The Mirage

by Naguib Mahfouz

  I arrived home before midnight, broken-winged and smarting with defeat, failure, and disappointment. I’d never imagined that such a bright dream could end on such a hideous note. The magical intoxication had evaporated, leaving in its wake a thick pall that drained the life out of my spirit. I don’t know how, but I wakened my mother as I was undressing. She sat up in bed and looked at the alarm clock.

  “You’re awfully late,” she mumbled with a yawn.

  Making no reply, I continued undressing until my legs gave out on me and I flung myself onto the chair. I gathered my strength and got up again, but I was still unsteady on my feet, and if I hadn’t grabbed hold of the bedpost, I would have fallen to the floor. My mother slipped out of bed and came toward me, her eyes wide with amazement and alarm. She looked searchingly into my face for a short while without saying a word. Then she sat me down on the chair and began undressing me herself. She lay me down to sleep on my bed, and no sooner had I hit the mattress than I fell fast asleep. And it seemed to me—or perhaps I dreamed—that my mother was sobbing.

  23

  The next morning I woke up unexpectedly early, and within seconds I’d remembered all the events of the day before. I looked fearfully in the direction of the other bed, and as I did so, I happened to see my mother praying. My face ablaze with chagrin, I got hurriedly out of bed and headed for the bathroom feeling altogether disoriented. When I got back to the room, I found my mother waiting and trying to appear calm. However, those limpid eyes of hers couldn’t lie. Avoiding her glance, I said, “Good morning” in a near whisper.

  She sighed audibly, then came up to me and, placing her hand on my shoulder, said gently but imploringly, “After my devotions, I said a long prayer specially for you, and God is the One who hears and answers. We don’t have much time, so listen to me, Kamil. Listen with your heart, and not just with your ears. What’s past is past. Never in my life had I imagined that you would do such a thing. However, government employees aren’t the best company to keep, and they could corrupt you and lead you astray. This was a mistake that Satan lured you into, so repent of it to God. Do I need to remind you of your father’s tragedy when you yourself have been a witness to it, and your mother one of its victims? Even so, my heart is at peace in spite of what happened. After all, you’re a believer who fears God, and you’re your mother’s son, not your father’s. Someone like you who comes before God in prayer five times a day is sure to do all he can to come into His presence in a state of reverence and purity. Don’t forget that yesterday’s error was a great evil and that it will go on being like a knife that cuts me to the quick. Alas, I’m no longer able to keep you by my side. So when you go out into the world, meet it with the heart of a person of faith who’s conscious of God at all times. You’ll go to Lady Umm Hashim’s shrine today to offer God your repentance with her help.”

  My eyes didn’t meet hers once that morning, and I went to the ministry grieved. I recalled what she’d said word by word and pondered it thoroughly. I was dismayed that I’d allowed her to discover what I’d done, and I realized what a terrible shock it had been to my poor mother. I remembered the disillusionment I’d suffered in the courtyard of that strange house, and my lips curled in revulsion. At the same time, though, I hadn’t forgotten the rapturous bliss that had come with drinking. I hadn’t forgotten it despite the hangover, the fatigue, and the scandal it had left in its wake. Even after performing the ritual dawn prayer in all sincerity and faith, I couldn’t find it in me to hate it. It wasn’t that my conscience was at peace (when had it ever been at peace?), but dreams of that enchanting intoxication swept over me, overruling my conscience, my sufferings, and my mother. The meaning of happiness and contentment had been doomed to remain beyond my reach until that intoxication flowed in my blood, opening its heavenly portals before me. This was what I’d been looking for. God! How could I possibly give it up and ask forgiveness for it? What would remain to me after this but unspoken longing, mortal affliction, and anxiety that would tear me limb from limb? Of course, even if I succumbed to its allure, it couldn’t possibly yield undisturbed repose. On the contrary, it would add one more struggle to my conscience that I could well do without. I was already in a constant tug-of-war: between taking the world by the horns and shying away from it, between my sweetheart and my mother, and between addiction to my infernal habit and the desire to give it up. Now I faced a new struggle between my desire for alcohol and the need to repent of it, and it burdened me to the point where I turned into a pendulum in constant motion being pulled one way by demons, and the other way by angels. Angst took such a toll on me that I groaned in distress, wondering: Why didn’t God create life as pure ecstasy that lasts from one generation to the next? Why can’t we attain happiness without suffering and anguish? Why does love suffocate in our hearts from despair, and why does our beloved come and go, unaware of our existence even though she’s just a kiss away?

  Come what may, I concluded, alcohol is the key to deliverance. It was the embodiment of consolation, the password that opened the door that would lead to my beloved. I didn’t want the world so long as it refused to change itself. My loathing for reality was no less than my loathing for that hideous dancer. In fact, the world itself had been revealed to me in a form similar to that dancer in her writhing and twisting, her phony exterior, and her hidden wretchedness. Why, then, should I resist the allure of this magical intoxication?

  That afternoon my mother invited me to visit Umm Hashim’s shrine with her, so we went out together. It was the first time I’d been out with her in years. We got into a carriage and sat side by side in a way that brought back memories for both of us of the old Victoria, and her gentleness eased the anxiety that had seized me. My mother was wearing a light summer coat that complimented the loveliness of her slender frame. Her comely face looked placid and acquiescent, and in her limpid green eyes she had a dreamy look tinged with melancholy. Her head was swathed in a black veil that framed her face with a solemnity that revealed traces of the fifty-four years she’d spent thus far of the lifetime apportioned to her. Tender affection for her welled up in my heart and I wished I could kiss her. I thought with profound sorrow about her gradual advance toward old age. Then I remembered the treacherous thoughts that had gone through my head when she’d been bedridden, and I bit my lip furiously. What despicable thoughts they’d been! They’d sprung from the depths of the ache that I sought to escape by any means. However, my emotional agony was mitigated by what I imagined she would inherit from my grandfather, who was nearly ninety years old.

  At that moment it would have seemed an enormity to disobey her. At the same time, I sensed in my heart of hearts that I was about to offer a sham repentance to which I had no choice but submit, and it grieved me. How would I come before Umm Hashim with this perfidious heart of mine when nothing could be hidden from her? How could I have been transformed overnight from a good-hearted, devout soul into a rascal enamored of waywardness? We arrived at last at the mosque and entered reciting the Fatiha, and as we made our way toward the tomb, my heart was a mix of love, faith, and fear. Memories of days gone by wafted over my heart—memories of when I would come into the sacred mosque with a happy heart that had yet to suffer a sense of guilt and a tormented conscience. My mother went before me into the sacred place whispering fervently, “Umm Hashim, I’ve brought Kamil to you to repent of his error, so bless him and guide his steps!” Then she nudged me in the direction of the tomb. I placed my open hand on it and felt a coolness flow into my heart. I stood there silently for quite some time in the presence of a majesty that causes hearts to grow humble and reverent. I imagined the holy tomb to be gazing at me with glistening eyes that hadn’t been changed by death, and I called upon Umm Hashim from my heart to inspire me with right understanding, to deliver me from my confusion and misery, and to accept my repentance. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I asked her to watch over my wretched love with her merciful eye.

  As we took our leave of the sacred res
ting place, my mother dried her eyes.

  “Have you repented to God?” she asked me.

  “Yes,” I replied without looking at her.

  “I hope it was a sincere repentance,” she murmured.

  24

  I wasn’t able to resist the new urge. Nothing could stand in the face of it, and not my conscience, my repentance, or my inborn fear of God did me a bit of good. I felt hopeless about my life: my job was truly abominable, my love life was one long sigh of discontent, and the days passed heavily without consolation or hope. My eyes would behold and my heart would beat, but my will was incapacitated by weakness and fear. Alcohol-induced euphoria was my only consolation, and I gave myself over to it heart and soul. This miserable consolation was short-lived, however, and fate wasn’t favorably disposed to my enjoyment of it.

  One Friday in the early autumn of that year, my mother and I sat talking as usual. The doorbell rang and the servant opened the door, then came and summoned me to meet a certain “bey.” I went to the door right away and found a distinguished-looking man who must have been sixty or seventy years old. After a courteous greeting, I looked at him questioningly.

  “Are you Kamil Effendi?” he asked.

  “I’m Kamil Ru’ba,” I replied as I looked searchingly into his face. “This is the house of Colonel Abdulla Bey Hasan.”

  Taking me by the hand, he led me outside, then leaned toward me and said, “May God grant you length of days. Your grandfather has died, son.”

  I stared into his face in shock, too tongue-tied to respond.

  Patting me on the shoulder, he said sorrowfully, “Be brave for your mother’s sake, son, and be the man we know you can be. Your grandfather was sitting with us at the Luna Park Café the way he did every morning. He got short of breath and asked for a glass of water. A few minutes later his head fell onto the table and we thought he’d fainted, but then it became clear that he’d gone to be with his Maker.”

  “Where is he now, sir?” I cried hoarsely.

  “We’ve brought him with us in a car,” he said softly.

  No sooner had the man spoken than I saw four men at the bottom of the staircase carrying my grandfather. As they slowly and cautiously ascended the stairs, I rushed toward them in a daze. With trembling limbs, I helped them carry him the rest of the way and we brought him into the flat. I saw my mother at the other end of the living room as she screamed in alarm. Rushing toward us, unfazed by the presence of strangers, she asked us apprehensively, “What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with him?”

  However, she heard no reply. Or rather, in the silence she heard a reply.

  Then she let out a loud shriek.

  “Baba! Baba!” she wailed in lament.

  We laid him down on the bed, after which the men came up to him one after another and kissed him on the forehead. They extended their condolences to my mother, then withdrew silently from the room. Some of them asked me if I needed anything, and I thanked them. Then the man whom I’d met at the door volunteered to tell me about the usual procedures in such situations. He told me he would inform the Ministry of War and that it would be preferable for the funeral to take place at ten o’clock the next morning. I rushed back to my grandfather’s bedroom, where I found my mother in bitter tears, and I broke into tears with her. However, she wouldn’t allow me to stay in the room. In order to distract me from my grief, she instructed me to inform my maternal aunt and my brother by telegram, and to deliver the news to my sister. I left the house to carry out these duties, then came back accompanied by my sister Radiya and her husband. Radiya’s husband was the best of helpers in taking care of the necessary procedures, or rather, he took care of them himself, while I contented myself with tagging along in a daze.

  No sooner had darkness fallen than the house was filled with family members. My maternal aunt and her husband came, as did my brother Medhat, his wife, and my paternal uncle. The only person who didn’t come was my father. When Medhat informed him of my grandfather’s death, he said, “May the remainder of his days be added to yours. Please convey my condolences to your mother, your brother, and your sister, since I don’t attend funerals or weddings.”

  Of all the family, my mother was the most grief-stricken by my grandfather’s loss. After all, she’d never been apart from him in her entire life, the only exception being the three months she’d spent grudgingly in my father’s house.

  And that’s how my grandfather died. He’d enjoyed a long life and hadn’t been debilitated by old age or illness. He passed away in his cozy perch at the coffee shop surrounded by his loyal, loving friends, and with an ease only rarely enjoyed by those who depart from this life. Whenever he came to mind, I would bow my head in reverence for his memory, calling down God’s mercy and forgiveness upon his great soul. He was my grandfather, and he was my father. He was the wing of compassion that had sheltered me, and beneath that wing I’d enjoyed a life of abundant provision. I hadn’t forgotten that once, during certain dark hours of my life, I’d accused him of having raised me badly, or of having allowed my mother to ruin my life with her coddling. But when I reflected on the matter, I couldn’t help but excuse him, since I’d come into the world when he was over sixty years old. Besides, it’s a very difficult thing indeed to know one’s grandfather as he really is. In general, grandfathers appear surrounded by a halo of veneration and sanctity due to the fact that the family members who preserve their histories tend to be among those who hallow and revere them. However, even based on what I myself had observed of his life, I could praise him to the skies. His good health, his love for order and military precision—though without being harsh or overly strict—had always been things I admired intensely, and his tender solicitude toward us had softened the blow of many an affliction. Suffice it to say that I never tasted life’s bitterness until we’d escorted my grandfather to his final resting place. No matter how long I live, the image of him during his final days will never be erased from my mind: old age had crowned him with a head of snow-white hair, bestowing upon him an air of dignity and splendor and causing his green eyes to twinkle with humor and compassion. I wasn’t surprised at his friends’ grief over him, and I realized—although I may have missed it myself—that he was one of those people who love and are loved in return, who know others intimately and who are known intimately in return. It was a God-given aptitude of which I’d been deprived, and which I’ve longed for all my life.

  His funeral was scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning, and when it came time for the inevitable leave-taking, the balcony was filled with weeping women and the cannons were fired in a salute to his tomb. His bier was borne atop a cannon in front of which a military band marched. As he disappeared into the grave, I cast his body a parting glance and sobbed like a little boy.

  25

  “All we have is God,” she said to me sorrowfully.

  Experiencing a kind of fear I wasn’t familiar with, I said, “He’s the best Protector and Helper of all.”

  The facts then began making themselves clear to me. I learned that my grandfather’s pension was cut off when he died. I figured up how much his bequest came to and found that he’d left four hundred pounds in the bank. Since my mother and my maternal aunt were his sole heirs, each of them had been allotted two hundred pounds, which was now all we had apart from my paltry income. Thus, I’d become the head of a household, a fact to which my paternal uncle drew my attention as he bade me farewell. Then, reiterating his condolences, he instructed me to take good care of my mother, saying, “Honor your mother to the best of your ability. You’re the head of the household now, and you’re your grandfather’s successor!”

  I received his words with fear and gloom, and looked to the unknown future with unspoken apprehension and resentment. It pained me to find myself responsible for someone else—I who’d grown accustomed to having someone else be responsible for me. When those who’d come to offer their condolences had gone their way and the house was empty again, my mother and I
sat alone discussing matters.

  “Lord help us!” she said in a tone of distress.

  Full of fear and melancholy myself, I looked up at her uncertainly and asked, “What do you think, Mama?”

  “Life won’t be easy the way it has been for us,” she said dolefully. “But this is God’s decree, so we have to submit to His will and be patient and thankful. I hate to be a burden to you, but what can I do?”

  “Don’t say that,” I rejoined fervently. “You’re all I have left in the world, and if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have anywhere to call home.”

  Her lips parted in a mournful smile and she uttered a long prayer of supplication for me.

  Then she said, “The little bit of money I’ve inherited will be at your disposal. You can make use of it when the need arises until your salary increases.”

  As she gazed steadily into my face with her mournful eyes, I took refuge in a pensive silence.

  Then she went on, saying, “This house isn’t suitable for us anymore. As you can see, it’s large, and the rent is equal to your salary. Maybe we can find a small flat in the neighborhood for just a hundred fifty piasters.”

  Silence reigned again, and I began wondering what had blinded me to this eventuality, which I surely could have anticipated.

  Then my mother said in a low voice, “We’ll have to let the servants go. In the future all we’ll need is one young servant.”

  The distress I felt was so overwhelming, I didn’t know how my heart would bear it.

  I knew nothing whatsoever about the struggle people go through to survive. Eyeing my mother with a look that was tantamount to a cry for help, I asked, “What do you estimate our living expenses to be, including rent, food, a servant, and so on?”