The customer started drying his face with the end of his cloak and grumbled, “I’ll gain what? . . . Can’t you be a little more careful?”
Master Shahhata looked up at him and said, “Bless Fatima’s father, fellow. By your Creator, that’s arrack! How many people get a facial with arrack? That’s better than holy water, fellow.”
Everyone laughed, launching into one of those long, interminable, shared guffaws—like lunatics. They actually might have been mad or just a group enjoying communal laughter.
Salim’s patience was exhausted, or, more correctly, he pretended it was. He gestured angrily while looking out of the corner of his eye at Dr. Hilmi’s balcony. He clapped his large hands together like thunder and shouted, “Master Shahhata! What’s up, Master Shahhata?”
A few seconds passed. Then the proprietor of the coffeehouse emerged, saying, “At your service.” Recognizing Salim Effendi, Master Shahhata rushed to him: “Your Honor! Anything you desire!”
He said that and stood respectfully before his regular, well-groomed customer. Salim seemed to like the deferential way he stood there, for he did not order at once. He let him wait while he enjoyed this respect and twisted his mustache, without forgetting to cast some discreet glances at the aforementioned balcony.
Finally he said in a deliberate, grave, dignified manner, while gesturing toward the pipe with the pretended ennui of a person of rank, “A light! Quick!”
He stole another glance at the balcony. Then he said imperiously to the proprietor: “You’re still here! I told you: quick!”
Master Shahhata put his hand on his head, which was wrapped with a cloth, and said, “My goodness, sir. Your Excellency’s orders! I’m yours to command.”
He started to leave to fill the order, but Salim Effendi detained him to say, with his eye on the balcony, “Don’t you know who I am, Master Shahhata?” Then in a haughty voice he added, “Don’t let my civilian clothes deceive you!”
Master Shahhata quickly replied, “I know! I know—noble people from a fine and distinguished family. My God, wealth and blessings!” He went toward the door of the coffeehouse and cried out, “A light for the shisha outside!” Then he disappeared inside.
Salim turned his attention to the pipe, putting the mouthpiece in his mouth. He lifted his head to puff smoke into the air, gazing directly at the balcony of Dr. Hilmi’s house this time. He fixed his eyes there but shortly looked down in despair. He did not observe any trace of a person within, neither a man nor a woman.
Salim finally got fed up and started to mutter in annoyance and displeasure. He felt weary and started to yawn. He had good reason, because it had been about three hours since he had deposited his massive body like a sack of cotton in this seat at the coffeehouse. How many times had he looked at the balcony in vain! How many times had he clapped his hands like thunder for Master Shahhata and his waiters, shouting at them in a tone he always attempted to keep—one of authority, like that of a police chief. In fact he did not limit his commands to the owner of the coffeehouse and his assistants; for three hours he hadn’t allowed a single bootblack to pass by on the street without calling to him peremptorily: “Boy, come polish my shoes!”
He would thrust his foot at him, saying, “Dust it off properly. You don’t know who I am.”
He accosted any newspaper vendor he spotted with: “Listen, boy. Do you have Basir? If not give me Ahram, so I can read about promotions and transfers.”
Any hawker he saw he stopped with: “Come here, fellow. Show me your German-made suspenders. No, no, no! That’s fake. I buy exclusively from Sim‘an’s. Scram, chap.”
His aim was to speak in a loud, resounding voice, while looking from time to time at the balcony. Unfortunately none of these maneuvers attracted anyone’s attention, by God, except that of a customer sitting directly behind him. He had perhaps arrived without Salim Effendi noticing.
It was obvious that this patron hadn’t missed a single one of Salim’s maneuvers. Indeed, judging by his interest and furtive smile, he seemed pleased, diverted, and secretly amused by what he saw, as if he was watching a show. This customer and spectator was none other than Mustafa Bey, the neighbor who lived downstairs from Salim and his companions. Had Salim redirected his eyes even once and scrutinized the building next to Dr. Hilmi’s residence—number 35, in other words the residence of the folks—he would have noticed the shadow of a woman at one of its windows. She too had been staring despondently, for twenty minutes, but at the coffeehouse. He would also have heard the racket and commotion the woman was producing at her window on the pretext of setting out the pottery water jugs, which had brass tops.
Salim wasn’t aware of any of this, and perhaps Mustafa Bey did not notice either. His preoccupation with observing Salim’s movements and moods, his interest in that spectacle, kept him from noticing the window in question or what was happening there.
The heat became intense, and the sun was blazing. Salim was forced to put on his fez. He cast one last look at the balcony and then took out his watch to consult it. It was not past eleven yet. The rest of the folks didn’t usually return for lunch before one o’clock. What should he do with the time? Should he sit there any longer or go off? If he went off, where to? He hesitated, not knowing what to do.
Visions of the Soldier’s Coffeehouse from the time it had been his favorite place flashed through his mind. He remembered those charming foreign women who frequented the top floor. He had—according to his boasts and perceptions—been adored by those shy gazelles who had thronged around him and gazed admiringly at his mustache, which was twisted to stand at attention. But, alas! God curse the stricken heart that had brought him to Shahhata’s shabby coffeehouse to loiter there all day long, his eyes raised to the sky as though he were a pagan worshipper of an inanimate balcony.
He yawned again and then stretched out his hand languidly to grasp a newspaper from the table. He tried to read, but one of his eyes was always straying from the page, looking every which way and rotating anxiously in its socket like a marble in a cup until, at last, it came to rest on the designated balcony.
A period passed like that. Then suddenly something happened that caused Salim to let his newspaper fall to the table. He began to look attentively in front of him. He had seen the servant Mabruk come out of the house carrying a small bundle under his arm. What attracted Salim’s attention and interest, however, was that Mabruk was wearing his good cloak, the one clean garment he reserved for feast days, holidays, and other religious celebrations: his best caftan. And even more remarkable was that Mabruk was heading toward Dr. Hilmi’s house.
In fact, Mabruk, after he appeared at the door and surveyed the street, turned his head and walked a few steps in the direction of the beloved neighboring residence, singing, “What’s it to me? What did she tell me?”
At that moment Salim rose halfway and shouted, “Mabruk!”
The servant turned toward him and smiled but didn’t stop or say a word. Instead he continued singing, “Go get drunk! Come along, without a veil.”
Salim rose and began to shout and beckon dramatically: “Shut up! Listen: I’m talking to you, Mabruk. Listen: I’m speaking to you! One word—then you can go.”
Mabruk didn’t reply. Instead he stopped and looked at Salim but kept on singing. Then he turned his back on him and started to walk off with dancing steps. When he reached the door of the doctor’s house, he stopped at the threshold and glanced back at Salim. He gave him a wink out of the corner of his eye, wriggled his eyebrows, and popped inside.
Salim stormed and snarled between his teeth, “What an animal!”
Mustafa Bey, who was sitting behind Salim, didn’t miss any of this. He smiled. Ten minutes passed. Then a woman enveloped in a black wrap appeared on the stoop of building number 35, in other words Salim’s residence. This woman stopped for a moment and froze, giving long, direct glances at the coffeehouse from
eyes that flashed on either side of her face veil’s brass nosepiece. Then, with an abrupt motion suggesting vexation and annoyance, she turned her back on the coffeehouse and walked down Salama Street heading toward Al-Sayyida Zaynab Square.
As soon as Salim saw her, he rose, forgetting his newspapers and stick on the table and chairs, to hasten after her. With his long stride he caught up to her in three paces. She was swaying and swinging her body in front of him, slowly and deliberately as though she were the ceremonial camel litter bound for Mecca.
Salim gave a quick twist to his mustache and moved alongside her. He cleared his throat and whispered, “Good gracious, what about this! Peaches and cream! Your servant, lady: A carriage or an automobile?”
She recognized his voice at once. So she stopped and looked at him. With discernible sorrow and disappointment she said, “So it’s Your Lordship?”
Salim was flabbergasted. Slightly embarrassed, he muttered in astonishment, “Zanuba?”
She smiled dejectedly beneath her veil. Without bothering to wait for his answer, she started to look stealthily and anxiously at Shahhata’s coffeehouse behind her, as though searching for something or someone.
Salim sensed the awkwardness of this situation. Disconcerted, he said, trying to cover with a laugh, “Ha ha! God reward you! I was thinking . . . In short, then—where are you going?”
Distracted and absentminded, Zanuba asked, “Me?”
At that, Salim seemed to remember an important matter and quickly observed, “By the way, that boy Mabruk just went into the doctor’s house.”
He waited for some response or explanation, but she remained silent. Then she finally asked grimly, her eyes searching the chairs of the coffeehouse at the end of the street, “Who?”
He looked at her for some time. “What do you mean, ‘Who?’ I told you: Mabruk!”
She came to herself, turned toward him, and said, “Mabruk? What about him? He just went on an errand.”
“Errand?”
“Oh, he went to take a dress to Saniya Hilmi. I was using it as a pattern.”
Salim was satisfied and paused for a bit. Then he started speaking again in a strange voice: “And for an errand like this of two steps the beast wears his best caftan?”
Zanuba replied indifferently, “That’s what he does whenever he goes there.”
Salim stared at her. “Strange! He’s always that way when he goes there?”
Zanuba answered absentmindedly, “He has a right. He doesn’t like to visit people in dirty clothes.”
Salim stammered, not fully convinced, “True, that’s right. In short, where are you going?”
She hesitated and looked at him uneasily. Then she said, “Me? I want to go to . . . Zahra the seamstress!”
Salim asked, “Here in Al-Baghala?”
She replied quickly, “Ah . . .”
Salim moved to depart and as he left said, “Okay then, I’m going back. So give my greetings to Zahra—if she’s pretty and her cut is too.”
Then he turned around and walked back to his place at the coffeehouse.
Zanuba stood frozen for a moment, hesitating, as though prey to some unseen force. She began to think as best she could—as well as anyone with her mental training could. She didn’t know what to do. She threw one last glance at the coffeehouse and then looked away in disappointment. She proceeded slowly on toward Al-Sayyida Zaynab Square. As soon as she reached the mosque, she stood and peered through the bars of the tomb’s grille. She stared at the resting place of the granddaughter of the Prophet of God, with its rich decoration. Then she began to recite sadly to herself the opening sura of the Qur’an in honor of the Pure Lady. Al-Sayyida Zaynab Square was the chief station for the vehicles of the Suarès omnibus line. A person passing there would soon have his ear assaulted by the voice of a conductor or driver shouting at intervals, “Let’s go—Al-Muski! Al-Sayyida Nafisa! Al-Muski! Muski! Muski!”
Zanuba was the first to respond to this voice. The name al-Muski reminded her of something. She hesitated a moment. Then, suddenly, she made up her mind, walked purposefully to the omnibus stop, and quickly boarded the front of a vehicle that was preparing to depart.
* * *
• • •
For half an hour the Suarès wove through the streets and ancient alleys, cutting through the old quarters of Cairo until it finally reached the Muski. Passengers heading there descended while the others craned their necks to look out both sides at the countless shops and stores. Eye-dazzling wares were displayed—silk and velvet textiles, brocades with gleaming gold and silver thread and glittering sequins; jewelry of real gold or in fish-scale patterns; shoes and slippers, with heels or flat, in the latest fashion; haberdashery, laces, household linens; brass and china vessels; metal and wooden spoons and ladles; in short, all the goods available in this renowned market.
As usual, the congestion was severe, and the Suarès had difficulty cutting its way through the waves of people gathered like ants on narrow Al-Muski Street. Their shouts became loud, and their movements and clamor intensified: the whole lot of them, merchants and vendors, buyers and lookers. The merchants and vendors were calling out their wares, competing for customers with alluring words and cheap prices as well as oaths and asseverations on their honor and integrity that the product was excellent, that this was a real opportunity, a bargain—gentleman’s honor.
The buyers—women and men—were looking, bickering, fingering, and taking the textiles in their hands to rub them and test their strength vigorously. They were also haggling and wrangling. Voices rose. Oaths multiplied. Pushing and shoving grew worse. Sweat poured over brows and faces. Added to this hubbub was the sound of the finger cymbals of the licorice drinks vendor, who was crowding against people, his red jug in front of his belly and his brass pitcher in his hand. He had set a block of ice on the jug, where it cooled nothing and had no contact with the drink. It was employed, rather, merely for advertising. “Hold on to your teeth! I sell drinks. Your teeth are none of my business.” Then he would snap his finger cymbals or fill a glass for a customer, shouting in another tone, “Patience is beautiful! Real wealth is to be poor but debt-free. Watch out for your teeth!”
The passengers of the Suarès watched all of this from the windows of the vehicle; Zanuba alone remained frozen and still, oblivious to the Muski and its contents. She didn’t move or awaken from her reflections and broodings until she reached her stop at Sayyiduna al-Husayn, where the omnibus came to a halt and Zanuba descended. She seemed to know exactly where she was heading, because no sooner had she stepped to the ground than she proceeded through that district from street to street and alley to alley, not turning aside for anything, not wasting a single second.
In the heart of this district was a small, dark, dead-end alley. It wasn’t a place a stranger to the district would happen upon by chance. This alley was Zanuba’s destination, and she took fifteen minutes to reach it. She stopped at the door of the last house and hesitated before knocking gently. After a bit it opened, revealing an old woman who looked at her with a frown of inquiry. Zanuba said to her with some embarrassment, “I’ve come for Shaykh Simhan.”
The old woman stepped aside to let her in and replied gruffly, “Come this way.”
Zanuba entered, and the old woman closed the door behind her. Then she led her to a spacious, sparsely furnished room and pointed her to an empty pallet on the floor beside a woman nursing a baby, saying to Zanuba, “Sit and rest till it’s your turn.”
She exited through a door at the far side. Zanuba sat down on the pallet and began to look around her. Women, seated like her on the ground, were also waiting their turn. They were all pressed together, and their faces were focused on the door at the end. They remained silent, staring at that door as though it were God’s portal. A single notion was sketched on the features of these women, and thus a spectator might well have imagined that a
single thought was passing through their minds, uniting all of them. They might well have been participating in the communal Friday prayer, when souls part for a moment from their separate bodies and each spirit forgets its individual existence. All gather and dissolve together, focusing on one thing: the prayer niche. Zanuba forgot her personal concerns briefly under the influence of that feeling to which the other women had succumbed. For a time she sat motionless and silent, looking, like them, at the door at the end.
Finally she turned quietly and gently to her neighbor, the woman with the baby, and whispered a question to her: “Have you come for the shaykh, you there?”
The woman looked at her and replied, “Yes, sister.”
Then she gave her baby a breast like a cow’s udder and added, nodding at him, “Because of the child; may it never happen to you.”
Zanuba moved her mat closer to the woman and leaned toward the baby tenderly. She said, “The protection of God’s name for him. What’s the matter with him?”
The woman raised a blue blanket from the face of her small son. Then she answered, “His eyes! May our Lord protect you! Look!”
Zanuba glanced at the baby’s eye, which was severely inflamed. “Haven’t you taken him to a physician?” she asked.
The woman raised her head and turned toward Zanuba argumentatively. In a knowing and confident voice, she asked, “Physician? Do those doctors know anything, sister? I’ve tried everything. Oh, what they prescribed for us, sister. God only knows. So is there anything stronger and more effective than molasses, kohl, cassia powder, and leeches—even, may God protect you, a poultice of warm donkey droppings? None of that was any use or help. What do you say?”
Zanuba was silent for a moment. Then she asked the woman simply, “Does Shaykh Simhan know about eyes?”
The woman puckered her mouth in regret at Zanuba’s ignorance. Shaking her head in its black scarf, she said, “Know? You ask if he knows? What doesn’t he know? It’s clear, sister, you haven’t heard about him. What a shame! So the person who directed you to Shaykh Simhan al-Asyuti didn’t tell you about his miracles?”
Return of the Spirit Page 7