Cairo Modern by Naguib Mahfouz

  Al-Ikhshidi said philosophically, “Our country has been plundered and looted. Its affairs are in the hands of weak fools. No matter how high we advance, it will always be less than we deserve.”

  Mahgub endorsed this statement, remarking, “That’s true, sir.”

  Then al-Ikhshidi excused himself and headed toward the first-class carriage. The young man watched till he disappeared. So he made his way to third class, his distress and his dreams both visible in his expression. He took a seat in the coach, his mind reflecting busily, al-Ikhshidi never far from his thoughts. Two years before, al-Ikhshidi had been a final-year student just as he, Mahgub, was now. Perhaps he too had lost his belief in principles, only without broadcasting that fact or making a fuss about it. Perhaps there was no fundamental difference between the two of them. Intellectually and morally—or amorally—they were the same. Their temperaments, however, were quite different. Salim al-Ikhshidi weighed his words carefully, and Mahgub had never heard him disparage any principle or ethical maxim. Mahgub, on the other hand, despite his caution, made fun of everything. Something that Mahgub remembered and would not forget was that his acquaintance was known toward the end of his university years as an important student leader, a hero of the boycott committees, and a distributor of pamphlets opposing the new constitution. He also remembered that al-Ikhshidi was once invited to meet the minister. Many predictions were made about the meeting, and many people expected that some injustice or outrage would occur. Instead, the young man did an abrupt about-face and withdrew entirely from politics, terminating his previously boundless activities. From that time on he was seen only in lecture halls. If anyone asked him the secret behind this transformation, he would reply as coolly as ever, “The real arena for student activism is learning!” When he received his degree, he was appointed to government service—ahead of the top students—to serve as Qasim Bey Fahmi’s secretary, sponsored by the minister himself. Moreover, he started at the sixth level, which at that time seemed a mythical paradise. Now he was a candidate for the fifth level, less than two years after his first appointment—long after the minister who had recruited him had resigned. This fact showed that he had earned the trust of Qasim Bey himself and would continue to advance. What a role model! He certainly was a man who deserved admiration and envy. The glory of his post and his prosperity clearly set him apart. So what if Ma’mun Radwan and Ali Taha despised him? Tuzz.

  The train barreled along, and cold air penetrated the interior, even though the windows were shut tight. He only became conscious of the chill, however, when he reached the end of this series of reflections. So he buttoned his jacket and sat up straight. He quickly recalled his father’s illness and realized that he had been exploring dreams while ignoring the abyss before him. His gloom returned. He looked about sorrowfully and dejectedly till the train stopped at al-Qanatir. Then he collected his parcel and disembarked. As he quit the station for the street, he cast a comprehensive look at the town and cried out, “Qanatir, our city, may you distribute good fortune equitably among all your citizens!”

  7

  In just a few minutes he found himself in front of the small house where he had been born—a one-story structure with a yard enclosed by wooden stakes in front. The look of the place suggested not merely simplicity but squalor.

  The house was on the opposite side of the street from the train station. Its flat roof offered a view of the fields beyond the tracks. The house was plunged into darkness, except for a gleam of light emanating from a gap at his father’s window. His heart would not stop pounding, and fear and hope clashed inside him. He crossed the front yard to the door and knocked gently. Then he heard the clop of wooden clogs. Recognizing the step, he opened the door, where the apparition stood. He drew nearer, saying, “Good evening, Mother.”

  He heard a voice sigh, “You!” Then she took his hand between hers and asked in the same exhausted voice, “How are you, son? My heart told me it was you.”

  The hall was so dark that he could not make out her features. Closing the door, he asked anxiously, “Mother, what happened? How’s my father?”

  The woman replied in a mournful voice, “May our Lord take him by the hand.”

  He placed the parcel containing his gallabiya on a table and entered his father’s room with wary steps. His eyes examined the man, who was stretched out on the bed. Then he approached him. The man’s head was tilted toward the wall. Mahgub mumbled faintly, “Good evening, Father. How are you?”

  His father gave no indication that he had heard or understood anything. So his mother leaned over and said, “Mahgub’s greeting you.”

  The man slowly moved his head round and opened his eyelids. Then he extended his left hand, which Mahgub took between both of his and kissed. The man looked very ill, and his eyes were clouded, as though oozing a foul liquid. His mouth was contorted too.

  Mahgub asked, “Father, how are you? All power flows from God.”

  The man rested his eyes on him and, speaking in a voice that came in spurts and sounded almost like a death rattle, replied, “Noon today was the first time I spoke again.”

  Mahgub felt alarmed and asked his mother, “Was he unable to speak for a time?”

  The exhausted woman said, “Yes, son. He was at work last Tuesday afternoon as usual. He suddenly fell down and lost the ability to speak. They carried him here and called the doctor. He came, cupped him, and gave him an injection. He continues to visit him every morning. His ability to speak returned only before noon today.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  The look in her eyes was anxious, and her lips moved without making any sound. Then his father said, “He said it is paralysis … partial … paralysis.”

  The young man was alarmed by this hideous word, even though he was totally ignorant of its medical implications. Wishing to allay his fears, his mother observed, “But he stressed this morning that the danger has passed.”

  In his staccato, slurred speech, the father continued, “I … understand … what was said.… I’ll never be the same.”

  Biting his lip, Mahgub asked his mother, “Did this happen without any warning?”

  “No, son. Your father was in the best of health—as we’ve always known him—but then his right leg began to feel heavy and he had a headache Monday night.”

  Everyone was silent. Then the invalid closed his eyes and stopped moving, as if he had fallen into a sound slumber. The young man turned his head toward his mother and realized at once that she had not slept a wink since Tuesday evening. Her eyes were red, lackluster, and encircled by blue halos, and her skin was pale. He was overcome by sorrow and grief. His parents seemed creatures as miserable as he was. He sat down on a chair near the bed, bowed his head, and reflected: This family’s destiny depends on the life of a ruined man. What’s beneath those sealed eyelids: life or death? Success or homelessness? Why didn’t this stroke wait a year? He recalled silent, majestic Rashad Pasha Street: the mansions on either side of it, the pashas and beys transported back and forth to it in automobiles, and the women who could be glimpsed from behind curtains or between the shrubbery. How did his wretched parents compare to all those people? And this dilapidated house! He began to tell himself that if he were the heir to one of those mansions and his father—the pasha—was on the brink of death, he would be waiting impatiently for his demise. He sighed from a wounded heart where rage flared. Then he asked himself, his head still bowed: I wonder how this tragedy will end?

  He looked stealthily at his mother, who was seated by his feet with her head bowed. He saw that she was enveloped by the black clothing she had sworn she would always wear in memory of his two sisters, who had died of typhoid. Her face was withered, and she looked older than her age, which was a little over fifty. She had succumbed to the burdens of a life spent by the flame of the cook-stove and heat of the oven—kneading dough, baking, washing, and sweeping. Her fingers were worn to the bone and the veins stood out on the back of her hands. She had lack
ed any opportunity for small talk during her life. She resembled the invisible fuel powering a large engine. She loved her son to the point of adoration, and this affection had doubled after his two siblings died in the bloom of childhood. Even so, she had not exerted any noticeable influence on his development. She had never had anyone she could talk to and had lived in silent ignorance as if mute. His father’s circumstances similarly had obliged him to withdraw from his son’s life. He worked nonstop at the firm from morning till after supper. Then he hurried off to Sufi dhikr circles, where he chanted till midnight. Thus he barely saw his son. He was a serious, indefatigable man, loyal to his chums and a good representative and reflection of them. He took pride in his kinship to a major bureaucrat—a relative of his wife’s. Like her, he never enjoyed any free time. He was not sustained by his marriage, and his supervision of his son was limited to forcing him to observe some of his religion’s duties—with frequent recourse to the stick. For all these reasons, Mahgub had feared his father while growing up and fled to the street where his upbringing and formation were completed. Thus his tie to his parents was weak and frayed. He loved his mother more than his father but remained ready to sacrifice his relationship to his parents in keeping with his nihilistic philosophy, which had no basis whatsoever. He did not grieve for his father as much as he felt anxious about the man who allocated three pounds to him each month.

  8

  On the morning of the second day, the physician came, examined the patient, and gave him an injection of camphor. Then he declared his satisfaction with the condition of his patient, who was definitely out of danger. Mahgub followed the man out of the room and caught up with him in the yard. The doctor turned toward him, realizing why he had trailed after him. “I told your father the truth. The stroke was partial; otherwise it would have been fatal. All the same, I told him just as candidly that he won’t be able to return to work. He’ll remain in bed for a few months. He should regain control of his paralyzed side. Indeed, he may even walk again.”

  Mahgub stopped paying attention when he heard, “He won’t be able to return to work.” He grasped none of what was said after that. The world went dark. He returned to his father’s room, stunned. His father had a practical nature and never let a matter hang in suspense if he could say something to resolve it. So he told his son to come to his bedside and said in his slurred speech, “Listen, son. I won’t return to my position at the firm. That’s a fact. What do you think?”

  Mahgub felt even more dejected. He remained silent waiting for the verdict, so the man continued, “Perhaps the company will pay me a small settlement. That will inevitably run out after a few months. Indeed, the safest assumption is that nothing will remain of it after three or four months at most. But I still have contacts who can find you work that can support all of us.”

  Mahgub replied entreatingly, his eyes filled with pain and despair, “Father, the exam’s coming up soon. This is January, and it’s in May. If I take a job now, it won’t be as a university graduate. That would mean a big loss for my future.”

  His father replied sorrowfully, “I know, but what alternative is there? I’m afraid we’ll be humiliated or starve.”

  The young man begged fervently in a forceful, zealous voice, “Four months, just four months between me and the fruit of fifteen years of work. Give me a chance, Father. The settlement will last us till I can stand on my own two feet. We won’t go hungry. We won’t be humiliated, God willing.”

  “What will become of us if your calculations are wrong? What if your effort is in vain—God forbid. Our lives are in your hands.”

  Clinging desperately to hope, Mahgub responded, “You don’t know, Father, how hard I’ll work! Nothing’s going to come between me and success!”

  The young man hesitated a moment before commenting, “And then there’s my mother’s relative Ahmad Bey Hamdis!”

  His father raised his left hand to object and frowned disapprovingly. The young man feared that he had annoyed his father and that all his persuasion would fail. So he quickly said, “We don’t need anyone’s assistance. Matters will turn out as I hope, God willing.” He realized it had been a mistake to mention the name of their august relative, who had slighted them and scorned his tie to them ever since ascending to his lofty post. Yes, Mahgub’s father publicly boasted to strangers of the relationship but frequently criticized the man in Mahgub’s mother’s presence and normally disdained and condemned him. Mahgub regretfully realized this and added, “We don’t need anyone’s assistance. We just need to be patient and to seek reassurance from God’s mercy. Just four months and then relief!”

  His father knew that his settlement would last them—with penny-pinching—five or six months. He reflected for a time and then asked, “Could you live on one pound a month?”

  One pound. That’s what his room at the hostel cost. Good Lord! Yesterday the world seemed difficult when he had three pounds to spend. How would he manage tomorrow with only one pound? His father was merciless and added, “We have no alternative. The decision’s in your hands.”

  Did he really have a choice? Definitely not. His father was in a tight spot. All Mahgub could do was to yield and submit.

  “As you wish.”

  The old man said, “As God wishes. God, who is responsible for granting you success in whatever is for the best, will deliver us from our helpless condition.”

  The man suggested that his son should return to Cairo that evening to avoid losing any more time when he was most in need of it. So the young man said goodbye to his parents, kissed his father’s hand, and allowed his mother to kiss and bless him. As he started to leave the room, he heard his father say, “God be with you. Work hard and trust in God. Don’t forget: you are our only hope.”

  He headed for the train station. No matter how things stood, he had been delivered from the anxiety that had consumed him on his arrival. He now knew that his hopes hung from a thread that had yet to be severed. He would figure out how to handle the ordeals the future had in store for him, no matter what the cost. He listlessly bade his hometown goodbye and took his seat in the train. He quickly forgot his house and family, thinking only of himself. As he plucked a hair from his left eyebrow, he asked why he had been born in that household. What had he inherited from his parents besides ignominy, poverty, and homeliness? Why had he been bound by those shackles before he even saw the light of day? Had he been the son of Hamdis Bey, for example, he would have had a different physique, face, and fortune. He surely would have known contentment and peace of mind. He would have acquired a car. He brooded sorrowfully about the poverty that lay in wait for him. He saw its mocking smile, which seemed to tell him, “You couldn’t fend me off when you had three pounds. How can you repel me with only one?” Where would he live? How would he eat? He shook his head in consternation without feeling any lessening or diminution of his worries. He was supremely self-assured and daring to the nth degree, although irascible and splenetic.

  9

  He caught sight of Rashad Pasha Street when the sun was dissolving into a bloody lake of twilight and darkness was already shading the edges of the horizons. Chancing to look round as he turned onto the street, he saw Ali Taha coming from the university. So he stopped to wait for him. They shook hands and then Ali said with concern, “Mr. Ma’mun told me your father was ill. I felt really sad. Your prompt return tempts me to think you’re reassured and that makes me happy.”

  Mahgub did not want anyone to learn about his woes. So, smiling, he replied tersely, “Thanks.”

  “He is better, isn’t he?”

  “Certainly, thanks.”

  They walked along slowly, side-by-side, as though out for a stroll. Mahgub wondered whether his companion was returning from or heading toward a romantic tryst. Ali afforded him as many reasons to feel delight as pain. He glanced stealthily at him and found he was walking along dreamily, his face illuminated by a smile, and his forehead aglow with joy and good humor as he quivered excitedly with lov
e’s intoxication. Didn’t a lover’s success provide pleasure and pride equivalent to a warrior’s? He felt an irresistible desire to tempt him into a discussion of this beautiful subject. So gesturing toward the clumps of trees with a suggestive smile, he exclaimed, “Oh, if only these trees could talk!”

  Ali Taha grasped the reference, and his sentiment was so vivid that he felt inspired to speak clearly, needing to express himself. So he said emotionally, “Mr. Mahgub, that’s what you think, but don’t cast a sarcastic eye on love. By no means. It should not be taken lightly. The throbbing of a serious heart is as significant in this world as the planets’ trajectories are in the heavens. So don’t ever mention the ‘boiler’s reservoir’ or ‘safety valve.’ ”

  Mahgub felt profound contempt for his interlocutor. This was compounded both by the agitation his inflection betrayed and by the envy Mahgub felt for him. He told himself sarcastically: The idiot wants to fashion a shrine even for procreation. Then out loud, he said calmly and coldly, “You lovers, I don’t worship what you worship.”

  Ali smiled and responded in kind, “Nor do we worship what you worship.”

  Mahgub was afraid that his Qur’anic sarcasm would bring the young man back to his senses. He regretted his slip and wished to disguise it. So he changed his tone and said with superficial interest, “What a strange affair love is. Although your girlfriend really is exceptional!”

  Ali replied enthusiastically, “Beauty’s not her only virtue. Her spirit is refined, her heart is perceptive, and I can’t begin to describe for you how perfectly our personalities mesh. This is Ihsan!”

  Mahgub’s soul was troubled by hearing her name and was suddenly filled with fury. Do you suppose this is the jealousy that people discuss? How shameful! How could someone who aspired to smash all shackles fall victim to depraved jealousy?