Bellowing like a wild animal, I broke in, “Be quiet! And don’t say another word!”
She gaped at me in alarm without saying anything, then looked down. However, rage and pain had robbed me of my senses, and I showed her no mercy.
It happened that several days later, my mother fell ill and took to her bed. The doctor we’d called told us that it was her heart, and he advised her always to follow his instructions in order to avoid further episodes in the future.
She stayed in bed for a long time despite the doctor’s assurances that her condition wasn’t serious. However, it seemed to me that she was letting the illness get the better of her and that her spirit was about to collapse. I felt responsible for her illness, and so I endured the bitterness of remorse and a troubled conscience in grieved silence. As if to atone for my guilt, I assumed full responsibility for her care and medication. Nor did Rabab fail to do her duty. My mother had truly hurt me, but she’d done so with good intentions. As for me, I had hurt her deliberately under the influence of a frightening rage. Those were grim, dark days for me. I would sit looking at her pale, gaunt face with a broken heart, with her hand in mine and my tongue uttering continuous prayers of supplication. She was weary, and her fires were dying out. At the same time, though, I could see a look of contentment and joy in her eyes. It was as though, thanks to my sympathy and love, she’d forgotten all her sufferings.
46
Autumn rolled around with its pleasant weather and its wispy clouds, and the schools embarked on a new year. My wife and I would go out together in the morning and take the same tram, and memories would wash over my heart in a blend of ecstasy and agony.
One time I said to her, “It was during days like this that I’d come rushing to the tram stop, dying just to catch a glimpse of your face.”
She smiled gently and said, “And I was dying to see yours!”
Ah, my beloved! Never in my life had I seen anyone so loving, content, and happy. She was cheerful and attentive without affectation or hypocrisy. Had she suffered in the beginning, then overcome her sufferings thanks to her loving, pure-hearted disposition? How could I possibly know what was going on deep inside her, or the thoughts she was thinking about me and her life? She seemed happy, caring, and sincere. After all, what reason would there be for her to pretend constantly to be happy if she was really miserable or didn’t love me? Nor did I have any reason to doubt her maturity as a woman or the depth of her feelings. She was the farthest thing from being frivolous and capricious. On the contrary, her heart was filled with vitality, fervor, and empathy. So, I thought, maybe she’s living her life inspired by the same hope that I cling to with such patience and endurance. However, the fact of the matter was that I was so preoccupied with my own worries, I had little time to concern myself with those of other people. This may have been due, first and foremost, to my innate self-centeredness. My ignorance also had a part to play in it. I may well have viewed myself as the primary, if not sole, victim of this tragedy.
In the early days of that autumn we were invited by Gabr Bey and Madame Nazli to a lunch banquet that they were hosting for family members and relatives in honor of Rabab’s brother Muhammad, who had recovered from a serious illness.
My wife went to the banquet, while my mother stayed home, saying she had to follow the new diet the doctor had prescribed for her. I went, feeling awkward and uncomfortable as usual, since for me a lunch banquet was a fate worse than illness, and because, like other gatherings of its type, it brought back memories of the orator’s podium at the Faculty of Law. I made certain that we went early so that we could arrive before all the other guests, since this way, I wouldn’t be subjected to people’s stares when I walked into the reception room. My plan worked; when we arrived, no one was there but the family, which was my family as well. I loved them all, though I’d come to be deathly afraid of Madame Nazli. Then the guests began to arrive: Rabab’s three paternal uncles and her four maternal uncles came with their wives and children. Her two maternal aunts also came, one of them with her husband and the other, a widow, with her eldest daughter.
Madame Nazli excused herself to receive a new guest, to whom I heard her say, “Why are you late, Amin?” The newcomer apologized to her in a low voice that sounded familiar to me, so I looked over toward the door with interest. As the new guest came into the room, I recognized him instantly. Before me stood the doctor I’d visited two months earlier and to whom I’d confided the secret of my misery! At first all I could do was stare at him, terrified, though I quickly got hold of myself. However, although I was capable of concealing what was going on inside me, there was nothing I could do to keep my heart from racing and nearly pounding its way out of my chest. Gripped with fright and deadly shyness, my heart was weighed down by an anguish so heavy, it was as though I’d fallen into a bottomless pit.
Then before I knew it, Madame Nazli was introducing him to me, saying, “This is a relative of mine whom I haven’t had the pleasure of introducing to you before. He just recently returned from Europe, and he rarely honors us with a visit. This is my nephew, Dr. Amin Rida.”
We shook hands as custom dictates and as we did so, our eyes met for a brief moment. However, I discerned nothing in his eyes but an expression of welcome, and there was nothing to indicate that he remembered me. Instead, he maintained his pompous, dispassionate bearing. When he’d finished shaking hands with seated family members, he sat down beside Gabr Bey and the two of them began to talk while I lost myself in frightened, distracted thoughts. Does he remember me? I wondered. Maybe, like doctors who are accustomed to encountering as many faces as there are minutes in the day, he’s forgotten me. On the other hand, he’s a new doctor, with only a few patients. Yet despite this fact, he didn’t appear to remember me in the least. Or, I wondered: Perhaps he does recognize me but is mercifully pretending not to. If only I could find a way to confirm this point! Supposing he does recognize me, might he possibly divulge my secret to his relative, Madame Nazli?
It seemed a far-fetched possibility. Nonetheless, I was about as far as one could get from peace of mind. I was already drowning in a fathomless sea of obsessive thoughts and fears. Did I really need any more?
We were invited to the table, so I left my thoughts behind, though their effects lingered the way the smell of smoke clings to someone coming out of a fire. Once we’d sat down, Madame Nazli turned and said with a smile, “I know you’re shy, Kamil, but beware, since banquets have no mercy on the shy!”
Some of them commented on what she’d said, which caused me to feel resentful toward her and even more distressed than before. However, it wasn’t long before they’d all become too engrossed in the delectable food to pay any attention to me. I hardly felt the discomfort that usually assails me in such circles, so distracted was I by matters of greater moment. After all, the only cure for discomfort is more discomfort. Then we went back to the reception room and coffee was served. I took the cup and brought it to my lips, and as I did so, my thoughts were suddenly transported to the old pub on Alfi Bey Street, and in my mind’s eye I saw a glass of liquor. How had the memory come back to me, and what had occasioned it? I was truly amazed, yet I also felt an extraordinary relief, like the delight you feel when you see a long-lost friend. Liquor … intoxication … bliss.… Ah, how badly I needed an escape! It was a strange, unexpected thought. But it was powerful, nay, irresistible. Cautiously and fearfully, I turned my attention back to my immediate surroundings. I glanced over in the direction of the doctor and found him engrossed in conversation, saying what he had to say with confidence, eloquence, and disdain while many of those present were jumping into the discussion with interest and delight. The conversation came around to the subject of life in Britain, and the doctor said that since his studies had taken up most of his time, he’d only rarely enjoyed his life there as a tourist. Nevertheless, he’d been able to observe first-hand the firm foundations on which the structure of political life there rested, people’s high standard of l
iving, and the wide-ranging freedom they enjoyed in all spheres.
“So,” Gabr Bey said to him, “you seem to have continued to be interested there in the same things that interested you here before you went abroad.”
Laughing, one of the guests chimed in, “That’s right, Gabr Bey. Remind him of the days of the Faculty of Medicine and the nationalist revolution!”
Another said, “Who would have thought that you’d end up in enemy territory, or that you’d come back with such an admiration for the enemy’s ways!”
“Well,” he replied with a smile, “enmity isn’t incompatible with admiration.”
Then Gabr Bey asked him, “Aren’t you still a radical Wafdist? You were thrown in prison once for the sake of the Wafd Party!”
Pursing his lips in disgust, the young man rejoined, “Now I see all Egyptians living in a huge prison. The fact is, sir, that the only news we used to hate to hear when we were in England was news from Egypt.”
Madame Nazli said with a smile, “You love to take all sorts of burdens on yourself, as though you were responsible for the world and everyone in it. Focus your attention on your clinic, your life, and especially the matter of getting married. Haven’t you noticed that you’re thirty years old now? You’re over the hill!”
To this one of Rabab’s two maternal aunts added, “Don’t worry! You may be hearing good news before the year is out.”
The conversation turned to the daughter of a certain prominent physician. Rabab, who was sitting beside me, said to me in a whisper that the girl they were speaking about was a legendary beauty and the heiress to a huge fortune. She told me that the girl had been her classmate for a period of time.
One of Rabab’s maternal uncles seemed to be drawn to discussions of politics. The minute the discussion of marriage ended, he turned to the doctor and said, “There’s no reason to be pessimistic. Everything will be reformed in the end, however long it takes. We’re about to have new elections, and a favorable wind may be blowing.”
The doctor’s eyes took on an added intensity as he said testily, “It’s better for this country to be ruled by a corrupt government. After all, a righteous government can’t do anything to speak of under currently prevailing conditions. So let the corrupt government throw its weight around however it pleases, since this way it hastens the end—the inevitable end!”
“You’re still a cynic and a discontent!” said Gabr Bey with a laugh. “Don’t you see anything in Egypt that deserves your admiration and appreciation?”
“Well, yes,” replied the doctor with a smile as he scanned his audience with his sparkling eyes, “Umm Kulthoum.”
And everyone roared with laughter. I’d begun listening to him with a mixture of interest and astonishment. However, I could hardly make any sense out of what he was saying. I was amazed at people who preoccupied themselves with such matters. Didn’t they have worries in their lives to distract them from such affairs? Based on his conversation he’d struck me as a learned, perceptive man and a revolutionary with a conceited, pretentious air. Hence, it came as a huge surprise to me to hear him mention Umm Kulthoum as the one thing in the country that deserved his admiration. And I wondered: Is it really possible for a serious, stern, caustic person like this crazy doctor to love singing too? Since I myself liked singing, I was pleased to discover this shared predisposition, especially after having racked my brain to find the slightest commonality between us.
The doctor was the first to leave, and everyone present rose to shake his hand. I too shook his hand, all the while searching his eyes with fear and trepidation. However, I failed to see anything in his haughty glances that would give me cause for suspicion. We left the gathering at around five o’clock, and as we walked home, my sweetheart commented endlessly on the banquet and the guests, but I wasn’t able to lend her my full attention. I’d succumbed to the profuse, tumultuous flow of my thoughts. How would I cope with the ill fortune that had crossed my path in the form of this mad physician? And how had fate led me to confess to him the secret that I dared not let even the walls hear?
47
After escorting Rabab to the door of our building, I made my way back to the tram stop, explaining my proposed absence on the basis of a few nonexistent errands I had to run. I took the tram to Ataba, and from there I made my way to Alfi Bey Street. My heart was pounding in fear and dread the way it had been the first time my feet carried me there, and in my mind’s eye I could see the glass, its mouth open wide with seductive allure. I’d forgotten about it. In fact, it hadn’t even crossed my mind since I’d won my heart’s desire. It had only come to mind again that day when what I saw in a coffee cup had stirred something deep inside me. My mother + my wife + Dr. Amin Rida = liquor: this was the equation I’d arrived at.
When I was just a step away from my old pub, I hesitated. Feeling suddenly worried and gloomy, I wondered to myself: Wouldn’t this be infidelity to my wife? However, I reprimanded myself for this peculiar logic and made my way inside. Then suddenly I imagined seeing my father, and my mind was assailed with images of him from the past. I reviewed them calmly and without any feeling of hatred or gleeful malice. Then I sat down at the table as I muttered, “May God have mercy on him and forgive him.”
The waiter rushed over and hailed me, saying, “Where have you been all this time?”
Gratified by the way he’d greeted me, I said with a smile, “In the world!”
Then I showed him my wedding ring and he said, “Congratulations! Congratulations! Have you had a child?”
Feeling resentful and pained, I shook my head in the negative. Then I ordered a glass of cognac and drank it leisurely until I could feel its effects creeping into my heart and head. My lips turned up in a smile that made sport of all my troubles, and I said to myself: Welcome, welcome! I left the pub at around seven, having been careful not to overdo it. But no sooner had I made it as far as Imad al-Din Street than I remembered the pub in the vegetable market. By this time I was in a state of mind that made light of obstacles, and I asked myself almost reproachfully: Just because you’re living comfortably now, does that mean you’re going to forget the pub that took you in when you were poor? And with that, I hailed a taxi and got in, and it took me posthaste to the pub that served as the favorite haunt of bankrupt government employees and carriage drivers. As I’d expected I would, I found the place in an uproarious state, complete with singing and revelry. The elderly employee known for his vocal talents was belting out the lines, “We’ll know all tomorrow!” while everyone intoned, “And then we’ll see!”
When he saw me coming, he stopped singing and shouted, “Quiet, guys!”
My old buddies recognized me, and we met with warm handshakes. No sooner had I settled into my seat than the old man asked me in a singsong voice, “Where have you been, handsome?”
I laughed out loud and said, “In the world.”
One of his chums said, “Let’s curse the world that forces friends to forget the ones they love!”
So I happily cursed the world with them. Then one of them happened to see the wedding band on my finger.
“You really have entered a world, buddy!” he exclaimed.
The announcement of the news had an all-encompassing effect.
The amateur singer asked me, “So, how do you find this world?”
I was alarmed to see the conversation turning to this perilous topic. However, I had no choice but to reply, “It’s nice! Aren’t you married, sir?”
The man smiled, revealing the few teeth he had left and said, “Once a woman gets beyond her youth, she’s not a woman anymore.”
Affirming what he’d said, another added, “That’s right. Woman has the shortest lifespan of all living creatures, even if she lives to a ripe old age!”
And another chimed in, “My wife picks a fight with me for every evening I spend here. So I told her, ‘I’m willing to quit going to the pub on one condition: that you quit this world!’ ”
The fact that they were
all disgruntled with their lives brought me a solace I hadn’t known before, and I was amazed at all the strange things that bring drunkards together in brotherly fellowship. Then I noticed the absence of a certain baker who’d become famous among us for his addiction and his taciturn ways. When I asked where he was, the elderly vocalist replied, “Liquor won’t do it for him anymore. So every evening he goes to the grocer and drinks pure alcohol.”
Then they started singing again, picking up where they’d left off, and I started drinking the way I had in the old days. And how I could drink! I was weak and cowardly in the face of everything, and I had no confidence in either my mind or my body. As for my stomach, it could hold an entire pub! I left the place at ten o’clock, sent off with the most heartfelt farewells. I went wandering from street to street, feeling so rapturous and invincible I was sure I could take on the whole world. Then my beloved’s phantom floated by. Seeing her in my drunken mind’s eye, I thought: I’ve kept her waiting! She’s gone to sleep by now! The thought of her intoxicated me even more, my heart fluttered amorously, and longing beckoned. My wandering eyes went in search of a taxi, and once I’d spotted one, I went over to it without hesitation. I asked the driver to move as fast as he could, and he virtually flew me to my destination. I got out in front of our building and rushed up the stairs, then went into the flat and headed quickly to our room. I turned on the light and my eyes fell on my beloved, who lay sleeping peacefully. Her head stirred when the light came on and she murmured, “Who is it?” then resumed her slumber. With trembling hands, I hurriedly undressed. Breathing hard and fast from astonishment, delight, and apprehension, I rushed over to the bed and slipped under the covers. I took her in my arms and placed my lips on hers until she opened her eyes. Then I smothered her with joyous, passionate, voracious kisses until she woke up and began returning my affection. What was happening between us was like a dream so blissful, so incredible, that even slumber yields it only grudgingly. However, it was also a short dream that lasted all of a couple of seconds. I awakened from its enchantment feeling peaceful and confident, and several times drunker with happiness than I was from the liquor. I lay down blissfully and closed my eyes, surrendering to the sweetest thoughts and dreams. This time, however, my dreams weren’t made of the stuff of mere imagination. Rather, they were made from the stuff of reality itself, deriving their content from my very own life. After all, the best life is the one lived by someone whose happy dreams are an echo of the reality he actually experiences. Receiving this new happiness with humble gratitude, I was certain that my worries were over forever. The following morning I looked over at my beloved with confidence and joy, and at last I felt truly that I was a husband and a man. The same feelings of happiness and pride stayed with me the rest of the day. When evening came I went back to Alfi Bey Street, then I came flying home to my beloved on the wings of intoxication. I drank again from the brimming glass with the same enjoyment and at the same speed. Then I lay down, serene and self-assured. It wasn’t possible, of course, for someone like me to forget the mortal distress I’d had to endure in the past. On the contrary, true happiness inspires compassion even for torment’s memories.
The Mirage Page 27