Voices From the Other World

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Meanwhile, the province rested secure in its state of grace—except for those who had deluded themselves into believing that they were the “Manufacturers of Virtue.” They were now desperate and perplexed, turning left and right for a way out of this distressing situation. Yet they could find none. The constable suffered most of all, because—though the boldest among them— he nonetheless dreaded declaring his anxieties, only to encounter deaf ears and confident, contented hearts.

  Finally, his patience exhausted, he seized the opportunity offered by a meeting with his peers to wonder aloud, in a voice filled with fear, “What would we do if the Sovereign—as of tomorrow—should have no more need of our services?”

  Their faces went blank. Stammering, one of them asked, “Is it likely that he could really do without us?”

  Ram said, shrugging his shoulders in disdain, “What can we do to merit being kept on?”

  With these words, it was as if he had lifted the lid from an overfilled kettle, and all inside it came spilling out. One of them said, “You cannot keep quiet in a fix like this.”

  Shaking his fist, another shouted, “That doting old man has ruined the district!”

  A third complained, “He is wrecking the human capacity for loftiness with this corrupting appeal, that hinders all progress and slaughters all fears.”

  The secret talk stirred among them, as each revealed what was inside him—except for the magistrate. He stuck to his silence, gazing off into the distant horizons as though he heard nothing of what was being said around him. His apparition nearly caused many of them to give up hoping for his aid, until Ram whispered to them in embarrassment, “Don’t worry about Sumer— his heart is with us. It’s just that his tongue, which is used to speaking about Justice, will not obey him in pursuing our purpose here.”

  And so they all agreed about what to do. . . .

  One morning, the sun rose to reveal that the alien man had vanished. His disciples searched for him everywhere, ransacking every corner of the nome—without finding a single trace.

  His disappearance came as a confounding surprise— and it provoked differing remarks. Some said that he had moved out of the district after making sure that his creed had been firmly rooted there. Others claimed that he had ascended into heaven after carrying out his mission. Regardless, sadness enfolded the entire province, and all those within it.

  Except for those in powerful positions. They let out their breath, and—with hopes high—they each dreamed of their glory that had fled, their comfort that had disappeared. Filled with anticipation, they waited expectantly for these things to return.

  But disappointment awaits whoever puts his faith in such expectant hope. When the big shots saw that the ordinary people still clung to their belief—true in their remembrance of the aged outsider—they were struck with disquiet. Their hearts were vexed, and they could not sleep.

  Fuming with rage, the protector of order cried, “This situation cannot stand!”

  Eyes filled with longing looked toward him. The hard work of hoping had drained them. Perceiving this, Ram said in a conspiratorial tone, “In the province of Ptah, I know of an enticing dancer, to whom the gods have given irresistible beauty. Why don’t we borrow her for a few months? I’m aware that the ruler of that district is anxious to get rid of her, for her looks are inciting strife and turmoil there. Let the nome of Khnum be her place of exile for a while, and she will no doubt sow divisions between brother and brother, and between husband and wife. The affluent will be agitated to burst the chains that they have put obediently around their own necks. Keep a lookout for a good result soon.”

  And so this inspired man put into action his dangerous plan.

  With joyous, gleaming eyes, they all witnessed the edifice of the old stranger’s regime break down and fall apart, stone by stone. The stomach returned to its throne, commanding necks and minds alike to bend to its rule. The devilish life came back to quiet Khnum, blowing away the serenity that had prevailed in its parts. The gang of leading citizens resumed their campaign, finding themselves once again fighting the good fight—for Virtue, Justice, and Peace.

  King Userkaf’s Forgiveness

  Pharaoh Userkaf was among the most magnificent monarchs of the Fifth Dynasty, who ruled Egypt by blending justice with mercy, firmness with sagacity, and force with affection. When he first took the throne, he mustered a mighty army to march into the Western Desert. His purpose was to squelch the impudence of the wandering tribes—whom his forebears had wooed to make peace—in preying on caravans, pillaging the Delta villages, and attacking peaceful citizens. He crushed them so utterly that his army came back heavily laden with both prisoners and their herds. In this way, he bolstered his own authority, making it—and the name of Egypt— things to be feared, while saving his country’s people from the savage tribes’ evil. In the shade of peace and security, he devoted all of his care to the domestic affairs of the nation and the welfare of her children. He cut out roads and dug canals, and built for himself a great pyramid at Aswan, his royal capital. His reign was one of safety, wealth, and construction, and the king dwelt, content and confident, among his glorious subjects. His breast was gladdened by his people’s love for their king, and his days and nights were brightened by the sincerity of a band of his highest subordinates in their consuming fondness for him. They were his most excellent friends and most splendid companions: his son Sahura, the heir apparent, and Horurra, his chief vizier. There was also Samun, high priest of the god Khnum, as well as Samunra, supreme commander of the Egyptian army.

  Among the customs of the upright king was to pray each morning in the Temple of Khnum. On one of these mornings, he entered the Holy of Holies and secluded himself with the deity’s statue. He kissed its foot, then prayed fervently in profound gratitude, enumerating his many gifts and blessings. He ended his prayer by saying: “Praise be to my father Khnum for having invested me with people’s love and genuine loyalty, for the love of that which he has created is the Creator’s satisfaction. There is no one happier in the world than one who brightens the hearts of others for the sake of his own happiness, and who suffers for their suffering.”

  Because the people of those days worshipped the gods with hearts filled with honesty, faith, and naïveté, the deities would grace them with speech sometimes, and with miracles at others. And so it was not strange for Pharaoh to hear a heavenly voice answer him:

  “I granted you wisdom, O King—so why do you place so much confidence in others?”

  The king was astonished at what the god had said. Distress rising in his heart, he replied with devout humility, “O Sacred Lord, I have served my people sincerely, and they have given me their love. I have been loyal to my friends, and they are bound in loyalty to me. How could this be a cause for reproach?”

  The celestial voice, exalted beyond all equal or description, answered him:

  “Behold the tree rich with leaves, whose branches covered in luxuriant greenery fill up the air. See how the people take refuge in its spreading shade from the burning rays of the sun, and how they pluck its low-hanging fruit. Then look upon this same tree in winter. See how the cold winds have stripped it bare, and how all of its leaves have fallen, and how its limbs are empty and exposed like a decaying corpse which embalming has not preserved. See then how the people forsake it, cutting off its branches to throw them in the fire.”

  Pharaoh returned to his palace, depressed and dejected, pondering over and over again the meaning of what the god had told him. Doubt whispered in his breast and worry ruled his heart. For the first time, he began to envision the dear faces that accompanied him over so many long years in friendship and serenity with an aura of suspicion. He detected behind their amiable chatter naught but honey-coated lies, beyond their smiles only disgusting hypocrisy, and in their shows of obedience but the marks of dread and fear. A wave of violent, malevolent thought washed over him, and he wanted to return to that happy, vanished past whose white pages were now sullied with
vile imaginings. It appeared to him that his life, which he had once felt securely to be an unbroken chain of joys, had been spurned by the eye of Fate . . . a revolting farce and miserable misfortune hidden by a mask of fraudulent bliss.

  Prince Sahura observed the king’s strange condition. Confused and discomfited, he asked his father what was troubling his tranquility. The prince loved his father to the point of worship, and the king loved his son as the most precious thing in his world. He trusted him as he trusted himself, so he confided in him the cause of his sorrow. He told him of his fears, and apprised him of his conversation with the god Khnum. Embarrassed, the prince did not know how to banish the phantoms of suspicion from Pharaoh’s mind.

  Instead, the king continued to dwell on these thoughts, and said to his intended successor, “I cannot make an example of the deceivers without tangible proof of their duplicity. But I have arrived at a means by which I might expose their secret selves. So listen to me, my son: Starting tomorrow, I shall undertake a journey to the land of Punt. During my absence, you shall be charged with care of the State. Wait some days, then declare yourself sovereign over the Valley of the Nile. Entice my closest associates with high position and money. Make them promises and be generous with them—so that they lower their shield of submissiveness and obedience. By this means, we may see what is truly inside them.”

  But the prince’s heart recoiled from Pharaoh’s plan. He remonstrated, saying, “I beg you, my lord, not to persuade me to take a position by which my youthful rebellion will be known to both heaven and earth! Nor to accept your long absence, which would rob my heart of its peace, and deprive the people of your care and vigilance.”

  But the king prevailed over the prince’s anxieties, convincing him to bow to his wishes out of a sense of subservience. Userkaf then went to the youthful Queen Tey—she was not the heir apparent’s mother, who had died a long time before—to bid her good-bye. He also bid good-bye to his dear dog, Zay. Then he set out on a merchant ship to the sacred land of Punt, the source of fragrant incense. There he dwelt for not a little while, wandering among her lush, fertile valleys. Everywhere that he set down his foot, he received the honor and hospitality befitting one of Pharaoh’s subjects.

  Yet Userkaf could not cease thinking about what he might encounter from his subjects and his companions upon his return. Whenever ill-thought tormented him, and deadly dreams and apprehensions appeared to him, he sought relief in beautiful memories, to evoke the feeling of trust they had given him, and to seek patience and repose from their inspiration. And when his breast was weighed down by worry and evil whisperings, and his heart stricken by homesickness, he longed to return to his native land.

  So he gathered his scant baggage and sailed on an Egyptian ship, stepping once more onto the shore of that country to which he had offered the flower of his life for the sake of her welfare. He headed straight from the dock to the nearest village, where—dressed as a foreigner—he mixed, unrecognized, among its people. One day he asked a group of them, “O you men, who is your king?”

  A young man with a sunburned face answered him, twirling an axe in his arms, “The blessed one’s name is ‘Sahura.’ ”

  “And how do you see him?”

  The young man answered with a passion to which his friends said, “Amen”:

  “He comes to our aid if the Nile is too low, and helps us if calamity worsens, and all turns to gloom.”

  The king then asked, “And how do you remember Userkaf?”

  “Well enough—if he were still on the scene, and he were still our king.”

  Pharaoh sighed, and asked in a wistful voice, “How can you abandon him, when he had been for you a most laudable ruler and guide?”

  The youth threw him a nasty look, then said, as he gave him his back, “Sedition is an evil cursed by the gods.”

  The king left the village in a melancholy way, heading toward the Nile and the seat of his realm. Looking up, he found himself facing the Temple of Khnum. He asked to meet Samun, the high priest, and was invited to enter the inner sanctum. When the high priest saw him, he knew him despite his alien attire. Overwhelmed with amazement and anguish, he shouted out hoarsely, “My lord, King Userkaf!”

  The king smiled a bitter, sardonic smile, “How can you call me your lord the king when you have given your blessing to a childish usurper who has stolen my throne?”

  The high priest stammered, trembling and looking away, “My lord, what can a weak man do who is not used to fighting?”

  “Fighting is not a duty to which all men are bound, but loyalty is incumbent upon all men of virtue. So how can you continue in service to one who has betrayed your lord and benefactor?”

  The embarrassment of the king’s old friend increased and perplexity gripped him; he did not answer. So Pharaoh said to him, “Are you able, Samun, to repent for your sin by declaring the illegality of my son Sahura’s rule, and to offer a service that, by its execution, would encourage me to restore my trust in you of old?”

  But the high priest was horrified, and implored him, “I cannot, my lord . . . My duty is to serve my God, not to bring down kings.”

  Userkaf fell silent for a moment, following with his two stern eyes the eyes of the priest, which avoided his own. Then the king turned his back on him abruptly, and left the temple, sick in his soul, his chest tightening, while he gnawed at his fingers in grief and chagrin.

  He proceeded hurriedly to the palace of the vizier Horurra, demanding permission to see him. But the servants mocked his wretched appearance, and started to throw him out. He begged and pleaded with them, but this only made them more arrogant. He then told them that he was a friend of the minister’s, and mentioned a name that proved his intimacy—so they let him inside. When the vizier’s gaze fell on the man coming toward him, he stood stiff with fright, his limbs frozen and his eyes open wide, and he gasped without thinking, “My lord!”

  “May the God treat you kindly, my dear friend, Horurra,” said the king.

  “Did anyone see you enter my house?” the vizier asked, his heart dismayed.

  The king pondered the reason behind this question, and said, beginning to sink into woe and despair, “Yes, my friend—the servants and the guards who gather at your door.”

  “Did any one of them recognize you?”

  “I know not,” the king replied.

  The vizier sighed, “What a calamity if the king knew of your visit to my house.”

  “Do you fear this upstart?”

  “How could I not?” said the vizier. “You had best leave my palace by the back door.”

  “My dear friend, Horurra—are you turning me away?”

  “Please forgive me, but I’m in difficult straits—I implore you in the name of our old friendship.”

  Pharaoh laughed derisively, seeing his chief minister in an anxious state that he could only bewail. He saw that hope was useless, and that there was no choice but to quit the palace from the rear entrance, as his friend had wished. So he did depart, as the anguish and regret welled up within his breast.

  Of all his friends, none remained but General Samunra. Despite all the failure he had just experienced, the king’s bitter forebodings did not vanquish his unshakeable confidence in his commander-in-chief, who was a gallant, noble, and utterly earnest man. The gods had singled him out with a nature that neither treachery nor worldly goods could seduce. So, placing his last hopes upon him, Userkaf asked for permission to go in to see him. When his eyes fell upon him, the king’s heart yearned for him and he called out, opening his arms wide to embrace him, “O General Samunra, don’t you remember me?”

  Flabbergasted, the commander stood up in alarm saying, “My lord, King Userkaf!”

  “Yes, it is he himself, in all his misery and remorse.”

  The general did not see the king’s open arms, while his face showed the signs of hardness and severity. He asked his former suzerain sternly, “Does His Majesty the King know of your entering his kingdom?”


  Userkaf was taken aback; his arms dropped in deep disappointment.

  “No,” he said tersely.

  “What did you come to do in Egypt?”

  “I came to call out for help to my old friends.”

  The general approached the king, saying in a military voice, “My duty as commander of the Egyptian Army requires that I arrest you in the name of Pharaoh.”

  “Do you not realize that I am the legitimate king?”

  The general said, as he laid his hand upon Userkaf’s shoulder, “Egypt has only one king: I know no other.”

  Convinced that argument was futile, Pharaoh surrendered himself to Samunra. He followed him to the royal palace, where the commander entered the great hall of the throne, halting before the king. Userkaf looked upon his son seated in his own place, around him his own men of state. At their head were Horurra and Samun: he knew that these two had gone straight to Sahura together to tell of his own appearance. And within himself he lauded the two of them coming to give witness. With them, the general would testify to Userkaf’s return to the throne, pledging him the loyalty entrusted to the faithful hands of his son. Together they had tasted the shame and disgrace that had tortured their wicked souls—and now were driven to repentance.

  The king gazed at his son with a meaningful smile. But just as he was about to speak, he heard a dog’s loud barking. He saw Zay cutting through the ranks of the guards, rushing up to him with irresistible force. Pharaoh stroked him with his hands, treating him with a deep concern that bespoke his ardent love and yearning. At the same time, he was not able to control his rage or to calm his mind except with a mighty effort. Then—yielding at last to his fury—he strode firmly up to the throne until he stood before the guards. He looked upon his son with consternation, saying, “Rise, my son, for my experiment is finished. Invite me to appear before these hypocrites.”