One day he learned that the Director of Administration, Hamza al-Suwayfi, was complaining that his son was falling behind at school over foreign languages. He offered to help him.
Hamza was undecided and said, “I’d better find him a private tutor. I don’t want you to waste your time with him.”
“Your Honor,” replied Othman in words chosen with his usual care, “you have used words I cannot allow.”
So he paid frequent visits to the Director’s house and took singular trouble with the boy, with the result that he passed his examination. The Director tried to reward him but he recoiled as though from fire and said, “I shall not permit Your Honor that either…” And he stood his ground until the man succumbed. Then he added in a grateful tone, “I owe so much to you for your kindness and encouragement…”
However, he felt in the depths of his heart a pain of similar dimensions to the sum he had magnanimously declined to take. But that was not the only frustration he suffered in frequenting the Director’s house. For he had dreamed of coming upon a “suitable” bride there, and who could know? He also dreamed that his services might intercede for him with Hamza al-Suwayfi and enable him to overlook the humbleness of his birth and admit him into a new class that would help him make progress. But the dream did not come true and on his visits the only people he met were males. Sa‘fan Basyuni would not have cared about his birth: the origins of the two of them were much the same. But what benefit could he expect from marrying his daughter? Nothing but children and cares and poverty. Not even love. For he only loved Sayyida and his heart had been dead since he abandoned her. But those who aspired to glory on the path to God did not concern themselves with happiness.
Days went by as they always would: the scorching days of summer, the dreamy days of autumn, the cruel days of winter, and the scented days of spring. And he himself would always maintain his patient determination and his soaring ambition, along with the bitterness in his heart and the grinding of his desires.
Fourteen
Omm Husni came to see him as was her wont. She presented him with a jar of pickled lemons and sat down on the settee eyeing him carefully and making him curious. She slapped her knee suddenly and said, “By the holy Husayn, your loneliness makes me sad…”
He smiled impassively.
“Are you not aware you’re growing old?” she said.
“Of course I am, Omm Husni.”
“And that nothing is more treacherous than the passing years?”
“You’re right.”
“Where are your children to keep you company?”
“In the realm of the unknown.” He kept quiet for a short while, then said, laughing, “The matchmaker’s instinct is stirring in you, Omm Husni…”
She laughed and said, “Listen, I’ve got something special…”
In spite of his restraint, the conversation with its engaging air of mystery attracted him.
“You’ve always got something special.”
“A pretty, middle-aged widow,” she said hopefully. “A sensible woman. The daughter of the late sheikh of the quarter.”
“Eh?”
“She’s got one daughter. Fourteen years old.”
“They’re two women then, not one…”
“The girl will live with her uncle. You can be assured of that.”
“Great!”
“She is a house owner.”
“Really?”
“In Birjwan. It’s got a garden with a mulberry tree.” She stared at him with her poor eyes to assess the impression her words made. She imagined he was pleased and added, “You’ll see her for yourself.”
Omm Husni pointed her out to him in al-Sikka al-Jadida. She had a coat on, but he could tell from the slow and swaying way she walked that she had learned it from wearing the long native wrap. She was short and plump with a round face and black hair. She aroused a primitive desire in him. Like Qadriyya. Maybe she was cleaner, he thought, but her troubles were immeasurably greater. He felt sorry for Omm Husni, who knew so little about him despite their long familiarity. How could she grasp what it meant to be an auditor and translator in the Budget Department? Humankind began from clay and was then expected to take up its place among the stars; and that was its tragedy.
“What do you think?” said Omm Husni.
“She’s a fine woman,” he replied, smiling. “You’re still an expert.”
“Shall I get on with it?”
“No,” he answered calmly.
“Didn’t you say she was a fine woman?”
“But she isn’t a fit wife for me.”
The old woman proved to be more obstinate than he thought, for one afternoon she came to him and said, “What a happy coincidence: Madame Saniyya’s come to see me.”
His primitive desire was aroused and he yielded to a transient weakness. Omm Husni repeated with fresh emphasis, “She’s come to visit me…”
“Maybe she will come to visit me too,” he said mischievously.
“You could come down if you wished…” she said as she was going.
He did go down, without hesitation. As silence prevailed, Omm Husni was able to go on chattering nonstop. Othman remembered that he had never talked to anyone seriously except to Sayyida.
“This is an honor…” he was obliged to say.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“It’s cold today.”
“Yes.”
Omm Husni said to her, “Have you finished redecorating your house?”
She nodded.
Omm Husni also tried to bring him around to talking about his official position but he wouldn’t. He was inflamed with desire, but it was desire without hope. Finally Saniyya made as if to go and he got up at once, said goodbye, and left. But instead of going upstairs to his flat he went downstairs and waited below with a daring plan in his mind. He heard her footsteps as she came down the stairs. She was surprised to see him. He feigned surprise as well and said, “Nice meeting you…”
He made way for her and whispered as she went past him, “Would you care for a cup of tea upstairs?”
“No, thank you,” she said hurriedly.
“Please, I’ve got something to say…”
“No,” she said, protesting.
She went away as fast as she could. He had rushed things, he thought, his limbs trembling with desire. How on earth could he have imagined that she would accept! But what was to be done with sexual desire, impatience, and human frailty? He climbed the stairs, ashamed and infuriated. He would remain an adolescent, he told himself, until he settled down in a respectable family.
Fifteen
The state of his purse improved constantly. He received a pay increase and his income from freelance translation was growing. And because he spent only what was absolutely necessary, his balance with the Post Office Savings Bank was steadily going up. His fervor for work never slackened and his relationship with the Director of Administration became close, almost as if they were friends.
One day Hamza said to him, “His Excellency the Director General has expressed his admiration for your style in translation.”
A wave of joy overwhelmed him. He became certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep a single hour of the night. Naturally, His Excellency did not remember him personally, but he still knew of him, if only as an abstract name. The Director of Administration went on: “His Excellency the Director General is a great translator. He’s translated many important books himself, and he certainly knows what he’s talking about when he praises your work.”
He mumbled gratefully and said, “I only got His Excellency’s appreciation through you.”
“I’ve been invited to give a lecture at the Civil Servants Society,” the Director said, smiling in a very friendly way. “I’ve jotted down the basic points. How about writing it up with your excellent style?”
“It would be a great pleasure, Director,” he said in a tone of enthusiasm.
He wished he could be given a similar task eve
ry day. For his work in the department, extensive and well appreciated as it was by everybody, was not going to be enough on its own. So the least he should do was to render services to his seniors, and make them feel his importance and outstanding merits. And that might mollify his dismay at the smallness of his achievements when compared with his ambitions. It was something to comfort him as he proceeded on his long path. In the night he was seized with sudden dejection and cried aloud:
“What madness! How could I imagine that one day I would achieve what I desire!”
He counted the grades he needed to pass through before ascending to the pinnacle of glory: grade five, grade four, grade three, grade two, grade one. He counted them and he counted the years they would claim of his life. It made him giddy and a sense of profound sorrow overwhelmed him. Some great event, he said to himself, must take place; his life could not be wasted away in vain. As he had an appointment with Sa‘fan Basyuni at the café, he put on his clothes and went out. He found Omm Husni waiting for him on the landing in front of her flat.
“I’ve got some visitors,” she said. “You should come in and say hello. It’s Sayyida and her mother…”
He walked in and greeted them. He was a little frightened at first, but he soon realized that everything was dead and buried. Not a single look of aversion or reproach, but one of unaffected disinterest without a glimmer of recollection. It confirmed for him that the past had fallen into the infinite abyss of death. What added to his profound awareness of the passage of time was the hearty reception the mother gave him. He saw death devouring a loved image which he believed to be eternal; and all it amounted to was a mere memory that hardly seemed to have once been real, any more than Adam in the Garden of Eden. There was Sayyida, growing fat and stupid. She reminded him of Qadriyya and his agitation grew. The top of her wrap had slipped from her head and rested on her shoulder, leaving both her head and neck free. Her embroided kerchief was drawn back to disclose a shiny forehead and parted hair. As for the luster he used to gaze at in her eyes, it had gone out. The meeting passed in a lifeless atmosphere tinged with an ironic sense of estrangement. And he tried in vain to trace on those thick lips any sign that his own lips had kissed them. He stayed only as long as courtesy demanded, and when he left, his heart was beating in supplication to the mysterious unknown which wreaked havoc with a smile at once soft and cruel. He was going to meet his old chief, who was going to be pensioned off in a few days, and spend a friendly evening with him. The old man had become skin and bone and lost the last hair on his head, not because of senility, but because of a stomach disease. However he was still as kindhearted and resigned as he had always been. It was obvious that he faced the end of his service in a depressed and melancholy state of mind. Othman tried to cheer him up.
“I wish you a long and happy rest,” he said.
“I can’t think what life will be like away from Archives,” said the old man with a meaningless burst of laughter. “And I haven’t got a hobby to keep me busy. That’s what really upsets me,” he added with a sigh.
“But you’re so popular. Everybody loves you.”
“True, and I haven’t got any family obligations left. But still I’m frightened.”
They sipped at their tea while Othman cast furtive glances at him with a feeling of compassion, till the man went on: “I still remember the day I was appointed in the civil service as vividly as yesterday. It is an unforgettable occasion, like one’s wedding night. I still remember its every detail. How could a lifetime flit by so swiftly?”
“Yes,” murmured Othman with a pang in his heart, “like so many other things…”
The man smiled at him as though announcing a change of mood and said, “What about your own family responsibilities?”
He remembered his false claims and replied, “The burden is still heavy.”
“You were just a big lad when I first took you on,” he said, looking at him with affection. “And now you’ve become a full-grown man, and soon…But anyway, just make sure time does not cheat you. Be very careful.”
“Fine! And what good does that do?”
“At least, you mustn’t let life pass you by.”
“You’re speaking of marriage?”
“Of everything. You’ve always seemed on the lookout to me. But what for? And till when?”
“But life’s like that…”
The man waved his hand in protest and said, “We all speak confidently about life as if we knew the truth about it.”
“What else could we do?”
“Without the existence of God life would be a losing game with no meaning to it.”
“It’s lucky for us that He exists, and that He knows what He’s doing better than we do.”
“Thank God for that!” said the old man with feeling.
They fell silent and then talked again, and again they fell silent and again they talked, until it was time to part. Othman felt he was never going to see him again. There was nothing between them but an old comradeship and a sense of duty on his part. Yet he felt for him, momentarily, no little compassion. As they shook hands the old man said, “I trust you won’t forget me.”
“God forbid!” he answered warmly.
“Forgetfulness is death,” said Sa‘fan in a pleading tone.
“God give you a long life!”
Othman had no intention of seeing him again, nor had he come to say goodbye to him in response to any genuine feeling, but only for fear of being charged with ingratitude. For this reason he was oppressed by his conscience and his fear of God, and he walked away hardly conscious of his surroundings. In spite of himself, his thoughts were focused on grade five, which was due to be vacant in a few days.
His standing with the Director of Administration was now so good no obstacle of any consequence stood in his way.
So he was promoted to grade five that same month and made Head of Archives.
Sixteen
Patience, however vacuous, may have its reward. Othman’s new leap forward was a real one and its great advantage lay in the fact that the Head of Archives presented important mail in person to His Excellency the Director General to receive his instructions confidentially and see that they were carried out. God was pleased with him at long last and the celestial gates were now opened to him, leading to the sublime administrative presence. Here was a royal opportunity that required him to exploit all his experience, culture, suavity, and sincerity. Here was the room, vast as a public square, from which he dreamed he would one day rule. It was a dream that had to come true, no matter what offerings must be made at its altar: a dream to which nobody had access save the meritorious who purchased it in exchange for the cheap and ephemeral pleasures of life.
He studied the enormous room meticulously: the smooth white ceiling, the crystal chandelier, the neatly decorated walls, the tiled fireplace, the blue carpet whose dimensions exceeded anything he had ever imagined possible, the conference table with its green felt cover, and the desk facing him with its strong, curved legs and glass top on which stood an array of silver objects: paper holders, inkpots, pens, a clock, a blotter, an ashtray as well as a wooden cigarette box from Khan al-Khalili.
Now he had ample opportunity to cast furtive looks at the lucky Director as he sat on his large chair: sharp dark eyes and a well-shaven face, a dark red tarboosh, a fragrant scent, a black mustache of medium length and width, an aura of vitality all around him, his girth moderate, though his height could not be ascertained with accuracy. Above all an air of solemn and unbending reticence, which made the earning of his friendship an aspiration difficult to achieve.
There he stood in audience before him, conscious of his breathing and within the aura of his fragrant scent, almost hearing his pulsebeat and reading his thoughts. He stood there seeking to learn his wishes and eager to obey his commands before they were uttered. In the light of his smile he read the future; and his dearest dream was always that he would one day sit in his place.
With pious d
eference he bowed and said, “Good morning, Your Excellency.”
The man looked up and mumbled some sort of reply to his greeting.
“Othman Bayyumi, Head of Archives,” he announced by way of introducing himself. In the way the Director lifted his normally level eyebrows Othman read the equivalent of a smile, though no smile showed on his lips.
“The new one, sir,” he added.
“And the translator. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” he answered, his heart beating.
“Your style is good,” he said in a low voice.
“Your encouragement is a great honor, sir.”
“Any important mail?”
He began opening the envelopes dexterously, showing the Director their contents and scrupulously taking down his instructions. He bowed again and left the room drunk with happiness. On his way back to Archives he thought how Hamza al-Suwayfi was now passing out of his life into the shadows, until the darkness should swallow him as it had swallowed Sa‘fan Basyuni, and how from that moment his future was in the hands of (next to Almighty God) His Excellency.
“Beware of slow progress, Othman,” he told himself. “One or two leaps forward will be essential.”
“When Sa‘fan Basyuni was pensioned off he had spent the last half of his service in the same grade,” he told himself again.
He knew only too well that the department had two Deputy Directors, which meant that a leap forward could only materialize through Hamza al-Suwayfi: through either his promotion, his retirement, or…his death. The thought made him feel ashamed, as his thoughts often did, and he prayed to God for forgiveness.
“Why did God create us in such a corrupt image?” he wondered.
He was anything but pleased with that aspect of his own nature, but he accepted it as it was. He believed that on either side of his sacred path the waves of good and evil clashed together, and that nothing could affect its sanctity except weakness, frailty, self-satisfaction, and indulgence in easy delights and daydreams. He prayed: “Forgive me, Oh almighty God! For my only sin is the love of glory You have instilled in me.”
Respected Sir, Wedding Song, the Search Page 5