Khan Al-Khalili by Naguib Mahfouz
Ahmad thanked him but declined. As he listened to his companion, he kept enjoying the sips of tea. Wanting to join his companion in a smoke, but of his own kind, he took out a cigarette and lit it with a smile. He felt very relaxed as he sat there talking to his new neighbor, probably because there was a strange quality about him, something he had never encountered in anyone before. His simplicity, frankness, and forceful presence, they all surprised him, but what was more important than any of those things was that Ahmad felt a sense of superiority that stroked his own tortured vanity. That impression made Ahmad want to get to know him better.
“Why don’t you like the shisha?” Boss Nunu asked. “It’s just like a cigarette except with water. The smoke’s filtered and purified. Beyond that, it conveys an aura of authority, and the gurgling sound it makes has a music of its own. And its very shape has sex appeal.”
Ahmad could not help laughing, but his laugh was drowned out by the ringing guffaws from the boss himself; they sounded like a continuous loud mooing and culminated in a burst of coughing that went on and on until he ran out of breath.
“Do you think we locals are stupid?” he asked Ahmad, his face still smiling. “Do you realize that English tourists come to visit this quarter in droves; many, many more than Arabs. But, in any case, by al-Husayn’s faith and God’s, may you find untold happiness in his quarter and may our relationship and your time here be a happy one too, in spite of whatever Hitler and Mussolini decide to do.”
“God willing, that will be so.”
“A number of distinguished government personnel like yourself live in the area,” the boss went on by way of encouragement.
“Oh Boss, please! I’m not that important.” Ahmad hurriedly replied.
“No, I swear by al-Husayn and his beloved grandfather, the Prophet himself. Most of my friends in the neighborhood are officials. The new apartments have attracted a lot of good families here. You’ll find everything you need: coffee, radios, kindness, and shishas. In fact, there’s enough available here to make God happy and angry in equal measure.”
“Heaven forbid we should make God angry!” Ahmad said with a laugh.
The boss stared hard at him, then carried on with his usual bluntness. It was as if he had known Ahmad for many years, not just a few minutes. “Pleasing God and angering Him are like night and day, inseparable from one other. Beyond them both lies God’s mercy and forgiveness. You’re not a Hanbali, are you?”
“Certainly not!”
“You surprise me!”
“But how can this quarter be big enough to cater to things that anger God?”
“Ah well, disaster always lurks, so they say, wherever people don’t pay attention. Just wait and make sure for yourself. But I have to say that whatever faults there may be are not the fault of our quarter but of others. The corruption has spread so far that they can’t keep it within their own walls. They keep sending their excess over to us; and that’s exactly what the radio keeps telling us about world trade. Here we export primary goods and other quarters import them ready made. In some parts of our quarter they export servant girls; the other quarters convert them into barroom singers. Because of this the world’s been turned upside down. Just imagine, my dear sir, yesterday I heard the radish-seller’s daughter using English with her sister. ‘Come here, darling,’ she said.”
Ahmad laughed. By this time he was feeling much more relaxed and at home. “In spite of all that, Boss,” he said, his strategy being to get the other man to do the talking, “your quarter is pure enough. The level of corruption in other quarters is beyond conception.”
“God protect us! It’s obviously a good idea not to let our anxieties get the better of us. So forget about such things, laugh, and worship God. The world belongs to Him, whatever happens is His doing. His command is certain, and the ending belongs to Him as well, so what’s the point of spending time bashing your brains and feeling miserable? God damn the world!”
“Well, Boss, that seems to be your favorite expression. I’ve heard it many times from my room upstairs.”
“Yes, God damn the world! It’s a phrase of derision, not a curse. But can you really curse the world in actuality as you do when you use those words? Can you despise the world and laugh at it when it makes you poor, leaves you naked, and brings hunger and disaster down on you? Believe me, the world’s just like a woman: kneel in front of her and she’ll turn her back on you; beat her or curse her and she’ll come running. With the world and women therefore I have just one policy. Before and afterward I rely totally on the Lord God Almighty. There’s been many a day when we have no idea where the next penny is coming from; the family has nothing to eat and I can’t even buy myself a shisha, but I still keep on singing, cursing, and joking. The family might as well belong to my neighbors, and poverty be a mere passing cold. Then things change; I’m asked to do some work and grab the money I get. Then it’s, ‘Be happy, Nunu!’ ‘Thank God, Nunu!’ ‘Zaynab, go and buy us some meat!’ ‘Hasan, get some radishes!’ ‘Aisha, run out and buy us a melon!’ ‘Fill your stomach, Nunu!’ ‘Eat up, children!’ ‘Be grateful, you wives of Nunu!’ ”
That phrase “wives of Nunu” attracted Ahmad’s attention. He wondered exactly how many wives Nunu had in his harem. Would he be prepared to share his domestic secrets with the same frankness as he had used to detail his personal philosophy? The only way he could see to find out was to ask a trick question: “God is always there to help us. You obviously have a large family.”
“Eleven stars,” the man replied simply, “and four suns. Oh, and a single moon!” he went on, pointing to himself.
“You have four wives?” Ahmad asked after a pause.
“As God wills.”
“Aren’t you afraid of not being fair to them all?”
“And who’s to say that I’m unfair?”
“Do you rent four separate houses for them?”
“No, like you, sir, I’ve just one apartment. It has four rooms, and there’s a mother and her children in each one.”
Ahmad’s expression showed his astonishment as he stared at his companion in disbelief.
Boss Nunu’s laugh was filled with a certain pride. “Why are you so astonished, Ahmad Effendi?” he asked.
At this point Ahmad discovered a sense of daring that was unusual for him. “Why haven’t you been satisfied with just one?” he asked.
“One?” came the reply. “I’m a calligrapher. Women are just like calligraphy; no single one can make up for the others. One’s naskh, another ruq’a, another thuluth, and a fourth farsi. The only thing I have one of is God Almighty.”
“But aren’t four more than you need?”
“If only they were enough. God be praised, I can satisfy an entire city of women. I’m Boss Nunu, and my recompense is with God!”
“But how can you keep them all in one apartment? Don’t you know what people say about women’s jealousy?”
Boss Nunu gave a contemptuous shrug of his broad shoulders, then spat on the ground. “Are you going to believe everything people have to say about women, their jealousies and cunning? It’s all a smokescreen created by puny men. At base woman is a moist, malleable dough; it’s up to you to shape it as you wish. She is a creature deficient in both mind and religion, and you have to use two things to make her function properly: shrewd tactics and the stick. Each one of my wives is totally convinced that she’s my favorite; none of them has ever needed more than one sound thrashing. You search in vain for a home that is as happy and serene as mine; my wives are unrivaled for their modesty and competitive desire to keep me happy. That’s why none of them ever dared to get me angry when they found out that I have a girlfriend!”
“A girlfriend?” Ahmad shouted.
“Good heavens!” Boss Nunu said, “You get shocked by the smallest trifles! Here’s what I say: the taamiya at home is delicious, but then what about the stuff you can buy in the market?”
“So are your wives happy about you having a girlfri
“If you’re used to being content, then you’re content. With your own sense of manliness you can craft a woman just the way you want; she’ll do whatever you want and believe whatever you want. A strong man has no need to resort to divorce unless his own passions dictate that he should.”
“May God forgive you, Boss,” said Ahmad with a smile.
The man took some more puffs from his shisha. “And are you married, Ahmad Effendi?” he asked his guest.
“No,” he replied resentfully.
“Not even one?”
“Not even half of one.”
Boss Nunu laughed. “I get it,” he said with his habitual frankness, “you like to play the field.”
Ahmad gave a cryptic smile, neither confirming nor denying this statement.
“May you be forgiven too!” Nunu commented with a chuckle.
Boss Nunu had managed to get further with Ahmad than anyone else before him; he had delivered a violent jolt to his psyche. He represented Ahmad’s diametrical opposite in terms of forcefulness, health, and good humor, not to mention his verve for life, his success, and his happiness. Ahmad admired the man, something he derived from his awareness of his own inability to match the man’s accomplishments. At the same time he resented him for the things he did so well and for his contentment. But the resentment he felt was trivial and certainly did not compare with the sense of superiority that he felt toward the man. Thus the attraction he felt for him overcame his resentment and rekindled his desire to get to know him and his remarkable quarter a lot better.
“You should try the Zahra Café,” Boss Nunu said as Ahmad stood up to leave. “It’s small, but all the most respected government workers in the neighborhood congregate there. You’ll find the very elite among your neighbors. How about going there this evening?”
“If not this evening,” Ahmad said as he made to leave, “then tomorrow, God willing.”
Saying a grateful farewell, Ahmad now proceeded on his journey of exploration into the different parts of his new quarter.
6
Next evening Ahmad left the apartment building, heading for the Zahra Café. He found it at the start of Muhammad Ali Street, just before it turned into Ibrahim Pasha Street. It was as large as any store, with two entrances, one of which was on Muhammad Ali Street itself, while the other was on a long passageway leading to the New Road. There were dozens of cafés like this one in the quarter; he estimated that there must be a café per every ten inhabitants. He approached the café with a certain hesitation because he was not a habitué of such places and was not used to their atmosphere. But no sooner had he entered the place than he spotted Boss Nunu sitting in the middle of a group of government officials including some locals as well. Nunu noticed him and stood up with a smile.
“Welcome, Ahmad Effendi!” he shouted in his usual loud voice.
Ahmad moved over in his direction, with a bashful smile on his face. He held out his hand in greeting, and Nunu grabbed it with his own rough palm.
“This is our new neighbor, Ahmad Effendi Akif,” he said turning to the assembled group. “He’s a civil servant in the Ministry of Works.”
Everyone stood up in unison out of kindness and respect, something that made Ahmad even more nervous and shy. He went round shaking hands with everyone and being introduced by Boss Nunu: “Sulayman Bey Ata, primary school inspector; Sayyid Effendi Arif from the Survey Department; Kamal Khalil Effendi, also from the Survey Department; Ahmad Rashid, a lawyer; and Abbas Shifa, an eminence from the provinces.”
They cleared a space for him and made him feel very welcome. He started to feel more at home and forgot about his shyness and discomfort at coming to the café. Before long he was feeling happily superior to them all, although he managed to keep it well hidden by smiling sweetly and exchanging amiable looks.
There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that he was superior to these people in every conceivable way. After all, he was from al-Sakakini, and families who lived there were the children of quarters like al-Darrasa and al-Gamaliya. He was an intellectual, with a fully fashioned mind, while these folk had none of that. Indeed, he pictured his presence in their midst as a nice gesture of sympathy, an engaging display of humility on his part. What continued to baffle him was the question as to how he would make these people aware of his importance and introduce them to his sterling intellectual and cultural qualities. How on earth was he going to convince them that he was a person of real significance and earn their respect? Needless to say, as long as this new friendship developed and they continued to get together, such respect would inevitably follow; so there was no harm in delaying things for a couple of sessions.
He looked round at the people sitting there and studied them carefully. There was Sulayman Ata the inspector, fifty years old or more—ugly to the point of contempt, small, and with a stoop. His face reminded you of a monkey: sloping forehead, bulging cheeks, round, tiny eyes, wide jaw, and stub nose. Even so, he had none of the deftness and energy of monkeys. He wore a fixed glowering frown as though to reflect his own outrageous ugliness. The best thing about him was his amber rosary; his fingers were incessantly playing with the beads. The amazing thing is that, even though he looked so ugly, it did not provoke any hateful feelings, but rather sheer mockery and sarcasm.
The person called Sayyid Arif was about the same age, small and thin, with a soft complexion and an innocent look about him. By contrast, Kamal Khalil’s expression exuded an aura of respectability; he was obviously meticulous about his appearance, of average height and somewhat portly. He was the one who gave their new guest the warmest welcome. Ahmad then concentrated his attention on Ahmad Rashid. He discovered him to be a young man in the prime of his youth, with a round face and large head, although the heavily tinted dark glasses he wore almost completely obscured his facial features. Ahmad was particularly interested in this young man because he was a lawyer and thus an educated person. The legal profession had been one of his aspirations when he still had hopes in life but had yet to inure himself to failure. He still hated lawyers just as much as literature scholars and learned people; his feelings were like those of a man toward one who has married a girl he himself was in love with. For that reason he immediately regarded him as an enemy and made ready to pounce on him at the earliest available opportunity. The other member of the group was Boss Abbas Shifa, a youngish man with a dark complexion whose coarse, ugly features suggested a humble obsequiousness. He was wearing a loose-fitting gallabiya and slippers and had left his head bare so that his peppery-colored hair stuck up all over the place. All of which made him look even more ugly; sufficiently vile, in fact, that all he needed was a prisoner’s uniform. Even though the group was fairly small, it took up a good third of the café. The café owner sat by the cash register nearby as though he too was a member of the assembled company and one of the participants in their conversation.
Boss Nunu and Kamal Khalil extended the warmest of welcomes to Ahmad Akif, but Sulayman Ata maintained his frowning posture as though he had completely forgotten about the new arrival. Ahmad Rashid started listening to a broadcast on the radio.
“We’ve heard that you’ve just come here from al-Sakakini,” said Kamal Khalil to open the conversation.
“Yes, sir,” replied Ahmad lowering his head, “that’s correct.”
“Is it true,” the man asked anxiously, “that very few people made it out of their houses?”
“The truth of the matter is,” replied Ahmad with a laugh, “that only one house was destroyed.”
“So much for rumors! What was it then that made such a terrible noise, the one that sounded as though it was inside our very homes?”
“That was in the sky!”
At this point Ahmad Rashid turned away from the radio; he obviously had not been paying much attention to it. “Is it true that a bomb landed but didn’t explode?” he asked.
Ahmad was delighted that the young man was now talking to him. He replied, “People
“What we need,” Ahmad Rashid went on, “is that Canadian specialist whom we’ve read about in reports on war news. Apparently he’s saved whole quarters in London.”
Sayyid Arif was an admirer of the Germans. “Are there any whole quarters of London left?” he asked with a scoff.
Ahmad Rashid smiled. “As you can tell, our friend supports the Germans!” he said.
“For medical reasons!” laughed Boss Nunu, completing Ahmad Rashid’s comment.
That made Sayyid Arif blush, but Boss Nunu refused to spare him. “Our friend, Sayyid Arif believes,” he went on with one of his enormous laughs, “that German medicine can restore one’s youth.”
Sayyid Arif frowned angrily. Obviously it was utterly inappropriate to make such a statement in the company of someone who had only just made their acquaintance. Ahmad Akif was well aware of what Boss Nunu’s motivations were in saying it, and yet he made sure that his facial expression showed no sign of having heard anything. Boss Nunu was anxious to repair any damage his remark may have caused, so he started telling their new guest about the new quarter he was living in, praising its virtues to the skies.
“This quarter is the real old Cairo,” said Ahmad Rashid, commenting on Boss Nunu’s description. “Crumbling remnants of former glories, a place that stirs the imagination, arouses a real sense of nostalgia, and provokes feelings of regret. If you look at it from an intellectual perspective, all you see is filth, a filth that we’re required to preserve by sacrificing human beings. It would be much better to knock the whole thing down so we could give people the opportunity to enjoy happy and healthy lives!”
Ahmad immediately realized that his new conversation partner had a seriousness about him that suggested that he might well be a smooth talker, and indeed someone of genuine intelligence; especially as his law degree gave him the kind of prestige that ignorant and naive people respected enormously. He was afraid that this man might outshine him, so he immediately assumed the offensive, ready to counterattack at any cost: “But old quarters do not necessarily imply filth; there are the memories of the past that are far more worthy than present-day realities, memories that can serve as the impetus for any number of qualities. The Cairo you’re anxious to wipe off the map is the city of al-Mu’izz, reflecting the glories of eras past. Compared with that city, where does today’s Cairo, all modern and indentured to others, belong?”