"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.
"The tomb is such a pleasant place to visit, even though it stirs my grief. I've frequented it ever since my precious martyred son was taken there. From that time on, I've considered it to be one of the rooms of our house, even though it's at the outskirts of our district. The tomb brings us all together just as the coffee hour once did. Khadija weeps until she's exhausted. Then we're instructed to be silent out of respect for a recitation of the Qur'an. After that they converse for a time. I'm pleased by anything that distracts my loved ones from their sorrow. Ridwan, Abd al-Muni'm, and Ahmad become embroiled in a long argument. Occasionally Karima joins them. That tempts Kamal to participate and brightens the gloomy atmosphere of the grave site. Abd al-Muni'm asks about his martyred uncle. Yasin recounts various stories concerning him. The old days come to life, and forgotten memories are revived. My heart pounds, because I'm at a loss to know how to hide my tears.
"I frequently find Kamal looking despondent. When I ask him about it, he replies, 'His image never leaves me, especially the vision of his death. If only he had had an easier end!'
I told him tenderly, 'You must forget all this.' He asked, 'How can I?' I suggested faith, but he smiled sadly and remarked, How I feared him when I was young… but in his later yearshe revealed to me a totally different person, indeed a beloved friend. How witty, tender, and gracioushe was… unlike any other man.'
"Yasiti weeps whenever he happens to remember his father. Kamal's sorrow takes the form of silent dejection, but huge Yasin weeps like a child and tells me, 'He was the only man I ever loved.' Yes, my master was Yasin's father and mother too. The boy was never treated to affection, care, or concern anywhere but under his father's wing. Even the man's fierceness was compassionate. I'll never forget the day he forgave me and invited me back to his house, confinning my mother's hunch, may God be compassionate to her. She kept telling me, 'Al-Sayyid Ahmad is not a man who will permanently ban the mother of his children.' His love united us in the past, just as his memory does now. Our house does not lack for visitors, but my heart is not at rest unless I have Khadija and Yasm around me with their families. Even Zanuba's grief is quite sincere. Beautiful young Karima suggested, 'Grandmother, come home with us. It's time for the celebrations in honor of al-Husayn. You can hear Sufi groups chanting below our house. I know you like that.' I gave her a grateful kiss and told her, 'Daughter, your grandmother's not used to spending the night away from home.' The girl knows nothing of the customs of her grandfather's house in the old days. How beautiful it is to remember them…. The latticed balcony was the outer limit of my world. I waited there for my master to return late at night. At the time, he was so mighty that the earth almost shook when he stepped out of the carriage. Vigor virtually leaping from his face, he would fill the room on entering it, he was so big and tall. He won't come home tonight. He'll never come home. Even before his passing, he withered away, stopped going out, and stayed in bed. He grew thin and lost so much weight you could pick him up with one hand. I'll never recover from my grief.
"Aisha said angrily, 'These children haven't grieved for their grandfather and don't grieve for him.' I told her, 'They did grieve, but they're young. It's part of God's compassion for them that they don't get bogged down in their grief She retorted, 'See how Abd al-Muni'm can't stop arguing. He never mourned for my daughter. He quickly forgot all about her, as if she had never existed.' I reminded her, 'No, he mourned her for a long time and wept a great deal. Men's grief differs from that of women. A mother'sheart is unlike any other one. Who doesn't forget, Aisha? Don't we take comfort in conversation? Aren't we occasionally surprised by a smile? There will come a day when not a tear is shed. Besides, where is Fahmy? What about him?'
"Umm Hanafi asked me, 'Why have you stopped going to al-Husayn?' I replied, 'My soul is indifferent to all the things I used to love. I'll visit my master al-Husayn once the wound is healed.' She inquired, 'What will heal the wound if not a visit to your Master?' This is how Umm Hanafi takes care of me. She is the mistress of our household. If it were not for her, we would not have a home. My Lord, You who are the lord of all creation, You who issue all the ineluctable decrees, to You I pray. I wish you had allowed my master to keep his strength to the end. Nothing caused me so much pain as his confinement to bed — a man for whom the whole world was hardly big enough. He wasn't even able to pray. I regret the suffering endured by his weak heart and the way he was carried home like a child after the raid. These things cause my tears to flow and dam up my grief."
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"Putting my trust in God, I shall ask for the hand of my cousin Karima."
Ibrahim Shawkat glanced up at his son with some astonishment. Ahmad bowed his head but smiled in a way that showed the news came as no surprise to him. Khadija set aside the shawl she was embroidering to cast a strange look of disbelief at her son. Then, staring ai: her husband, she asked, "What did he say?"
Abd al-Muni'm repeated: "Putting my trust in God, I shall ask for the hand of your brother's daughter Karima."
To show her bewilderment Khadija spread her hands out and asked, "Has good taste gone out of fashion in this world? Is this an appropriate time to discuss an engagement, regardless of the identity of your intended?"
Smiling, Abd al-Muni'm said, "All times are appro
priate for betrothals."
Shaking her head to express her bafflement, she inquired, "And your grandfather?" Then, as she looked from Ahmad to Ibrahim, she continued: "Have you ever heard of anything like this before?"
Abd al-Muni'm remarked a bit sharply, "An engagement… not a marriage or a wedding. And my grandfather's been dead four whole months Lighting a cigarette, Ibrahim Shawkat said, "Karima's still young. She looks older than she is, I think."
Abd al-Muni'm answered, "She's fifteen, and the marriage contract would not be signed for a year…."
Khadija asked with bitter sarcasm, "Has Mrs. Zanuba shown you the birth certificate?"
Ibrahim Shawkat and his son Ahmad laughed, but Abd al-Muni'm said earnestly, "Nothing will happen for a year. By that time almost a year and a half will have passed since Grandfather's death, arid Karima will be old enough to get married."
"So why are you causing us a headache now?"
"There wouldn't be any harm in announcing the engagement at present."
Khadija inquired scornfully, "Will the engagement go sour if it's postponed for a year?"
"Please don't jest."
Khadija shouted, "If this happens, it will cause a scandal."
With all the composure he could muster, Abd al-Muni'm replied, "Leave Grandmother to me. She'll understand me better than you do. She's my grandmother and Karima's too."
His mother observed gruffly, "She's not Karima's grandmother."
Abd al-Muni'm fell silent, but his expression was sullen. Before he could answer, his father interjected, "It's a question of good taste. It would be better to wait a little."
Khadija cried out furiously, "You mean your only objection is to the timing?"
Pretending not to understand, Abd al-Muni'm asked, "Is there some other objection then?"
Khadija did not answer. When she started embroidering the shawl again, Abd al-Muni'm protested, "Karima's the daughter of your brother Yasin, isn't she?"
Dropping the shawl, Khadija said bitterly, "She truly is my brother's daughter, but you ought to remember as well who her mother is."
The men exchanged apprehensive glances. Abd al-Muni'm burst out acerbically, "Her mother's also your brother's wife."
Raising her voice, she proclaimed, "I know that and regret it."
"That forgotten past! Who remembers it now? She's no longer anything but a respectable lady like you."
In a surly voice she retorted, "That woman's not like me and never will be."
"What's wrong with her? Since we were little children we've known her to be a lady in every sense of the word. When a person repents and lives righteously, his former misdeeds are erased. After that, the only people who would remind him of them are …"
He stopped. Shaking her head sorrowfully, she challenged him, "Yes? … Tell me what I am! Insult your mother for the sake of this woman who has successfully ensnared you. I've long wondered what lay behind those repeated dinner invitations to Palace of Desire Alley. You've been taken in by it."
After looking angrily from his father to his brother, Abd al-Muni'm inquired, "Is this the way we talk? I'd like to hear what you two think."
Yawning, Ibrahim Shawkat said, "There's no need for all this discussion. Abd al-Muni'm will get married again, if not today then tomorrow. You want that to happen. Karima's our daughter and a lovely, charming girl. There's no need to become agitated."
Ahmad remarked, "Mother, you're always the one who thinks first about pleasing Uncle Yasin."
Exasperated, Khadija replied, "You're all against me, as usual, but the only argument you can think of is 'Uncle Yasin.' Yasin is my brother. His primary fault was not knowing how to pick a bride, atid his nephew has inherited this strange defect from him."
Abd al-Muni'm asked in amazement, "Isn't my uncle's wife a friend of yours? Anyone watching the two of you exchange secrets would think you are sisters."
"What can I do when the woman's as shrewd a diplomat as Allenby? But if it had been up to me and I had not been concerned about Yasin, I would not have allowed her to enter my home. What has been the result? Against your better judgment you have been won over by the dinners given to promote her own interests… God help us."
Then Ahmad told his brother, "Ask for her hand whenever you want. Mother has an active tongue but a fine heart."
Laughing nervously, she said, "Bravo, son. You two differ about everything — beliefs, religion, politics but you're united against me."
Ahmad said gleefully, "Uncle Yasin is a favorite of yours, and you'll accord Karima the warmest welcome. The thing is that you would like a bride who isn't a relative so that you, as her mother, can dominate her. Fine … it'll be up to me to fulfill this dream for you. I'll bring you a bride you've never heard of so your craving can be satisfied."
"I wouldn't be at all surprised if you brought home a dancer tomorrow. Why are you laughing? This devout young shaykh wants to marry into the family of a professional entertainer. So what should I expect from you, whose religious beliefs are suspect, so help me God?"
"We really do need a dancer in the family."
Then, as though she had just remembered a terribly important matter, Khadija asked, "And Aisha? My Lord, what do you suppose she'll say about us?"
Abd al-Muni'm objected, "What should she say? My wife died four years ago. Does she want me to remain a widower for the rest of my life?"
Ibrahim Shawkat said irritably, "Don't turn an anthill into a mountain. The question is far simpler than you suggest. Karima is Yasin's daughter. Yasin is the brother of both Khadija and Aisha. That suffices. Pshaw! You argue about everything, even weddings."
A smile on his face, Ahmad glanced stealthily at his mother. He continued to observe her until she rose, as if infuriated, and left the room. He told himself, "This bourgeois class is nothing but an array of complexes. It would take an expert psychoanalyst to cure all of its ills, an analyst as powerful as history itself. If luck had given me any kind of break, I would have married before my brother, but that other bourgeois woman stipulated a salary of at least fifty pounds a month. This is how hearts are wounded for considerations that have nothing to do with the heart. I wonder what Sawsan Hammad would think if she knew about my abortive adventure?"
155
The weather was bitterly cold and the dampness of Khan al-Khalili tn winter made it a less than ideal destination, but that evening Riyad Qaldas himself had suggested going to the Khan al-Khalili coffeehouse constructed above the site of the old one of Ahmad Abduh. Or, as he put it, "Kamal has finally taught me to appreciate quaint places". From its doorway, which opened out to al-Husayn, this small cafe, like a corridor with tables lining the two sides, extended back to a wooden balcony that overlooked the new Khan al-Khalili. Drinking tea and taking turns with a water pipe, the friends sat on the right-hand side of the balcony.
Isma'il explained, "I have a few days to pack and then I'll be traveling there."
Kamal asked sadly, "We won't see you for three years?"
"That's right. This is one gamble I have to make. The position offers an enormous salary I couldn't ever imagine getting here, and, besides, Iraq is an Arab country. It's not that different from Egypt."
"I'll miss him," Kamal thought. "He's not a soul mate, but he's my lifelong friend."
Laughing, Riyad Qaldas inquired, "Doesn't Iraq need any translators?"
Kamal asked, "Would you leave home if you had an opportunity like Isma'il's?"
"In the past I wouldn't have hesitated, but not now."
"What distinguishes the present from the past?"
Riyad Qaldas replied merrily, "For you, nothing. For me, everything. It seems I'm soon to join the fraternity of married men."
Astonished by the news, which came without any warning, Kamal felt anxious in a way he could not pinpoint precisely.
"Really? You've never alluded to this before."
"No. It's come about suddenly… at the last meeting. When the two of us last met, it wasn't even under considera
tion."
Isma'il Latif laughed triumphantly. Attempting to smile, Kamal asked, "How did this happen?"
"How? The way it happens every day. A woman teacher came to visit her brother in the translation bureau. I liked her and, on exploring my prospects, found myself invited to proceed."
Ashe accepted the hose of the water pipe from Kamal, Isma'il asked jovially, "When do you suppose this fellow will get around to exploring his prospects?"
Isma'il never missed a chance to bring up this stale topic. But there was a more serious side to the matter. All of Kamal's friends who had tried marriage maintained that it was a cage. If this wedding took place, he would probably see Riyad only on rare occasions and his friend might change into a different person, a kind of pen pal. The writer was so gentle and tender, it would not take much to subdue him. But how would Kamal's life be possible without him? If marriage transformed Riyad as radically as it had Isma'il, Kamal could bid farewell to the joys of life.
"When are you getting married?" Kamal asked.
"Next winter, at the latest."
It seemed that the tormented Kamal was fated to lose a best friend time and again. "At that moment, you'll become a different Riyad Qaldas."
"Why? … You have a fantastic imagination."
Masking his anxiety with a smile, Kamal asked, "A fantastic imagination? Today Riyad Qaldas is a man whose spirit always wants more while his pocket is happy to go empty. Once you're a husband, your pocket will always need more money and you'll have no opportunity for spiritual fulfillment."
"What an offensive description of the husband! But I don't agree with you."
"How about Isma'il, who is being forced to migrate to Iraq? I'm not making fun of that decision, for it's not only natural but heroic. Yet, at the same time, it's hideous. Picture yourself up to your ears in the problems of daily life, thinking only of how to make ends meet, reckoning your hours by piasters and milliemes. Then the poetic side of life can only seem a waste of time."
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