Miramar by Naguib Mahfouz
“Whenever you start thinking and stop responding,” she said in a rather exasperated tone, “you make me feel so unwanted—so hopelessly alone.”
I needed more time to consider the situation. Meanwhile my anxiety had reached the point where I simply couldn’t respond to her feelings or bother to disguise my indifference. All at once, almost as if the spell had been broken by a sudden physical blow, I was free of her power, and over my anxious and frightened soul there now swept a black, subversive wave of cruel aversion. I must have gone mad.
“Why don’t you speak?” she asked sharply.
I replied in a terribly calm voice. “Doreya. This kind offer of his. Don’t accept it.” She stared full in my face, dazed, unbelieving. Sadistically, I ignored her look of angry misery. “Don’t hesitate.”
“Is it you saying this?”
“Yes.”
“It’s ridiculous. I can’t understand.”
I said desperately, “We’ll try to understand later.”
“You can’t leave me like this, without any explanation!”
“I have no explanation.”
Her deep gray eyes shot me a furious look. “I’m beginning to think you’re mentally deranged.”
“I deserve that.”
“Were you playing with me? All the time?”
“Doreya!”
“Tell me the truth. Was it all a lie?”
“No!”
“Then has your love for me died so suddenly?”
“No! No!”
“You can’t be serious!”
“I have nothing to say. To tell the truth, I hate myself. Never get too close to a man who hates himself.”
Her staring eyes reflected her inner collapse. Contemptuously, she looked away. She was silent for a while, as if she didn’t know what to do with herself. “I’ve been a fool. I’ll have to pay for it now.” She muttered, as if she were talking to herself, “I could never really rely on you. How could I have forgotten that? You’ve just used me, with your insane impulsiveness. That’s it. You’re mad.”
Like a guilty but penitent child, I bore her anger meekly, and to end the scene I simply said nothing, ignoring her raging looks, her fingers tapping on the edge of my desk, her sighs as she tried to catch her breath. I would not meet her eyes. I was dead to everything. Her voice came at me, urgently.
“Have you nothing to say?”
I was immovable.
She got up, pushing back her chair, and I stood as well. She went out and I followed her outside. As we crossed the street she hurried on ahead of me. It was all too obvious that she didn’t want my company.
I stopped and followed her with my eyes, as if I were watching a dream, a dream that grew larger and larger until at last it pushed reality out of sight beyond the horizon. I stood there looking after her, watching her loved and familiar figure as she walked away; and even then, even at such an absurd moment, it was clear to me that this broken creature I watched disappearing into oblivion was my first and probably my last and only love. With that disappearance I felt the beginning of my own downhill slide. And in spite of my suffering, a curious ease came over me.
—
The sea stretched out a smooth blue surface (where was that mad tempest of yesterday?), the sun as it went down touched the edges of the light clouds with fire (where were yesterday’s mountains of gloom?), and the evening air played with the tips of the palm trees lining the Silsila (where were those wild, earthshaking winds?).
I looked at Zohra’s pale face, the dried tears on her cheeks, her broken look. It seemed to me that I was looking in a mirror; or rather, that this was life facing me in all its ruthless primitiveness, with its intimations of pure possibility, its thorny indomitability, and its vain beguiling hopes—those qualities manifest in the power of its eternal spirit, which maintains its attraction for both the ambitious and the desperate and offers to each his proper food. Here was Zohra, robbed of both honor and pride. Yes, I was looking into a mirror.
“I don’t want to hear anything,” she warned. “No reproaches, no remarks.”
“Just as you like.” I had not yet recovered from my experience with Doreya; I had not had time to analyze and understand it and I was still charged with it to the point of losing my mind. I knew the storm was near at hand, that I hadn’t reached the catastrophe of the drama yet. I couldn’t remain silent.
“It may all be for the best,” I said sympathetically. But she didn’t answer. “What are your plans for the future?”
“I am alive, as you see.”
“What about your dreams?”
“I’ll go on.” She sounded determined, but where was her spirit?
“You’ll get over it. You’ll marry and have children.”
“I’d just better stay away from men, that’s all,” she said sourly. And I laughed, for the first time in ages. She knew nothing of the tempest in my own soul or the madness stalking me.
Suddenly a notion flashed through my brain. Or was it really so new and so sudden? For it must have had deep roots in my mind, of which I’d been unconscious. Something really tempting—strange, mad, and original. For all I knew, it might be the end of my quest, the cure to my chronic troubles. I looked at her tenderly. And I said, “Zohra, I can’t bear to see you so unhappy.”
She smiled her thanks with reluctance. I was carried away on a wave of emotion. “Zohra! Look up! Hold on to your strength, the way you used to. Tell me, when shall I see you smiling happily again?” She looked down and smiled again. Another surge of emotion carried me higher still. Here she was, lonely, dishonored, deserted. “Zohra, you probably don’t know how dear you are to me.” I said, “Zohra, marry me.”
She turned suddenly, startled, unbelieving, and opened her lips to speak but couldn’t make a sound. I went on, still under the influence of my insanity. “Please take me, Zohra! I mean it.”
“No!”
“Let’s get married as soon as we can!”
Her fingers moved nervously and she said, “You’re in love with another woman.”
“There was no love. You just imagined it. Please answer me.”
She took a deep breath, watching my face suspiciously. “It’s kind and decent on your part. Your pity’s got the better of you. Thank you. But I can’t accept. And you don’t mean it. Please don’t mention it again.”
“You refuse me?”
“Thank you very much. But just forget it.”
“Believe me. I mean it. Give me a promise, a hope, and I’ll wait.”
“No.” She spoke firmly, obviously not believing a word of what I’d said. “Thank you for all your kindness. I really appreciate it, but I can’t accept it. Go back to your girl. If there’s anything wrong, it must be her fault and you’ll soon forgive her.”
“Zohra, please believe me.”
“No! Stop it. Please!” She sounded adamantly firm, but her eyes showed how tired she was. And as if she couldn’t bear the situation any longer, she thanked me with a nod of her head and left the room.
Rebounding back into emptiness, I looked around like a drowning man. When would the earthquake come? When would the storm begin to blow? What had I said? And how could I possibly have said it? Why? Was there some mysterious double who put words in my mouth at his will? How could I put a stop to it all?
How can I put a stop to it? I repeated the question obsessively as I left the room.
In the hall Sarhan was on the telephone. His suitcase stood near the door, announcing his final departure. I looked with loathing at the back of his head, bent to the receiver, hating him with an intensity that seemed inevitable. He occupied a greater place in my life than I had imagined. What would I do with my life if he disappeared altogether. How would I find him again? I would be unable to keep myself from following him, tracking him down: Sarhan is the poisoned cup that would cure me.
“Good!” he shouted down the receiver. “Eight o’clock! I’ll wait for you at the Swan!”
It was a date. He w
—
I went to the Atheneus and thought of writing a letter to Doreya, but my agitation got the better of everything, my will, my mind.
At the Swan, I took a seat in the furthest corner of the inner hall, like an emigrant packed, ready, awaiting his departure, who has completely washed his hands of the city and all its cares. My brain began to clear. I drank two cognacs, my eyes riveted on the entrance.
At a quarter to eight my quarry arrived, in the company of Tolba Marzuq. Had he been the man on the phone? When had this chance friendship started? They sat down on the other side of the hall. I watched them drink their cognac. I remembered that I had agreed at breakfast to Tolba Marzuq’s suggestion that we spend New Year’s Eve at the Monseigneur. I had promised to celebrate the New Year! I watched them from my corner, drinking, talking, laughing.
I take care not to let him see me, but he gets a glimpse of me in the mirror. I ignore him and go out cursing. The road is completely deserted. And then I hear his shoes creaking behind me. I slow my pace until he almost catches up with me. We have gone quite a distance down the deserted road. He comes up to me and slackens his stride, not wishing to expose his defenseless back to me.
“You’ve been following me! I spotted you from the start.”
I say curtly, “Yes.”
“Why?” he asks wanly.
“To kill you,” I say, taking the scissors out of my coat.
His eyes stare at the scissors. “You must be crazy.”
We put ourselves on guard, braced, ready to attack or defend.
“You’re not her keeper, are you?”
“It’s not just for Zohra. Not just for Zohra.”
“What is it, then?”
“For life. My life. I have no life if I don’t kill you.”
“But you’ll be killed too. Can’t you see that?”
I am completely detached. The emigrant feeling comes over me again and I delight in it.
“How did you know where I was?” he asks without warning.
“I heard you talking on the phone at the pension.”
“And made up your mind to kill me?”
“Yes.”
“You never thought of that before?” I flinch and make no reply, but do not back down. “You don’t really want to kill me?”
“I do. And I will.”
“Supposing you hadn’t seen me or heard me when I was on the phone?”
“I did see and I did hear. And I’m going to kill you.”
“But why?”
I flinch again. But my desire to kill him grows stronger and stronger. “That’s why!” I cry, stabbing at him. “Take this. And this!”
As he talked to Tolba Marzuq I heard Sarhan laugh. He left the table a number of times, but always eventually returned to his seat. I cursed Tolba Marzuq, his coming had spoiled everything. But after an hour or so he left. Sarhan stayed alone at the table, and I grew impatient for the moment of my deliverance.
He went on drinking, but kept looking anxiously toward the entrance. Was he waiting for someone else? Would I miss my opportunity forever? The waiter called him to the telephone. In a few moments he came back frowning, looking, in fact, completely dejected. He did not sit down, but paid his bill and left. I watched him through the glass screen and saw him go to the bar. More drink? I waited until he went out and then I followed him slowly.
When I came out of the door, he had already crossed the road. I drew my coat close against the biting breeze. A light mist hung around the streetlamps. The road was deserted and, except for the sound of the wind in the undergrowth on either side, absolutely quiet. I followed him cautiously, keeping close to the wall. But he was so completely oblivious of everything around him, so absorbed in a world of his own, that he had even forgotten to put on the coat he was carrying over his arm. What was it? He’d been laughing and talking all the time. Why the sudden change? As for me, I was obsessed by one thought alone, my sole salvation.
He turned up the lonely country lane that led to the Palma, dark and empty, completely without life at that hour. Where is he going? I thought. What Fate delivers him to me in this way? For fear of losing him I hurried, keeping close to the railings of the parks, for it was pitch dark. I must make ready to strike, I said to myself. But he suddenly stopped. Something will happen, someone will come. I was trembling all over. I have to wait. He made a strange sound. A word? A signal? He was vomiting. He moved slowly forward for a short distance, then fell. Stone drunk! He had drunk too much! I listened carefully, but nothing happened. Creeping closer, I almost stumbled over him in the dark. I bent over him, trying to call out his name, but the words stuck in my throat. I touched his body and his face but he did not move. He was completely unconscious. He’ll die without fear or pain, I thought, the death old Amer Wagdi wishes for. I shook him gently, but he would not move. I shook him harder, violently, but there was no way of waking him up. I stood up angrily and pushed my hand into my coat pocket for the scissors.
Nothing. I looked in every pocket. Had I forgotten to take the scissors? I had been extremely upset, desperate, when Madame came in to consult me about celebrating New Year’s Eve. Yes, I’d left the room without taking what I’d come for.
I was furious at myself and at this drunk enjoying an oblivion he didn’t deserve. I kicked him in the ribs once, twice, brutally, then I was kicking him like a lunatic, everywhere, until my anger and excitement were spent and I fell back panting against the iron railing, saying to myself, I’ve finished him. I’ve finished him! I was nauseated, barely able to breathe, obsessed by the thoughts of my own madness.
I was insane. A madman behaving madly in the dark. And there was Doreya, gazing into my eyes, disappearing among the crowd in the street.
I walked back to the pension, imagining Zohra sleeping, a heavy oppressive sleep. Then I took a sleeping pill and threw myself on the bed.
He was shoving me with a hand on my shoulder. My brother. I shouted back at him. “You’ve broken me for good!”
4. Sarhan al-Beheiry
The High-Life Grocery. What a brilliant spectacle for the gourmet and the epicure—bright lights playing over jars of hors d’oeuvres, pots of pickles, and tins of sweets, the cold meat and smoked fish, the bottles and flasks of all shapes sparkling with wines from every corner of the earth. Willy-nilly, my feet want to stop in front of every Greek grocery in the city.
This time, as the ripe autumn breeze brings a heady aroma wafting into my nostrils I stand there watching a fellaha at the counter and thinking, “Blessed be the land that fed those cheeks and those breasts of yours!” I’d seen her as I was scrutinizing the prices on the wine bottles in the window: my eyes passed over the barrel of olives, slipped through a space between a Haig & Haig and a Dewar’s, hopped across the ham slicer, and lit on the profile of her nut-brown face, which was tilted up toward the grocer with his big Balkan mustachios. She carried a straw bag full of groceries and the tip of a bottle of Johnnie Walker was just peeping out at one corner.
I stood in her way as she left the shop. Our eyes met, mine smiling with admiration but hers severely questioning, then I followed close behind her, paying tribute to her country beauty. At the Corniche we were met by squalls of autumn wind, tinged with the faltering rays of the sun. She walked on in quick straight steps and when she turned in at the entrance to the Miramar building she looked back quickly: honey-brown eyes, exquisite but rigidly noncommittal.
I remembered the cotton-picking season at home.
I’d almost forgotten her when I saw her again at the end of the week. She was buying the papers at Mahmoud’s stall.
“What a lovely morning!”
It was Mahmoud who responded to my greeting, but she glanced at me and I looked her straight in the eyes, staring like a hawk, mesmerically. She hurried away, but in my senses the way she moved had already laid a charge
“You lucky devil!” I said to Mahmoud, who laughed innocently. “Where does she come from?”
“She works in the Pension Miramar,” he said indifferently.
I paid back some money I’d borrowed from him to send home and walked around the fountain waiting for Engineer Ali Bakir.
What a sweet fellaha, absolutely delicious: there she goes, pulling my vitals after her. The whole world delighted me—the excitement of my own desires, the softness of the sunlight, with the multitude of faces I saw waiting around me. And I remembered again the cotton-picking season at home.
—
Ali Bakir turned up about ten. I took him to my flat in Sharia Lido in Mazarita. Safeya was ready and we went to the Metro cinema. At one in the afternoon we came out. They went straight on to the flat, while I went to the High-Life to get a bottle of Cyprus wine.
At the counter shopping, as my fantastic dreamlike good luck would have it, stood the fellaha, again. Something made her sense that I was behind her: she turned her head, met my smiling face, and looked away. In a mirror in the middle of the wine bottles, though, I caught a glimpse of a smile forming on her rose-pink lips. Like a daydreamer, I could see myself living in the pension, wallowing in the warmth of her love. She had crept into my soul, stirring my heart the way it had been stirred only once before, in college. That bright and candid smile, like the sun! A peasant girl, away from home, alien in that pension, like a faithful dog astray, looking for its master.
“If it weren’t broad daylight I’d drive you home,” I said as we went out of the shop side by side.
“You don’t underrate yourself!” She wasn’t really being angry. As I made my way back to our place, I had sweet visions of the country, of virgin love.
Ali Bakir was sitting cross-legged on a cushion. Safeya was cooking in the kitchen. I threw myself down next to Ali and set the bottle before him. “It’s an inferno. That’s the latest scientific definition of the current price situation.”
He laid his hand on my arm. “I suppose you’ve managed to get your family through the usual school-opening crisis?”