…. What did Ahmad say in jail?”
“He told me, 'Life consists of work, marriage, and the duty incumbe tit upon each person claiming human status. This is not an appropriate occasion to discuss an individual's responsibilities toward his profession or spouse. The duty common to all human beings is perpetual revolution, and that is nothing other than an unceasing effort to further the will of life represented by its progress toward the ideal.'”
After reflecting a little, Riyad said, “A beautiful thought… but one open to all kinds of interpretations.”
“Yes, and that's why his brother and antagonist, Abd al-Muni'm, accepts it too. I have understood it to be a call to adopt some set of beliefs, regardless of its orientation or goal. So I attribute my misery to the guilty conscience of a traitor. It may seem easy to live in a self-contained world of egotism, but it's difficult to be happy this way if you really are a human being.”
In spite of the gloomy nature of the occasion, Riyad's face lit up and he replied, “This is the harbinger of an important upheaval that is about to occur in your life.”
Kamal cautioned his friend: “Don't make fun of me. The choice of a faith has still not been resolved. The greatest consolation I have is the fact that the struggle is not over yet. It will be raging even when, like my mother's, my life has only three more days remaining”. Sighing, he added, “Do you know what else he said? He told me, believe in life and in people. I feel obliged to advocate their highest ideals as long as I believe them to be true, since shnnking from that would be a cowardly evasion of duty. I also see myself compelled to revolt against ideals I believe to be false, since recoiling from this rebellion would be a form of treason. This is the meaning of perpetual revolution.'”
Ashe listened, Riyad nodded hishead in agreement. Since Kamal was clearly exhausted and tense, his friend said, “I must go now. What would you think about accompanying me to the streetcar stop? Perhaps the walk would help you relax.”
They both rose and left the room. Finding Yasin, who had met Riyad a few times, at the entrance to the first-floor apartment, Kamal invited him to join them but asked to be excused for a few minutes to look in at his mother again. On entering her bedroom, he found her still unconscious.
Her eyes red from crying, Khadija was seated on the bed by her mother's feet. The despair that had never left her face since the government had laid hands on her sons was plainly visible. Zanuba, Aisha, and Umm Hanafi sat silently on the sofa. Aisha was smoking a cigarette quickly and anxiously. Meanwhile her eyes scouted the room with nervous agitation.
Kamal asked, “How is she?”
Aisha replied in a loud voice that suggested a worried protest, “She doesn't want to wake up!”
He chanced to turn toward Khadija, and they exchanged a long look of mournful understanding and shared sorrow. Sensing that he might lose control of himself, Kamal darted from the room to rejoin his companions.
They walked slowly down the street and traversed the Goldsmiths Bazaar without saying much of anything. On reaching al-Sanadiqiya, they ran into Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad, who was hobbling along unsteadily with the help of his cane. He was blind, and his arms trembled as he turned from side to side asking in a loud voice, “Which way to paradise?”
A passerby laughingly suggested, “First turn on your right.”
Yasin asked Riyad Qaldas, “Would you believe that this man is almost ten years over a hundred?”
Smiling, Riyad answered, “He's hardly a man now, whatever his age.”
Kamal looked fondly at the shaykh, who made him think of his father. He had once considered this man a landmark of the neighborhood like the ancient fountain building, the mosque of Qala'un, and the vault of Qirrniz Alley. The shaykh still encountered many who were sympathetic to him, but there were always boys to plague him by whistling at him or by following him and imitating his gestures.
The two brothers escorted Riyad to the streetcar stop and waited with him until he boarded. Then they returned to al-Ghuriya. Kamal suddenly stopped and told Yasin, “It's time for you to go to the coffeehouse.”
Yasin replied sharply, “Certainly not! I'll stay with you.”
Knowing his brother's temperament as well as anyone, Kamal said, “There's absolutely no need ofthat.”
Yasin pushed Kamal along ahead of him, protesting, “She's my mother as much as yours.”
All at once Kamal felt fearful for Yasin. It was true that he was brimming with life and as huge as a camel, but how much longer could he endure an existence so dominated by p
assion's impulses? Kamal'sheart filled with sorrow, but his thoughts suddenly flew to the detention camp of al-Tur.
“I believe in life and in people”. That was what Ahmad had said. “I feel obliged to advocate their highest ideals as long as I believe them to be true, since shrinking from that would be a cowardly evasion of duty. I also see myself compelled to revolt against ideals I believe to be false, since recoiling from this rebellion would be a form of treason.”
Kamal had long wondered what was true and what was false, but perhaps doubt was as much of an evasion of responsibility as mysticism or a passive belief in science.
“Could you be a model teacher, an exemplary husband, and a lifelong revolutionary?” he asked himself.
When they reached al-Sharqawi's store, Yasin stopped and explained, “Karima asked me to get some things she needs for the baby, if you don't mind.”
They entered the small shop, and Yasin selected the items his daughter had requested: diapers, a bonnet, and a nightgown. Then Kamal remembered that the black necktie he had worn for a year following his father's death was threadbare and that he would be needing a new one when the mournful day arrived. He told the man, when Yasin was finished, “A black necktie, please.”
Each one took his package, and they left the store. The setting of the sun was washing the world with a sepia tint as side by side they walked back to the house.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Mary Ann Carroll
for being the first reader,
Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis
for her sensitive editing,
Riyad N. Delshad for assistance
with some obscure vocabulary and expressions,
and Sarah and Franya Hut chins
for their patience.
Although others have contributed
to this translation, I am happy
to bear responsibility for it.
—William Maynard Hutchins
TITLES IN EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY
The Cairo Trilogy Page 148