by Yusuf Idris
He sat on the rocking chair beside the big wireless set. By now he had definitely eliminated the possibility of Ga‘afari stealing the watch. Ga‘afari was above suspicion. He had been in the family for generations, one of the many things bequeathed to Abdallah. He was a good man, naïve and loyal and wholly devoted to his master. One of those people who not only accept their destiny but look upon it with awe and reverence. The “master” was to him a being apart whose needs were sacred. He had been with him in the house at El Mounira and when he moved to his present apartment in El Gabalaya Street he moved down with him. He lived in, and that made him a bit of a nuisance sometimes.
Ga‘afari was honest and neat in his work and he hardly spoke a word all day, which suited Abdallah as he particularly disliked idle talk. But he had found him in the way once, two years before, when he wanted to bring a girl to the apartment and the presence of Ga‘afari had made it awkward. He could not bring himself to walk into the apartment with a girl, under the eye of that old servant who had been a witness of the family’s past glories, and who had known his father and his mother and raised him from childhood. And yet he felt it was time he had a fling. Time was fleeting, he was past thirty and his years of freedom were slipping by with nothing to show for them.
With regard to women in his private life, his conduct was exemplary. Not because he considered “such things” improper or from any moral scruples, but simply on account of a bad experience he couldn’t forget. He had picked up a girl once when he was a student, together with a friend of his, and they had taken her in his friend’s big car on the desert road to Alexandria. The next thing he knew was the appearance of certain alarming symptoms which, though they were treated promptly and with good results, made him vow not to come near a woman again except in wedlock. Ever since, as far as he was concerned, a woman was only a microbe with lipstick and nylon stockings, dangerous to contact. This could have induced him to marry but he stuck to his plan. Meanwhile he was nearing the deadline and his life was as arid of women as the barren desert. This state of affairs became intolerable and he decided suddenly it was time he put an end to it. That’s when he began to urge Ga‘afari to get married himself, and actively helped him find a wife. After that he informed Ga‘afari he would not be needing him the whole day, he was free to go after lunch. All in order to clear the apartment so he could be free to make the best of his remaining bachelor days.
Once Ga‘afari was out of the way he intended to have the apartment teeming with women, without really knowing how he was going to set about it. When he found that with or without Ga‘afari things remained pretty much as they were, he was forced to give more thought to the matter. For many years he’d had little to do with women until this sudden obsession got hold of him to the point that he was prepared to overlook the microbe business. But where was he to find a woman?
In the meantime he had become a judge and although he was only a young man he had to be careful of his reputation and the dignity of his post. Nor could he confide in anyone. His immediate circle was all starchy officials in high posts. Hardly the sort of people he could be intimate with. As for his old friends from student days, his small car was one reason why he didn’t have many, and even those had gone their own way. When by chance he happened to run into one of them they would be off to an effusive start full of hearty back-slapping and well-old-boy-where-have-you-been and it’s-great-to-see-you, after which they would discover that that’s about all they had to say to each other besides a passing remark on the good old days and the professor with the funny face.
So much for his male acquaintances. As for the females, he simply had no connections to speak of. There were a few relatives, some of whom he detested. Some were rather attractive and those intimidated him. They were either married or in pursuit of marriage, and they all had their eyes on him, having labeled him a prize catch. But he had a positive aversion to marrying a relative for no reason he could explain even to himself. He took care to keep out of their way, as the slightest motion on his part could be misinterpreted and he had no intention of finding himself caught in the end with a wedding ring.
Then there was Mrs. Shendi for variety, a fifty-year-old widow, passionately fond of bridge, who had a salon which attracted high officials of the state. She had a gift for conversation, and for smiling understandingly and listening to people’s troubles. Her complexion was rather dark which suggested she came from the heart of Upper Egypt although she insisted she was of Turkish origin.
Many of her visitors were married women who were bold and emancipated. He enjoyed talking to them. Occasionally he would comment on a new hairstyle or an elegant pair of shoes, but it never went beyond that. He was painfully aware of his shortcomings. He knew his appearance was not particularly impressive and that his conversation was uninteresting. All he ever managed to convey were dull platitudes which people suffered out of deference for the word “judge” appended to his name. That’s why it never occurred to him to embark on anything more intimate with the ladies of Mrs. Shendi’s salon. He lacked the experience and besides, they made him feel clumsy.
He cast about elsewhere. One girl abused him roundly. Another gladly accepted his invitation to the pictures and dinner afterward at the Auberge. But when his hand happened to brush hers, she stood up and walked out in a virtuous huff.
His sweeping obsession led him to try Mrs. Shendi herself. Her response was lukewarm. She gave in to him in an offhand manner and treated him like a naughty boy. For days afterward he couldn’t live down his mortification or get over the fact that she was a woman of fifty and that his behavior was unbecoming for a man in his position.
Still, he did not give up. That was how he got to bring Nana to the apartment six months after he started dating her. That had been a trying business because it had to be done on the quiet. It was the high cost of dating for a man in his position. He could only take her to places on the outskirts of Cairo, which he had to scout for himself first to make sure he was not likely to run into anyone he knew. And all the time they were together he would be on edge, relaxing only when she said, “Bye, bye,” and squeezed his hand as he dropped her off.
It was quite a triumph for him when he got her to come to the apartment, although his timidity did not allow him to go very far with her. He knew she was having him only because she wasn’t a top-ranking beauty, and she knew it, too. Still, they managed to develop a relationship which ebbed and flowed until timidity wore off, and resistance weakened, and he developed a certain feeling for her that made him seriously consider marriage. She was pleasant, she came from a good family, and she shared his interest in law. Only the fact that it didn’t take much to get her into the apartment rather put him off. And the feeling nagged him without cease until he gave up the idea altogether. But he had learned a good deal in the meantime. Intimacy with one woman is revealing of the mechanics of all the others. Soon he mastered the kind of talk they love to hear. He developed an expert eye for fashion, and a knack for catching subtle details and half-tones of color. He acquired other skills as well. Flashes of wit, the glib rejoinder, the double-edged quip. And the open invitation couched in a smile, and the look that carried a world of meaning. Suddenly he’d made it and he found himself with more than one girl to his credit. One for going to the movies with, one to teach him dancing, and so on. They came and they went.
One night at a nightclub he was introduced to a group which to his surprise, included more than one member of the judiciary. He was also introduced to an entertainer, or more precisely it was she who had introduced herself, and he pulled out his wallet and treated her to an expensive drink, and she insisted on opening the door to his apartment herself as they returned, both a little tipsy, later that night.
No, it was definitely not Ga‘afari who had stolen the watch.
II
It must be Shohrat.
Judge Abdallah was thrilled to find himself involved in a situation which absorb
ed him so completely. It was more than he could keep to himself. All those suppositions and assumptions storming through his brain had to be shared with someone. He had to have Sharaf.
He got up and dialed the Actors’ Syndicate. The number was engaged but he kept on trying, hardly able to wait. Sharaf was the only person in the world he wanted just now. This was a thing to be discussed only with Sharaf. He must be at the Actors’ Syndicate. He had to find the scoundrel.
Sharaf and he had been friends since the days of El Mounira when Abdallah lived in the big family house. Sharaf lived in El Mounira too, but he came from a poorer background. That’s why Judge Abdallah felt relaxed and at ease in his company. It was easy to speak his mind with Sharaf. He could tell him things he could never tell his rich friends and relatives; that’s why he cared for Sharaf more than he cared for any of them even though Sharaf was by no means an important person. He had dropped out of school at an early age and drifted from one job to another for a while before he took up acting, for which he had always had a liking. He took a job acting on the radio. All his parts were short. His longest role consisted of only three words. In spite of that he was very proud of himself as an actor. He even had his own views on acting and the theater and life in general. His permanent residence was at the Actors’ Syndicate.
Theirs was a peculiar relationship in spite of their affection for each other. Judge Abdallah was a busy man but there were days when he found himself with nothing to do and the world would stretch before him yawning into infinity. It was then that he remembered Sharaf. He would ring him at the Actors’ Syndicate. That was the only call Sharaf ever got from anyone. “Come along, Shafshaf,” he’d say. That’s what he called him. Without asking who was calling Sharaf would immediately head for El Gabalaya Street, sometimes by tram but more often on foot, and climb up to the elegant apartment in one of the tall buildings overlooking the Nile. There would be iced water, and food, and conserves, and sometimes beer and an easy chair where he would recline to act his part.
His part was to listen. Listen to his friend Abdallah talk. And when Sharaf and Abdallah talked it was mostly about Abdallah. There are few people one can talk to about oneself without their interrupting to speak of themselves in turn. Sharaf was one of those. Abdallah would unload, droning on and on, sparing no detail, while Sharaf listened with infinite patience. He had made an art of listening to Abdallah, taking care never to appear bored or impatient, or to draw on his cigarette and shake his head mechanically, pretending to follow what was being said. He gave his full attention, his eyes shining as the situation developed, smiling when a smile was required, and coming in on time with a laugh. He made one feel he was truly concerned about one’s welfare. It was not uncommon to find a listener like Sharaf, but then one knew it was only to oblige. Sharaf was not like that. He showed real concern. He asked questions, he argued, he wanted details. It was a comfort to talk to Sharaf for there were moments when he saw himself as a trivial being, a person of no consequence, particularly when he was surrounded by people whose talk was alive and witty, which made him feel miserably inadequate. With Sharaf he could let himself go, speaking with force and eloquence. He could be entertaining and witty and full of wisdom as Sharaf himself proved when he made him stop to repeat things he had said which particularly pleased Sharaf. Like the listeners to a Koran chanter who would ask for the repetition of verses by which they were particularly moved. Very often he wished he could get his wise sayings to Sharaf on tape just to show his friends there was nothing wrong with him. If anyone was wanting it was they.
Sometimes in his conversation Abdallah would express his private views on life and what he thought about people. Generally when a person is asked for his opinion on a certain matter in the presence of others he will say only what is conventional, out of deference perhaps, or fear of being different, or simply to avoid an argument where he could be the loser. Few people have strong personal convictions, and fewer still make them known or have the courage to uphold them. And rarest of all are those who combine courage and the power to convince, not only upholding their convictions but converting others to them. Still, the fact remains that each one of us is wise within limits, and that it is not given to all to preach their wisdom to others.
Like everyone else Abdallah had come to form his own convictions which he derived from his own experience. But those were revealed only to Sharaf. The strange thing was that of the two, Sharaf was the one to take them seriously, Abdallah being more inclined to follow others. It takes a good deal of guts to uphold one’s beliefs.
Just then Sharaf walked in.
He was tall and gaunt with elongated features and an untidy mop of hair. He immediately gave the impression he was an “artist.” He had a bashful smile and when he smiled he revealed a protruding set of teeth which nobody noticed. He went straight to the kitchen, as usual, and returned with a glass of iced water which he started to sip slowly. He removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. Then he sat down and crossed his legs as he took the cigarette Abdallah offered him. Abdallah watched him impatiently until he settled down. Sharaf was quite aware of that and he took his time deliberately. At last he spoke, fixing Abdallah with his eyes, trying to guess what was on his mind this time. Was he feeling lonely? Or was it a new love affair, or some new theory on the development of crime in juveniles?
“Well, what is it?”
“The damnedest thing!”
“You’ve been promoted.”
“No. Shohrat stole my watch.”
“Shohrat who, the dancer?”
Shohrat was not a dancer, or another friend of Nana’s, or anything to do with that category of women. Shohrat was Farghali’s gift to Abdallah.
It all began with one of Abdallah’s periodic rebellions against his thwarted attempts to improve his love-life. So far all the women he got to know, in one way or another, succeeded only in making him feel inadequate. He could never relax in the presence of Nana or any of the others. He had always to be considerate, always ready with sweet talk, always prompt with a smile that must never fade. To make up for his inadequacy he doubled his efforts to please while not one of them ever bothered to please him, until he got quite fed up with the lot of them and decided to try other channels. There was no reason why he shouldn’t.
Next day he called Farghali and began to complain to him about the problem of domestic help. Men servants were dishonest. Elderly women were tiresome and too frail for work. Farghali bowed his head. He agreed with every word. Another time Abdallah appeared very annoyed and told Farghali he had just sacked the new servant. Farghali was extremely sorry and cursed all servants, this one in particular who certainly deserved all that was being heaped on his head. A third time, Abdallah spelled it right out and asked Farghali if he knew of a good honest woman who would work for him. She must not be too young, he was careful to stress. Farghali bowed again, he quite agreed. Abdallah appeared to be thinking. On second thoughts, he added, it would be better if she were not too old. Middle-aged, sort of. Farghali bowed once more. That was best, of course. But Abdallah changed his mind. It would be better if she were a young person after all, who could deal with the household chores, particularly as the back stairs were steep. The apartment was on the seventh floor. Farghali bowed again, with a smile this time. He understood perfectly. He promised to fill those requirements by tomorrow, Friday.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the bell rang. Ga‘afari had gone, having cleared up after lunch. Judge Abdallah opened the door himself. Farghali’s smile filled the doorway. He had a habit of smiling with his eyes shut when he was pleased about something. Evidently he was very pleased now. He was out of uniform, wearing a plain suit, no doubt the gift of some previous official. Old and worn and several sizes too big, it had obviously never once known contact with an iron. His shirt looked more like a nightdress and his tie had eroded from wear to the thickness of a string.
“The
goods are here, sir,” said Farghali.
“Where?”
“Come along, Shohrat,” he called.
Shohrat came in. Abdallah did not look at her immediately. He felt embarrassed, and worried that the neighbors might have seen her going in. She stood in the corner near the door of the living room. He called Farghali to his study and asked him to sit down. Farghali absolutely refused but obeyed when Abdallah insisted. Abdallah was slightly annoyed at that as he suspected there was a degree of familiarity he should not have encouraged. His mind went back to the woman. He was curious to see her face so he got up and went back to the living room while Farghali stood sharply at attention. He gave her a furtive look so as not to make her feel she was being inspected. But he found it hard to keep his eyes off her. She was not what he had imagined. What he saw was a plain native woman of the people like thousands of others. The sort of woman who is made to be a wife and a mother. Hardly the type for a servant. He couldn’t quite place her; nor could he make up his mind whether she was plain or attractive. Anyhow, he thought, she would do. He went back to Farghali and asked him what her wages would be. Farghali refused to go into anything so vulgar. He could give her what he pleased, he said, if he were satisfied, if not, there were plenty of others. Although Abdallah was not too pleased with this arrangement he gave him a cigarette. The next thing was to get rid of him, so he gave him a fifty-piastre tip which Farghali was quick to pocket in spite of voluble protests.
After he had gone Abdallah returned to the study and sat down. The woman was still standing in the living room. “Come here,” he called.