Khan Al-Khalili by Naguib Mahfouz
This information startled Ahmad Akif. “You mean.…”
“Yes!”
“What about Abbas Shifa?”
“He’s her official husband, one who’s found both a trade and a profit in playing that role.”
“Is that why everyone makes such a fuss over him even though he’s so ugly and coarse?”
“He is a much esteemed personage!”
At that moment the image of the despicable man with his disheveled hair popped into his mind. Simultaneously, however, the young man moved away, and Ahmad went with him. Very slowly they passed by all the people standing and sitting until they spotted Sayyid Arif sitting beside a pretty young girl with a baby on her lap.
“That’s Sayyid Arif and his wife,” the young man whispered.
“His wife?” Ahmad asked abashed. “How did he get married to her?”
“The way people do,” Ahmad Rashid replied. “He’s a perfectly normal man, apart from a critical condition about which he remains hopeful, especially given those German pills, and he won’t.…”
Ahmad Rashid had no time to finish the sentence because at that moment he was interrupted by a loud bang followed by a whole string of others. Ahmad Akif’s heart skipped a beat. He felt as if his whole body gave a jolt, and that bothered him in case his great rival noticed. Total silence followed, and everyone looked panicked and scared.
“Those are the anti-aircraft guns,” people said as a way of reassuring themselves and everyone else, but all it managed to do—whether intentionally or not—was to make people even more nervous and angry.
A man came rushing in from the outside. “The sky’s full of searchlights,” he said.
That made people even more anxious. There were other explosions farther away which lasted for a while and then stopped. Once again there was complete silence, which went on for quite a while. People started to relax a bit. First there were a few whispers, then everyone burst into conversation.
“The disaster of random air raids won’t happen again!”
“Radio Berlin has apologized for the raid in mid-September.”
“It was an Italian raid. The Germans don’t make mistakes!”
Ahmad Rashid allowed himself a smile. “Do you see how fanatical these people are in supporting the Germans?” he said. “What about you? Are you the same way?”
As usual, Ahmad Akif relished the chance to empathize with the underdog. Since the majority were supporting the Germans, he was glad to express an opposing viewpoint. “No,” he replied, “I’m for the Allies, heart and soul. What about you?”
“I’ve just one hope,” said Ahmad Rashid, adjusting his spectacles. “I want the Russians to win, and then they can liberate the world from chains and illusions!”
They both moved away from the people who were chatting. At the very end of the other side of the shelter, to the right of the entryway, they spotted their friend Kamal Khalil with his family. Ahmad Akif looked at them carefully and saw a very fat woman, the young boy, Muhammad, still in his pajamas, and the beautiful girl with the honey-colored eyes. Now he could see for himself the game that love had played with him; he was thrilled to discover that the connection he had made a few hours earlier was correct. He could not keep on staring at her, so he turned away feeling delighted and fulfilled.
“Kamal Khalil and his family,” he heard Ahmad Rashid say.
“Is the girl his daughter?” he asked.
“Yes, he has Muhammad, Nawal, and an elder daughter who’s married.”
He sneaked another glance at her in order to fill himself with that lovely, simple expression so full of charm. She had wrapped herself in a winter coat, and her long black hair was done up in a thick plait. She was looking drowsy and let out a big yawn. At that point Kamal Khalil spotted them both and came over with a smile. They stood there chatting. Ahmad Akif realized that the fact that Kamal had come over to talk to them meant that the family must be paying attention to them; it was not out of the question that those two honey-colored eyes were looking him over—if they had not done so already—with his flowing gallabiya and white skullcap. He suddenly felt shy and blushed. Did she remember him, he wondered. But they did not stay talking for long, because the all-clear siren went off and the shelter resumed its normal busy routine. Ahmad Akif said farewell to his two companions and went back to his parents.
“So you leave us alone while the raid’s on,” said his father angrily, “and you come back when the all-clear is given!”
“God is always with us, whatever the circumstances!” said his mother with a laugh.
Moving very slowly they made their way amid the mass of people toward the shelter’s exit and climbed the stairs to the street. The light from windows illuminated the way as they climbed up to their apartment. As they went upstairs with everyone else, Ahmad could recognize Kamal Khalil’s voice. Ahmad hurried to his bedroom in the hope of getting to sleep again, but for a long time all he could see were those two honey-colored eyes and the lovely image they presented.
9
The fasting month of Ramadan now approached; there were just a few days left before it started. But Ramadan never arrived unexpectedly, and its advent was always preceded by preparations to accord with its sacred status. Ahmad’s mother was never going to be one to shirk her duties in that regard, she being the person in the household primarily responsible for making sure that the month was properly observed and respected. One day she made it the topic of family conversation.
“It’s a month that brings its own rules as well as obligations,” she said, obviously directing her remarks at Ahmad.
He was well aware of the point she was making. “For sure Ramadan has its rules,” he replied defensively, “but war is a bitter necessity for all of us. It overrides all other obligations.”
His mother was very unhappy at that remark. “God forbid that we should ever break our customs,” she said.
That managed to arouse his miserly streak. “Ramadan can pass just like any other month,” he said in an exasperated tone. “We can make up for the things we missed doing sometime in the future when there’s peace.”
“But what about Ramadan treats: candied almonds, honey cakes, and mini-stuffed pancakes?”
Even though he was feeling annoyed, the very mention of those treats had a magical effect on him, not merely because he loved them so much but also because they invoked happy memories of the beloved month and especially his childhood. Even so, such memories, wonderful though they might be, were not enough to counteract the bitter reality of inflation or to soften his frugality.
So, even though in his heart of hearts he longed to go along with the idea, he delivered a firm refusal. “Let’s forget about such luxuries as long as we’re living through these difficult times. Let’s beg God Almighty to help us with the bare necessities of life.”
His father gave the impression of not paying much attention, but in fact he was listening carefully to what his son was saying. He was inclined to agree with his wife’s position, but did not have the necessary courage to say this in so many words. However, he intervened at the crucial moment.
“There’s no need for us to either stint or be extravagant,” he said.
His son realized full well that his father was taking his mother’s side, and he certainly could not talk to him as bluntly as he had to his mother. From a very early age he had learned to respect his father. As was always the case, the last thing he wanted to do was to ignore the hand extended to him for help now that he had become his father’s primary source of support. With that in mind, he made no comment although he felt awkward and unsure of what to say.
It was his father who eventually spoke. “We can make do,” he said, “with some pine-nuts and raisins for stuffing and a packet of apricot drink mix to whet the whistle. We need only have honey-cake just once, and the stuffed pancakes twice; they don’t need to be cooked in fat. All that won’t cost a lot.”
The whole thing appalled him. He was sure that du
“What about meat?” he asked.
“The government has allowed the purchase of meat throughout the holy month,” said his mother, mustering all her resources. “That’s because a piece of meat is something that the heart of an exhausted faster really comes to rely on.”
“But our budget’s too small,” protested Ahmad. “We can’t afford to buy a pound of meat every day along with all our other necessities!”
“You’re right,” said his father, but then used a certain amount of cunning as he went on to say, “so it’ll be better for us to eat no meat once every three days.”
In the few days left before Ramadan actually started, the mother busied herself getting the kitchen ready, cleaning pots and pans, and storing away almonds, sugar, onions, and spices. Even though she had only been observing the Ramadan fast for a few years, the advent of the fasting month was still a source of pleasure and delight for her since it was always a month devoted to the kitchen as much as to fasting itself—even though the latter was its primary purpose. What was best about the month were the long nights and enjoyable visits where conversation would be accompanied by the cracking of nuts and melon seeds. This particular year they were lucky because Ramadan was falling in the month of October when the weather was usually mild and the temperature would be reasonable. That would make it feasible to stay up until the initial crack of light announced the arrival of dawn.
The night of the moon-sighting arrived; after sunset everyone was waiting and wondering if today would be the day. At dinnertime the lights on the minaret of the al-Husayn Mosque were turned on to announce that the moon had indeed been sighted. Because of the war emergency, they had decided not to fire off cannons but to make the announcement by illuminating the minaret. The entire column had been decorated with lightbulbs that emitted a pearly light over the entire neighborhood. Groups of people with drums now toured the quarter, calling out “Time to fast! To the fast let us aspire, just as Islam’s judge requires!” Young men greeted the group with shouts, while the girls ululated. A feeling of joy spread throughout the quarter as though borne on a night breeze.
“I wonder how Ramadan is being celebrated this year in our old quarter?” Ahmad could not help asking.
“How much of our city have you even seen, my boy?” his father asked with a smile. “Did you ever see the beginning of Ramadan in this new quarter of ours before the war started? Everything filled with light and happiness; nights spent awake, nights replete with conversation, recitations, and innocent games. In the good old days when we were all young and healthy, a group of friends and I would walk for an hour before the dawn fast-breaking all the way from al-Sakakini to this quarter. Once here we would eat a breakfast of trotters and sheep’s head meat in the al-Husayn Café and smoke a shisha. We used to listen to Shaykh Ali Mahmud recite the call to prayer and then return home in the early morning.”
“When was that?” Ahmad asked.
“When you were ten,” his father replied without even having to think.
Ah, what a wonderful time those childhood days were, days of merriment, happiness and being spoiled! That was an era that both father and son could cry over.
That evening Ahmad indulged in his new habit, making his way to the Zahra Café. By so doing he was cutting his reading time in half, but he found that the company gave him quite as much pleasure as did reading and seclusion. There he met the group of friends whom he was getting to know much better, as they were him. The conversation revolved around Ramadan nights and how they were going to spend them.
“Don’t wear yourselves out thinking about it,” was the raucous advice offered by Abbas Shifa (the husband of the so-called “husband lover”). “We have our own past Ramadan nights to use as a model. After we’ve broken the fast, we come to the café and stay here until midnight. Then we make our way to ‘you-know-where’ and spend the rest of the night there until the dawn fast-breaking.”
Ahmad pricked up his ears when he heard the phrase “you-know-where” and wondered to himself if the group indulged themselves in sinful practices during the month of repentance. But he decided that his own plan was clear enough: he would stay with them in the café for as long as they did and then return home. Once there, he could read until dawn and keep doing that until the month came to an end.
10
On the first day of the fast Ahmad Akif felt really tired; he found it difficult not to drink his cup of coffee and have a cigarette whenever he felt like it. As he made his way to work, his head was throbbing and he kept yawning. He was feeling so completely exhausted that his eyes started tearing from all the yawning and his eyelids were drooping. At that point he remembered that Ahmad Rashid and his like would not be suffering the way he was, and the contempt and superiority that he felt gave him a small dose of pleasure.
When he returned home at noontime, he was totally wiped out. He threw himself on his bed and immediately fell fast asleep. An hour before the end of the fasting period he woke up again; heading for the bathroom he splashed some water on his face. On his way back to his room he noticed his father sitting cross-legged on his prayer rug reading the Qur’an and walked by in silence. He poked his head into the kitchen and saw his mother working there with her sleeves rolled up. The very thought of the kitchen led him to pause by the door for a moment. Looking round, he could sniff a big tray full of salad ingredients—parsley, watercress, carrots, onions, and tomatoes, and bright green and red peppers; all of which made him unconsciously lick his lips in anticipation. When he turned his attention to the tureen full of beans, he could not stand it any longer.
Abandoning his spot by the doorway he walked past the table in the big room and noticed that it was already laid: bread in one corner, cups of water placed in front of each chair, and a plateful of radishes in the center. He hurried back to his own room and shut the door. The last hour before people broke their fast was known to be by far the toughest to live through, so he had made it a hard and fast rule to divert himself during that period by doing some concentrated reading. When he had finished the task, he took a look at the clock and saw that he still had another half-hour to wait. That brought a frown to his brow, but he decided that the best thing to do as a way of killing time was to open the window and look outside.
There was Boss Nunu closing his store. His children, who were standing there waiting for him, almost blocked the entire street. Once he had finished, he went on his way, surrounded by young bodies, with the young ones grabbing on to his legs and the whole assemblage causing enough din to make a radio station envious. Apart from a few yogurt sellers, the street was now virtually empty. Ahmad watched as the last rays of the sun gradually faded from the walls on the buildings opposite his window behind the large square of stores. Open windows served to advertise tables heavily loaded with food inside. Pitchers had been put outside on balconies to cool, and plates of fruit compote garlanded with egg had been laid out. The evening breezes carried with them the smell of food being fried and the crackle of roasts. Ahmad allowed himself to wander off into a reverie inspired by the magic realm of food.
He left the window, went over to the other one that looked out on the old part of Khan al-Khalili, opened it, and leaned on the sill. That part of the quarter seemed quiet and still; the domes of the al-Mu’izz period loomed in the sky, almost as though doing obeisance to the setting sun. Immediately opposite this window was the left-hand side of the apartment building with its closed windows. Just at that moment he heard a slight movement from above. Looking up he could see his neighbor’s balcony, opposite his window but higher up. A young girl was sitting there embroidering a shawl, the end of which twirled into her lap. She was sitting there on a chair, legs crossed. He recognized her a
He had no idea how much time went by, but he came to himself when he heard the scraping sound of her chair. Looking up again, he saw her get up and go back inside. As she did so, he thought he caught the tiniest glimpse of a smile. As he made his way over to the other window, he wondered what exactly that smile might imply. Why had she smiled? Was it to scoff at his baldness? Was she laughing because he had looked so confused and bashful? Or perhaps she was pleased to have the amorous attentions of a man who was her father’s age. Good heavens, that was right—her father’s age! Needless to say, if he’d married at the appropriate point in his life, he might have had a daughter who by now would be of her age. Then it would have been impossible for a fleeting glance to embarrass him and send him into such a dither. But fate had decreed that he would lose his mind over this particular girl. The most innocent of glances had managed to make him feel both hungry and bashful.
He allowed himself a sheepish smile of despair, one that revealed his yellowing teeth. Just then, the cannon went off, and all the children started shouting. He was amazed that the last half-hour had passed without him even thinking about how hungry and thirsty he was. The muezzin chanted, “God is great, God is great,” in a beautiful voice, to which Ahmad audibly responded, “There is no god but God!” Moving away from the window, he headed for the main room. All three of them gathered around the table. To quench their thirst they all downed some apricot juice, then the mother brought in a plateful of beans. They all devoured it with relish and left the plate completely clean.