She replied, "Thanks, but I've gone over it several times. You say your French is mediocre. Perhaps you need my psychology notes?"
Without any hesitation he responded, "I'd be grateful, if you don't mind."
"So tomorrow we'll exchange notes?"
"With pleasure. But forgive me … won't you find that most of the instruction in sociology is in English?"
"You know I've chosen sociology?"
He smiled as if to hide his embarrassment, although he felt none, and answered simply, "Yes."
"How did you happen to find that out?"
He said boldly, "I asked someone."
She pressed her crimson lips together. Then she continued as if she had not heard his reply: "Tomorrow we'll exchange notes."
"In the morning."
"See you then, and thanks."
Before she could depart he said, "I'm happy to have met you. See you tomorrow."
He remained on his feet until she had disappeared out the door. When lie sat back down, he noticed that some of the young men were looking at him curiously. But he was tipsy with happiness. Had the conversation been a response to his obvious admiration for her or had it been occasioned by a pressing need for his notes? He had never had a chance to get acquainted with her before. Whenever he had seen her, she had been with a group of friends. This was his first opportunity, and almost miraculously he had obtained what he had wanted for so long. A word from the lips of a person we love is apt to make everything else seem insignificant.
141
No matter how hard he tried to stay calm, Yasin seemed anxious. To both his colleagues and himself he had pretended for a long time that he did not care about anything not his rank, his salary, or even which party was in power. If promoted to the sixth level, he would only get two pounds more a month, and he spent so much…. They said that an increase in his rank would mean a promotion for him from review clerk to head of section. But when had Yasin ever shown any interest in administration? All the same, he felt worried, especially after Muhammad Effendi Hasan, head of the bureau and husband of Ridwan's mother, Zaynab, was summoned to a meeting with the deputy minister to give his opinion of his employees one final time before the list of promotions was signed. Muhammad Hasan? The man was vengeful by nature and would have treated Yasin badly from the beginning had it not been for Mr. Muhammad Iffat. Could such a man give Yasin a good report? Taking advantage of his supervisor's absence to hurry to the telephone, Yasin called the Law School for the third time that day and asked for Ridwan Yasin.
"Hello, Ridwan? It's your father."
"Hello. Everything's great". The boy's voice was confident. He had been working on his father's behalf.
"All that remains is for the promotions to be signed?"
"Have no fear. The minister himself recommended you. Some deputies and senators spoke to him, and he promised that everything would be fine."
"Doesn't the affair require one last recommendation?"
"Not at all. As I told you, the pasha already congratulated me on your promotion this morning. You have every reason to be confident."
"Thanks, son. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Papa. Congratulations in advance."
He put down the receiver, left the room, and ran into his colleague and competitor for this promotion, Ibrahim Effendi Fath Allah, who approached carrying some files. They greeted each other circumspectly. Then Yasin said, "Let's be good sports about this, Ibrahim Effendi. Whatever the result is, let's receive it with good grace."
The man said angrily, "On condition that you play fair."
"What do you mean?"
"The selection should be based on merit, not influence."
"What strange ideas you have! Isn't influence necessary to obtain any kind of position in this world? You do your best, and I'll do mine. Whoever is destined to receive the promotion will get it."
"I have more seniority than you do."
"We've both been in the civil service for a long time. One year more or less won't make any difference."
"In one year many people are born and many others die."
"Whether a person is born or dies is all a question of his destiny."
"What about qualifications?"
"Qualifications? Are we constructing bridges or building power plants? What qualifications are required for our clerical work? We both have the elementary certificate. In addition to that, I'm a man of culture."
Ibrahim Effendi laughed sarcastically and replied, "Culture? Greetings to the cultured gentleman! Do you think the poems you've memorized make you cultured? Or is it the style you use in drafting letters for the bureau … the kind a person would employ when retaking the elementary certificate examination. I'll leave my fate to God."
The two men parted on bad terms, and Yasin returned to his desk. The room was large. On both sides there were rows of desks that faced each other. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with files. Some of the clerks were busy with their papers, but others chatted or smoked. Meanwhile messengers carrying files came or left.
Yasin's neighbor told him, "My daughter will do the baccalaureate examination this year. I'll sign her up for the Teacher Training Institute, and then I'll be able to stop worrying about her. It doesn't cost anything, and there will be no difficulty finding her a job after she graduates."
Yasin said, "You've done the best thing."
The man asked him argumentatively, "What do you have planned for Karima? By the way, how old is she?"
Although irritated, Yasin relaxed his face into a smile and said, "Eleven. She'll take the elementary-school certificate examination next summer, God willing." After counting out the months on his ngers, he continued: "We're in November, so there are seven more months until it's over and done with."
"If she does well in elementary school, she'll succeed in secondary school too. Girls today are a safer bet in school than boys."
Secondary school?… That was what Zanuba wanted. Certainly not… he could not bear to have a daughter stroll off to school with bouncing breasts … and what about the fees?
"We don't send our girls to secondary school. Why not? Because they're not going to take jobs."
A third man asked, "Does talk like this make sense in 1938?"
"In our family, they'll be saying it in 2038."
A fourth clerk laughed as he said, "Admit you'd have to choose between spending money on her and on yourself. The coffeehouse in al-Ataba, the bar on Muhammad Ali Street, and 'Love for young women has sapped my strength.' That's the true story."
Yasin laughed and then said, "May our Lord protect her. But as [said, we don't educate girls beyond the elementary certificate."
A cough resounded from the corner of the room closest to the entrance. Yasin turned in that direction and then stood up, as if he had remembered something important. He went over to the cougher's desk. Sensing Yasin's presence, the man looked up, and Yasin leaned down to say, "You promised to tell me how to make the elixir."
The man moved his ear closer to Yasin, asking, "What?"
Since he was afraid to raise his voice, Yasin was distressed by the man's difficulty in hearing him. A loud voice from the middle of the room announced, "I bet he's asking you about the prescription for the aphrodisiac that's going to send all of us to the grave."
Yasin retreated to his desk in disgust. Paying no attention to his embarrassment, the man said in a voice everyone could hear, "I'll tell you how to make it. Get the peel of a mango, boil it rapidly until the mixture attains the consistency of honey, and take a spoonful of it before breakfast."
They all laughed, but Ibrahim Fath Allah remarked sarcastically, "That's swell, but wait till you're promoted to the sixth level. See if that doesn't perk you up."
Laughing, Yasin asked, "Does a man's rank help him in this area?"
His neighbor, who was laughing too, replied, "If this theory was correct, then Uncle Hasanayn, our office boy, should be the Minister of Education."
Ibrahim Fath Alla
h clapped his hands together and, pointing to Yasin, asked, "Brothers, this man is nice and pleasant, a good fellow, but doeshe do a millieme's worth of work? Give me your honest opinion."
Yasin said scornfully, "A minute of my work is equivalent to a day's work by you."
"The real story is that the director goes easy on you and that you rely on your son's intervention in this bleak era."
Determined to infuriate his rival, Yasin said, "By your life, I'll have an advocate in every era. Now it's my son. If the Wafd returns to power, you'll find I have my nephew and my father. Tell me what advocates you have."
Looking up toward the ceiling, the other man answered, "I have our Lord."
"Glory to Him, I have Him too. Isn't He everyone's Lord?"
"But He's not fond of patrons of drinking establishments on Muhammad Ali Street."
"Does that mean He likes dope addicts?"
"There's no more revolting creature than a drunkard."
"Cabinet ministers and ambassadors drink. Don't you see pictures in the papers of them drinking toasts? But have you ever seen a diplomat at an official party offer opium to someone in celebration of the signing of a treaty, for example?"
Trying to stop laughing, Yasin's neighbor said, "Hush, fellows, or the rest of your civil service will be performed in prison."
Pointing to his adversary, Yasin shot back, "By your life, even in prison he would loathe me and brag about his seniority."
Then Muhammad Hasan returned from his meeting with the deputy minister. There was universal silence as all faces watched him go to his office without pausing to look at anything. The clerks exchanged inquisitive glances. Probably one of the rivals was now head of his section. But which was the lucky one? The door of the director's office opened. The director's bald head appeared, and he called out in an emotionless voice, "Yasin Effendi". Yasin rose and directed his huge body toward the office as his heart pounded.
The director scrutinized him with a strange look and then said, "You've been promoted to the sixth level."
Relieved and delighted, Yasin replied, "Thank you, sir."
In a rather dry tone the man continued: "It's only fair to tell you frankly that someone else deserves it more than you do. But strings were pulled on your behalf."
Yasin was annoyed, as he often was when with this man. He retorted, "Strings! So what? Is anything big or small accomplished without the use of influence? Does anyone get promoted in this bureau or this ministry, yourself included, without influence?"
The ether man restrained his rage and said, "You're nothing but a headache for me. You get promoted without deserving it and then resent the least remark, no matter how appropriate. Don't blame us. Congratulations. Congratulations, sir. I just hope you'll pull yourself together. You're head of your section now."
Encouraged by the way the director had backed down, Yasin, without modifying his own sharp tone, replied, "I've been a civil servant lor more than twenty years. I'm forty-two. Do you think the sixtb level is too good for me? Boys are appointed at this rank merely because they've graduated from the University."
"The important thing is for you to pull yourself together. I hope] '11 find you as reliable as the others. When you were the school disciplinarian at al-Nahhasin School, you were a diligent and exemplary employee. Had it not been for that incident long ago…"
"Thai's ancient history. There's no need to mention it now. Everyone makes mistakes."
"You're a mature adult. If you play around, it will be hard to carry out your duties. When you stay out late every night, what condition is your brain in the next morning when you're supposed to work? I want you to shoulder your responsibilities. That's all there is to it."
Yasin was offended by the reference to his conduct and said, "I won't let anyone comment on my private life. Once I'm outside the ministry I'm free to do what I want."
"And inside it?"
"I will do as much work as any other section head. I've toiled enough over the years to suffice for the rest of my life."
When Yasin returned to his desk, despite the anger raging in his breast, he sported a smile. As the news spread, he was showered with congratulations.
Ibrahim Fath Allah leaned over to whisper spitefully to his neighbor, "His son! That's the whole story. Abd al-Rahim Pasha Isa… you understand? Disgusting!"
142
Seated in a large chair on the latticed balcony, al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad gazed alternately at the street and at al-Ahram, the newspaper spread across his lap. The gaps between the spindles of the latticework allowed patches of light to fall on his ample house shirt and on his skullcap. He had left the door to his room open so he could hear the radio from the sitting room. He appeared gaunt and wasted, and the dull look in his eyes suggested sorrowful resignation. From his perch on the balcony, he seemed to be discovering the street for the first time. In the past, he had never experienced it from this angle. Back then, he had slept most of the time he was at home. Nowadays the only amusement he had left, except for the radio, was sitting on the balcony and peering out between the spindles to the north and the south. It was a lively, charming, and entertaining street. Moreover, it had a special character distinguishing it from al-Nahhasin, which he had observed for roughly half a century from his shop, the one he had owned. Here were the establishments of Hasanayn the barber, Darwish the bean seller, al-Fuli the milkman, Bayumi the drinks vendor, and Abu Sari', who grilled snacks. Known for their location on this street, they were also the features by which Palace Walk was identified.
"What good companions and neighbors… I wonder how old these men are. Hasanayn the barber has a good build, the kind that rarely shows a man's age. Almost nothing about him has changed except his hair, but he's certainly over fifty. God's grace has preserved these men's health. And Darwish? Bald… he always was. But he's in his sixties. What a powerful body he has! I was like that when I was sixty, but now I'm sixty-seven. That's old! I've had my dothes cut down to fit what's left of my body. When I look at the photo hanging in my room, I can't believe I'm that same person. Poor blind al-Fuli is younger than Darwish. Without his apprentice, he wouldn't be able to make his rounds. Abu Sari' is an old man. Old? But he's still working. None of them has given up his shop. It's a shattering experience for a man to abandon his store. Afterward all you have left is sitting in your house, staying home day and night. If only I could go out for an hour every day! I have to wait for Friday and then I need both my stick and Kamal to assist me. Praise God, Lord of the universe, in any case. Bayu-mi's the youngest of them and the luckiest. His prominence began with Mary am's mother, and mine ended with her. Today he owns the most modern building in the neighborhood. That's what became of Mr. Muhammad Ridwan's home. Where it once stood, Bayumi has built a juice shop lit by electricity. A man's good fortune may start with a woman's treachery. Glory to God who gives all things. May His wisdom be exalted. Everything's been modernized. The roads have been paved with asphalt and illuminated with streetlights. Remember how pitch-black the nights were when you used to return home? What a long time it's been since you did that! Every shop has electricity and a radio. Everything's new, except me, an old man of sixty-seven who can only leave his home once a week. Even then I'm short of breath. My heart! It's all the fault of my heart that loved, laughed, rejoiced, and sang for so many years. Today it dictates calm, and there's no way to reject its decree. The doctor said, 'Take your medicine, stay home, and keep to the diet I've prescribed.' I told him, 'Fine. But will that make me strong again? Or give me back at least some of my strength?' He replied, 'Warding off further complications is the most we can hope for. Any exertion or movement puts you at risk.' Then he laughed and wanted to know, 'Why do you want to regain your strength?' Yes, why? It's ridiculous and pathetic."
All the same, al-Sayyid Ahmad had answered, "I want to be able to come and go."
The physician had commented, "Every condition has its own special pleasures like sitting quietly. Read the newspapers, listen to the radio
, enjoy your family, and on Friday ride to the mosque of al-Husayn. That's enough for you."
"The matter's in God's hands," he thought. "Mutawalli Abd al-Samad is still stumbling about in the streets…. He says, 'Enjoy your family.' Amina no longer stays home. Our roles have been reversed. I'm confined to the latticed balcony while she roams around Cairo, going from mosque to mosque. Kamal sits with me for fleeting moments, as if he were a guest. Aisha? Alas, Aisha, are you alive or dead? And then they want my heart to recover and to feel contented."
"Master…"
He turned around and saw Umm Hanafi carrying a small tray with a bottle of medicine, an empty coffee cup, and a glass half rilled wi th water.
"Your medicine, master."
Kitch en fragrances wafted from the black dress of this woman who in the course of time had become one of the family. Picking up the glass, he poured out enough water to fill the cup halfway and then, after removing the medicine bottle's stopper, added four drops to the water in his cup. In anticipation of the taste, he made a face and then swallowed.
"May it bring you health, master."
"Thanks. Where's Aisha?"
"In her room. May God grant her forbearance."
"Call her, Umm Hanafi."
In her room or on the roof… what difference did it make? The radio's cheerful songs were in ironic contrast to the mournful atmosphere of this otherwise silent dwelling. Al-Sayyid Ahmad had been confined to the house for only the last two months. A year and four months had passed since Na'ima's death. When the mari had asked to listen to the radio in view of his urgent need for entertainment, Aisha had replied, "Of course, Papa. May God find ways to console you for being forced to stay home."
Heanng the rustling of a dress, he turned and saw Aisha approaching in her black attire. Although the weather was warm, she had a black scarf wrapped around her head. Her fair complexion had a strange blue cast to it. "That's a symptom of her depression," he thought. Then he said tenderly, "Get a chair and sit with me a little."
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