Cairo Modern by Naguib Mahfouz
He reached Zamalek and found his way—after asking for directions—to al-Fustat Street. Like Rashad Pasha Street, it was grand and still. On either side, towering trees were massed, and their branches met overhead, forming a canopy of red flowers. He cast an incredulous look at the mansions with his protruding eyes. This look seemed to ask, “Is it possible for suffering to penetrate these thick walls? Is what claimants to wisdom say true or do they enclose inflamed hearts?” With steady steps he approached the villa at number 14, where he asked the doorman in a refined accent and dignified tone for the bey, informing the man that he was a relative who had come to visit. So the Nubian doorman invited him into the parlor, and he entered a large, splendidly furnished chamber. He had never been in a house like this before or found himself in such a room. So he examined everything with a mixture of astonishment, admiration, and regret. Looking out a nearby window, he saw part of a garden that was filled with nature’s fragrant beauties. How would the bey receive him? Would his wife invite him in so she could see what had become of the boy now that he was grown? Would they remember the time in al-Qanatir and ask affectionately about their old friend Abd al-Da’im Effendi? Would they be moved by his illness and discern the motive that had induced Mahgub to knock on their door and then extend a helping hand to him out of their good will? What a fine room! Wasn’t it possible that he might own such a mansion that needy people would seek out?
Hearing footsteps, he looked toward the door. Then he saw the bey, whom he recognized at first glance, although his appearance had changed and he was older. As the bey approached, he rose and advanced toward him politely, extending his hand. They shook hands, and the bey scrutinized him. Then, smiling, the bey said, “So it’s you! I didn’t recognize the name at first, but then my memory came to my aid. Now you’re a man. How are your parents?”
I didn’t recognize the name at first! So it’s you!
Mahgub overlooked all that and replied respectfully, “My mother’s fine, but my father’s ill. In fact, his condition is serious.”
Then they sat down. The bey was wearing an overcoat. So it seemed he was preparing to leave the house. Leaning back in his chair, the man said, “I hope he’ll recover. What’s the matter?”
Mahgub said carefully and clearly, “My father had a stroke that has left him paralyzed in bed. He’s had to quit his job and things are rough.”
His hopes rested on this final phrase: things are rough. He stole a glance at the bey just after speaking but noticed no impact. Without any alteration in his glacial expression, the bey said, “That’s too bad. I hope you’ll give him my greetings. How about you, Mahgub—have you finished your studies?”
This change of topic infuriated him, and the speaker’s coldness enraged him, but he felt obliged to answer, “My final-year exam is this May.”
“Excellent … congratulations in advance.”
Then he rose, saying, “I’m so sorry to leave you now, but I have an important appointment.”
Full of despair and rage, the young man stood up, inwardly cursing a meeting that had lasted less than two minutes after a separation of fifteen years. Didn’t the bey grasp the motive that had led him to his mansion? Hadn’t the phrase “things are rough” suggested his reason for coming? With intense anxiety he followed the bey outside. He could grasp the bey’s arm and yell at him, “I’m destitute and need your help. Give me a hand!” He was ready to spring into action, risking everything, when he saw a young woman and an adolescent boy calmly mounting the steps nearby. His resolve collapsed, and his look honed in on the approaching pair. He recognized Tahiya at first glance, in spite of the big difference between the beautiful image in front of him and the one in his memory. From the resemblance between her and the teenage boy he realized that this was her brother. He forgot his resolve and was aware both of floating in suspended animation and of his pride. The bey smiled at his children. Gesturing toward Mahgub, he said, “Mr. Mahgub, my relative … Tahiya, my daughter and her brother Fadil.”
They shook hands. Smiling, Mahgub said, “I remember them clearly.”
The bey, who was moving toward the automobile that awaited him, said, “In that case, stay and visit with them.”
Should he? They exchanged curious, smiling glances. Fadil was a handsome youth of noble appearance. Mahgub hated him at first glance for his elegance, good looks, and nobility. Tahiya was an extraordinarily beautiful girl. Ihsan Shihata’s beauty might be more captivating, but Tahiya was a perfect model of elegance and pride, a living paragon of the aristocracy. She quickly dazzled his senses and he immediately discovered in her a vital symbol for the high society life to which his heart aspired. She set fire to his emotions and roused his ambition, even if she did not awaken his lust the way Ihsan did. She also did not awaken any lofty emotions in him, since he was unfamiliar with these. Instead his admiration for her was mixed with resentment, and his desire was blended with defiance. Deep inside he felt a longing to dominate and ravage her. He immediately decided to tarry with them. The three sat down in the magnificent parlor, and he felt certain that his shabby appearance was not lost on them. Even so, he felt only contempt for this fact, since he truly enjoyed an amazing ability to vanquish timidity and discomfort and to arm himself with boundless disdain.
Smiling, Fadil asked, “Do you really remember us, sir?”
Mahgub answered calmly, “We lived in the same town fifteen years ago when the bey was an engineer in al-Qanatir. We played together in our house’s garden.”
The youth said with astonishment, “I don’t remember anything from that time!”
Tahiya commented in a voice as polished as her appearance, “It’s almost the same for me.”
That hurt him. Papering over his emotions with a smile, he said, “You were both young, but I was eight.”
Nodding his head, the beaming Fadil asked, “Have you finished your studies?”
Was this question customary in aristocratic families? He answered, “I’ll be done in May.”
“Which faculty?”
“Humanities.”
Fadil commented loftily, “We’re happy to discover a relative like you.”
Mahgub immediately responded, “I’m even happier because I’ve discovered two relatives.”
Tahiya had been examining him with feminine eyes. Simply to make polite conversation she commented, “We haven’t visited al-Qanatir since we left.”
Uncharacteristically Mahgub felt at a loss. Should he invite them to visit al-Qanatir to see the house with its “garden” where they had played? Fadil, however, rescued him from his quandary by asking his sister sarcastically, “Have you visited Cairo, where you live? All you know are living rooms and the cinema.”
Tahiya, blushing, smiled and retorted, “What a sarcastic exaggerator you are! Don’t you realize that I know Cairo overall and have even visited the antiquities museum and the Pyramids like the tourists?”
An extraordinary idea occurred to Mahgub, who—on being released from his perplexity—immediately suggested, “The antiquities museum and the Pyramids are stale destinations. Have you visited the new excavations?”
Turning toward the speaker, Tahiya inquired, “New excavations?”
Pointing toward his chest as if personally responsible for the discoveries, he said, “The university’s excavations—a few minutes’ walk from the Pyramids—a strange world surrounded by barbed wire. All the people involved are my friends and colleagues. So when shall we go together to see them?”
Delighted, she replied, “I don’t know, but I’ll go some day. Isn’t that so, Fadil?”
Fadil, who was beginning to feel listless, replied automatically, “Of course, of course.”
Walking through the villa’s garden after his visit, Mahgub Abd al-Da’im sensed that it was possible that a type of what people call friendship might grow between him and his two cousins. He wondered what he could get out of this friendship if it did arise—or would he emerge from it as empty-handed as from his visit w
14
He found himself once again on al-Fustat Street, buffeted by an unruly, cold wind which caught him by surprise. It shook the branches, making the street hum with their rustling. It blew past walls with a deafening whistle. A shudder passed through his enervated body and pervaded his joints; the month of Amshir was too harsh for a starving weakling to endure. Although distracted from his surroundings by his reflections, half conscious of the weather, he darted along the road. He thought of Fadil, comparing himself with the adolescent who enjoyed health, good looks, and wealth whereas Mahgub was ill, ugly, and poor. Nonetheless they were cousins! Tahiya was an aristocrat—a vibrant representative of the world he yearned for. Do you suppose he would ever take her to the Pyramids? A girl like her really was a magic key that could unlock doors and perform miracles. He brooded about this for a long time. But, alas! How could he sink into such dreams and forget his current concerns? How would he find the money to buy the book for Latin? How could he withstand his starvation diet that threatened his body and mind? How amazing! What greater proof of man’s baseness was there than the need for food to sustain life? Could this food, which was extracted from clay and fertilized by garbage, constitute life’s essence and mainstay? Was it thought’s buttress? The true creator of ideals? Wasn’t this proof that man’s essence is vile rubbish? He quickened his steps. The winds kept on raging ferociously and the sky was overcast with dark clouds. The emerald waters of the Nile were roiled and turbulent. He cast an angry look at his surroundings and spat disdainfully on the ground as if to declare his enmity to the world. Shouldn’t he borrow the money? From whom? How could he repay the debt? The next month would be no better than the previous one—in fact, it might be worse. What could he do? If only he knew how to pick pockets. There was a magical art! Pickpockets owned everything in anyone’s pocket. The nation’s rulers had grasped the significance of this insight. But what could he do? Should he renew his attack on Hamdis Bey? Should he meet him at his ministry and ask him point-blank for money? Tahiya’s image disrupted this chain of thoughts—Tahiya with all her nobility and her aristocratic manners. Would he want her to learn he was a miserable beggar? This girl stirred his feelings, although he was not insane enough to rave the way Ali Taha did. This was a new passion. Like his passion for Ihsan, it was neither Platonic nor erotic. Amazingly, he felt enormously, incredibly self-confident, perhaps because of his native daring and audacity, not to mention the fact that—like the masses—he believed his sexual prowess outstripped that of the rich. He truly believed that Tahiya was not beyond his reach. The sky was not the limit for his dreams, which his hunger made even more fantastic, a hunger that turned studying into a bitter struggle and his nights into painful torture. The book for Latin? Damn it. How would he raise the money?
15
He felt calmer when he awoke the next day. The fantasies that his visit to the Hamdis family had aroused had died away. Thus he returned to his senses and decided that he should seek out Hamdis Bey at the ministry and present his request, even though this meant sacrificing his friendship with Tahiya and Fadil. He felt obliged to skip class and ate no breakfast so he would have enough money to ride the tram both ways. He set off at once, reaching the Ministry of Works at exactly ten a.m. He learned the way to his relative’s secretary, whom he found to be a man in his forties. He greeted him politely and told him, “I wish to see His Excellency the Bey.”
“Who are you?”
“One of the bey’s relatives—Mahgub Abd al-Da’im.”
The man asked him to wait a moment and disappeared. Mahgub brooded about what he might say to the bey and how he should phrase his statement in the most moving fashion. The man returned shortly, sat down at his desk, and said, “The bey is chairing the Advisory Council; so it would be best for you to return another day.”
This answer caught him off guard and upset him. He felt he had received a direct blow to the head. He implored the man, “But I want him for a very important matter.”
“No doubt about that, but, God willing, some other day.”
“I can wait an hour or two.”
Then the man said in a tone that made it clear he wanted to extricate himself and move to something else, “Come in the evening if you want.”
He left there enraged and infuriated. Should he let the tram gobble up his remaining money? No—to hell with the bey and his advisory council! He realized immediately that to save the cost of transportation he ought to wait down-town till afternoon if he wanted to see the bey. Since he could no longer resist the hunger that was wringing his stomach, he went to al-Azhar Square to search for a beanery. He took the food, on which he had subsisted for three weeks, and hurried to Qasr al-Nil Street to cool his heels in its gardens while he waited. The weather was cold and the sky overcast. He walked along with his head bowed, repeating resentfully and angrily, “The criminal humiliated me. The criminal humiliated me!” Nevertheless, he would need to chase after the man again. He was an enemy who must be befriended. The bey was simply another pain the world was using to test him. He passed his fingers over his fiery forehead and declared, “I won’t cry … I’ll keep a stiff upper lip. No matter how hungry I get, I won’t scream like the cowards who call out, ‘O Lord!’ ” His feet finally carried him to the garden where he began to split his time between sitting and walking in annoyed disgust. His limbs were cold and his stomach felt tired. In frightened alarm, he asked himself, “Isn’t it possible that these black days will leave permanent scars?” His pale face frowned while sorrowful anxiety showed in his eyes. After waiting for half an hour, while he was walking on the road beside the Nile, not knowing where he would find the patience to wait for the appointment, he saw near the back gate of the Andalusian Garden two smiling girls, who were heading his way while chatting. Glancing casually at them he recognized that one of them was none other than Tahiya Hamdis. She did not notice him since her attention was focused on her companion. Coming upon her unexpectedly, however, had an overwhelming impact on Mahgub. His former train of thought was interrupted. He forgot her father and the advisory council. He turned a blind eye to his pains and hunger, because his attention was focused on one thing: meeting her. He could care less about his appearance and the presence of the girl he did not know. He kept his eyes on Tahiya, whose gray overcoat was draped around her with aristocratic elegance. Perhaps she sensed his gaze, because she glanced toward him when a few meters away. He stood right in front of her, bowing to greet her. Her face showed her astonishment and then she blushed. She glanced quickly at him and then offered him her hand. She introduced her friend, and then the three stood there somewhat awkwardly. He had been so keen to carry out his plan that he could think of nothing to say now and fell back on conventions of conversation, asking, “How is your family?”
She replied with natural grace, “They’re fine, thanks.”
Then his mind rescued him from his quandary, reminding him of the excavations. Delighted to have hit upon a conversation topic, he said, “This happy occasion gives me a chance to remind you that a free person keeps his promises.”
Frowning in bewilderment, she said, “I don’t understand.”
In a censorious tone, he replied, “The excavations, the university’s excavations.”
“Oh … of course I haven’t forgotten.”
“When?”
“When!”
“Yes, let’s be practical. What do you think about next Friday afternoon?”
She hesitated momentarily and then—since she liked the suggestion—said, “Fine.”
“How about Fadil Bey?”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Let’s set a time.”
“We don’t want to inconvenience you. So you name the time.”
“Four p.m., in front of the bus station in Giza Square.”
They said goodbye and parted. He continued on his way. This was a dazzling victory that surpassed all his expectations. The dream had turned into a date. Yes, he had noticed