Miramar by Naguib Mahfouz
“What good will it do you?”
“I’ll learn some profession. And I won’t be a servant anymore.”
That stabs me to the heart. I sit there tongue-tied.
“Some of my people came to take me back home today,” she says in a new voice.
I look at her, smiling to hide my anxiety, but she ignores my expression. “What did you tell them?”
“We settled it. I’ll go back next month.”
I cry out in extreme anxiety. “Seriously! You’re going back to the old man!”
“No. He’s married now.” She drops her voice. “There’s someone else.”
I catch her by the hand. “Let’s go away together. Tomorrow,” I beg. “Today if you like…”
“I said I was going home next month.”
“Zohra! Have a heart.”
“That’s one solution, without problems.”
“But you love me!”
“Love and marriage are two different things,” she answers angrily. “Isn’t that what you said?”
But her lips soon give her away; I detect the shadow of a smile. “Zohra, you devil, you’ve been joking.” I am tremendously relieved.
Madame comes in, drinking tea out of a cup in her hand. She sits on the bed and tells me the story of Zohra’s refusing to go back home with her relations.
“Don’t you think it would have been better for her to go back home?” I suggest slyly.
Madame smiles that knowing smile of a procuress. “Her true relations are here, Monsieur Sarhan.”
I avoid her eyes, completely ignoring the implication of her remark, but guessing that a little bird has carried gossip about us from one room to another. She probably thinks worse of us than we deserve, but I’m pleased at the idea of my imaginary conquest. Zohra’s obstinacy will not give an inch, though, and I ask myself when I shall have the courage to get out of the pension.
—
It’s the usual afternoon scene: Madame sitting close to the radio, almost leaning her head against the set, listening to some foreign song, and Amer Wagdi helping Zohra with her lessons. Then the bell rings. It’s Zohra’s teacher.
“I do hope you’ll excuse me. We have visitors upstairs. If you don’t mind, I’d rather give the lesson down here.”
Very courteous indeed. We make her welcome. She’s quite good-looking; she is also smartly dressed, a career girl. I watch her teach Zohra and I find myself comparing the two of them, simplicity and ignorance, beauty and poverty on the one hand, with education, elegance, and a career on the other. If only Zohra could have found herself in this other girl’s world, with all its potentialities.
To satisfy her perpetual curiosity, Madame intrudes on the lesson and we soon learn the lady’s name, particulars of her family, even to the detail about the brother working in Saudi Arabia.
“Do you think he might send us some special goods on request?” I find myself asking her. She would inquire, she says.
I leave the pension for the Café de la Paix to meet Engineer Ali Bakir.
“Every step is carefully laid out,” he says confidently. “It’s in the bag.” Good! So let’s take the leap and make our earthly sojourn worthwhile after all. “I met Safeya Barakat at the Délices. Have you really ditched her?”
“To hell with her!”
Looking shrewdly at me, he laughs. “But have you really left her for a…?”
“How can you believe her? Since when was she somebody anyone could believe?”
For a moment or two he seems to assess me closely. Then he says, “I hope you understand that this deal of ours is the kind of thing you don’t talk about, not even to your wife or your own son.”
“God forgive you! What do you take me for?”
—
Wonderful! A look to flatter any male’s ego. She didn’t smile, didn’t bat an eyelid. She just suddenly turned her eyes away from Zohra and her book and landed a look on me. As a rule I might encounter scores of such eyes and never turn a hair. But hers carried some kind of spark, transmitting a message that was quite complete.
So I’ve changed my route and sit down behind the glass panes of the Miramar Café, watching the clouds and waiting, not with any clear end in view, not warmed by any touch of emotion, but out of sheer curiosity born of boredom and despair, a simple craving for an adventure of any kind. Actually, she isn’t at all the kind of girl that grabs me, but that look she gave me was as welcome as an invitation to a picnic on an otherwise empty weekend.
She passes by the front of the café, her hands deep in the pockets of her gray overcoat. I follow her at a distance, then at the Atheneus come up to her. She has bought some sweets and is standing there debating which way to go. I say hello and invite her for a cup of tea. She says she’s been thinking of sitting down for a while in the tearoom, so we might as well. We drink our tea and eat two pieces of pastry. Our conversation is cursory but not without interest, in part because of the useful information I gather about her family and her work. In any case, it makes me ask for another date, when we meet in the café at the Amir cinema, then go in together to see the film. It’s up to me from then on to decide what kind of affair it’s going to be.
I don’t find her worth a great deal of effort. And yet when she invites me to meet her family, I accept. I realize that she’s looking for a husband and I weigh it all up cold-bloodedly—her salary and what she makes out of private lessons. And always in my mind is the increasing hopelessness of my relationship with Zohra.
When I meet the family I find a new attraction: they own a fair-sized tenement house in Karmouz. I find myself actually taking it all seriously, not out of love for the girl or greed for wealth—theirs is only moderate, after all—but simply to satisfy the longing I’ve had for a prosperous marriage. But what about Zohra? Is it conceivable that I could find consolation for having abandoned Zohra in marriage to a woman I don’t love? Perhaps. But can I really fight down a passion so fixed, so deeply entrenched in my heart?
—
I had bought the paper and was turning away when Mahmoud made a signal to me to wait a little while he served another customer. When he’d finished, he turned to me.
“Professor, I’m going to propose to Zohra.”
To cover my dismay, I grinned at him. “Congratulations! Have you settled it with her?”
“Almost.” He seemed very sanguine.
My heart beat painfully. “What do you mean by ‘almost’?”
“Well, she’s a regular customer, comes here every day. I haven’t proposed to her in so many words, but I understand women pretty well.” I hated him. “What do you think of her character, sir?”
“Very good. As a matter of fact.”
“Until I can meet her people, I’ll try to speak for her through Madame.”
I wished him luck and walked away. I’d gone only two steps when he caught up with me. “What do you know about her quarrel with her family?”
“Who told you about that?”
“Amer Bey, the old gentleman.”
“All I know is that she’s extremely stubborn and proud.”
“Oh? Well, I know the answer to that one,” he boasted. Then he laughed.
When he did propose he was refused. I was delighted, but it added to my sense of guilt and responsibility. I was torn by love and anxiety, and for the time being Aleya’s image seemed to recede and grow fainter in the background. It was with pleading tenderness that I took Zohra’s wrists.
“Zohra! Save me! Let’s go away at once,” I begged.
But she disengaged herself roughly. “Stop that. I hate hearing it.”
It’s no good, I thought. She loves me, but won’t give in without marriage: and I love her, but cannot accept that bond. And both positions, hers and mine, have nothing to do with love that should annihilate mind and will.
Aleya’s father, al-Sayyid Muhammad, invited me to lunch with them and I accepted. At the end of the week I invited the whole family to dinner at Pastoroudis’. After
“In my day,” said Aleya’s father, “we used to marry early and have the pleasure of seeing our children grow to manhood in our lifetime.”
“Those were the days,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “Our times are as hard as stone.”
He leaned toward me. “A good man is a fortune in himself,” he whispered. “Honest people should make things easy for him.”
—
His face was distorted with rage. I’d been only two steps from his stall when he’d noticed me and his whole expression had changed violently. Looking daggers, he muttered something sarcastic without bothering to give me the paper I took every day.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were her lover?”
His impudence startled me. I shouted, “You’re out of your mind!”
“Coward!”
I lost my temper. I slapped his face with the back of my hand, and he slapped me. Then we grappled blindly, punching each other until passersby tore us apart and we separated, trading insults and curses. For some time afterward I walked without seeing where I was going, wondering who could have slipped that idea into his empty head.
A long time passed before I saw him again. I had gone into Panayoti’s restaurant for a light supper, saw him sitting at the proprietor’s place in front of the cash desk, and was on the point of going out again when he leapt up from his seat, embraced me, and kissed my head. He insisted on serving me supper on the house, apologized for his past offense, and informed me it was Hosny Allam who had told him such a lie.
—
“My dear, please don’t let Zohra know anything about us.”
We were sitting at the Palma beside the Mahmoudiya Canal, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Her regular contact with Zohra worried me. Aleya knew nothing about Zohra’s real motive for taking lessons and Zohra had no notion that her teacher had stolen her man.
“Why?” she asked, suspiciously.
“She’s a terrible gossip. We don’t want any gossip at this stage of our engagement.”
“But our engagement will be known sooner or later.”
I tried being blunt. “Sometimes I think she has a special fancy for me.”
She smiled wanly. “Maybe she has reasons for it.”
“All the lodgers tease her occasionally. I’ve done the same. That’s all.”
Our relationship had developed considerably and Aleya had come to love me. I didn’t care whether she believed me or not; I just wanted her to be on her guard with Zohra. Reason had finally got the better of love. It was up to me now to announce the engagement. But I still hesitated, putting it off under the pretext that I had to apply to my family and invite them down from the village to play their traditional role.
Every day my feelings toward Zohra became more painfully tense. I couldn’t bear the thought of letting her down so shamefully. I burned with remorse for my treachery. If only she would give in, I told myself I’d be faithful forever.
—
What’s that? Thunder? An earthquake? Or a demonstration? Has anything fallen in my room? I put my head out from under the bedclothes. It was pitch dark; and I was myself. Yes, this is my bed, and this is my room at the Pension Miramar. But what’s that? God, it’s Zohra! She’s calling for help! I ran out and saw her by the night-light struggling desperately with Hosny Allam.
I guessed the reason for the scene at once and tried to save her without too much scandal and without spoiling my relationship with Hosny. I laid my hand gently on his arm. “Hosny.”
But he didn’t hear me. I caught him by the shoulder and said aloud, “Hosny, are you out of your mind?”
He shrugged me off violently, but I clutched him by both shoulders and said firmly, “Go into the bathroom and stick your finger down your throat.”
He turned on me and hit me on the forehead. Angry now, I hit him back and we didn’t stop until Madame came out. She treated the aggressor too leniently. I understood the old woman perfectly. She was like me, hoping to get something out of his famous business project. The door is closed in my face now, I thought, and she’s ready to blame me for his sake.
A few days later I caught sight of him leaving the Genevoise, at about one in the morning, in the company of Safeya Barakat, and I remembered the day he had taken her out of the pension. They’re birds of a feather, those two, I thought, impulsive dreamers. I suppose they’ll live together on love and dreams.
I had spent the evening at George’s bar with Ali Bakir and Rafat Amin. It was a clear night and we walked on the Corniche, braced by the wine and the weather. Rafat Amin’s only subject, especially when he was drunk, was the Wafd. And Ali Bakir, I soon realized, hardly knew the difference between the Wafd and the National Sporting Club. Personally I don’t care for politics, in spite of my considerable political activity. So when Rafat Amin went on and on about the Wafd in a thick drunken voice, I asked him ironically, “Can’t you tell when something is dead and buried?”
“Praise the Revolution all you like,” he roared in a voice that echoed through the deserted streets. “I can’t deny its overwhelming power. But I believe that when the Wafd died, the Egyptian masses died too.”
It was then that I saw Hosny and Safeya making for the Corniche, like two ambling bears. I pointed them out at a distance and said with a laugh, “There are your Wafdist masses, mobilized, ready, prepared to. carry their gallant struggle far on into the night.”
Before I left, Ali Bakir whispered in my ear, “We’ll soon give the go-ahead.”
They were all asleep when I got back to the pension. I could see a light under Mansour Bahy’s door. I knocked and went in. I had no motive for this late visit; it was the wine. He looked up at me in surprise. He was sitting in his armchair and I took a seat near him.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m drunk.”
“Evidently.”
“I have failed, in fact, to make a friend of you.” I smiled apologetically. “You’re such an introvert.”
“It takes all sorts to make a world.” He was polite, but not encouraging.
“I suppose you’re preoccupied with the problems of your own thinking?”
He replied enigmatically, “My own thinking is the problem.”
“Blessed are we, the empty-headed.” I laughed.
“Oh, come on. You’re the center of ceaseless mental activity.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Your political life, your revolutionary ideas. Your numerous conquests.”
I was struck by the last phrase, but I was too drunk to take it seriously. I understood I wasn’t welcome, so I shook him by the hand and left.
—
When Zohra comes into my room with the tea tray, I forget all my plans and give myself up to love. But her face is hard, pale, and angry.
“Zohra, what’s the matter?” I ask with concern.
“If I didn’t know that God’s wisdom was above everything, I’d lose my faith.”
“What’s wrong? Is it some new trouble?”
“I saw the two of you with my own eyes.” She spits the words out contemptuously.
I know who she means and my heart falls. I ask de
“The teacher,” she says with savage hatred. “That whore, that man-hunter.”
I laugh. I have to, affecting the kind of careless laughter we use to face unjustified anger.
“If you mean your teacher, I just met her by chance and did her a courtesy.”
“Liar,” she cuts in savagely. “It was not by chance. She told me about it today.”
“No!”
“The bitch admitted she’d been going out with you. Her parents weren’t at all surprised. They were surprised at my asking questions.”
I am dumb, unable to say a word to appease her. She cries out in enraged disgust, “Why does God make sneaks like you?”
I’m shattered, defeated. “Zohra!” I beg from the depth of my despair. “There’s no reason to behave like this. I only turned to her in desperation. Please reconsider it, Zohra. We’ve got to get out of here.”
She doesn’t seem to hear a word I say.
“What can I do? I have no claims on you. You filthy swine. To hell with you!” She spits in my face.
In spite of my shameful situation, I’m suddenly furious. I shout, “Zohra!” She spits at me again. “Get out of my sight, or I’ll smash your head to bits.” I am blind with rage. She leaps at me, slapping my face with unbelievable strength. I shoot up out of my chair in fury and seize her wrist, but she tears away violently and slaps me again. Losing all control, I hit her savagely and she hits back more strongly than I could ever have imagined. Then Madame comes running in, protesting in outlandish gibberish, and takes Zohra away.
“It’s none of your business!” I scream after her. “I’ll marry whomever I like. I’ll marry Aleya.”
Mansour Bahy comes and takes me to his room. I can’t remember afterward how the conversation went, but I remember his impudence and I remember that I found myself involved in another fight. His behavior came as a complete surprise to me. I hadn’t suspected that he was in love with Zohra too. It explained his strange aloofness with me. Madame arrives on the scene and decides to make a scapegoat of me, the old whore. She says the pension has lost its peace since I came to stay, that I’ve turned it into a public market, with vulgar fighting and rioting.