Miramar by Naguib Mahfouz


  “But surely not as pretty as you?”

  She thanks me for the chocolate and leaves the room. Cunning? Or scared? Well, I don’t need her now. And it’s her privilege to play a little hard to get, and her due as well for me to confess that she’s very beautiful. Ferekeeko, don’t blame me!

  —

  I stare at Madame’s old photograph until she asks delightedly, “Do you like it?” She tells me the story of her first and second marriages. “How do you find me now?”

  “As lovely as ever.” I look at her veined wrists and muddy complexion.

  “I’ve aged before my time. It’s my bad health,” she says with resignation. Then all of a sudden, veering over to a new subject: “But is it wise to risk your money on a new business?”

  “Why not?”

  “What if the government confiscates it?”

  “There are such things as safe projects.” Guessing that she might have contemplated hauling her own money out from under the floorboards, I add playfully, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were partners?”

  “Me?” She laughs with pretended surprise. “But I can hardly live on what I get from the pension.”

  We are joined by the ancient journalist, tightly wrapped up in a warm dressing gown, and surprisingly cheerful, despite his disgusting longevity. Qalawoon, the Doddering Sultan.

  “The young seek adventure, the old long for security,” he says, as if to comment on both his lot and mine.

  I wish him good health.

  “Have you come to Alexandria to start that project you mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you serious about it?”

  “Well, I’m sick of doing nothing.”

  Chanting, he quotes the old verse: “Youth, leisure, and worldly goods oft prove a man’s undoing.” But I despise poetry, as much as I despise being told about university degrees. And what I feel toward them is the ineffable superiority of a Turkoman horseman who finds himself living among sedentary trash. Of course, the winds of fortune have soured some of them enough to give them a fair amount of polish, the same winds that at the moment are blowing my class’s candle out. That’s just what they’re like, in fact, these revolutions—like some sort of freak of nature: like hurricanes, tornadoes. I resemble someone trying to drive a car with an exhausted battery.


  A new face comes out from behind the screen, a young man I haven’t met before, heading for the door. Madame invites him to sit down, introducing him as “Monsieur Mansour Bahy.”

  He works at the Alexandria Broadcasting Service. Another of those degrees. A handsome face, delicate features; rather effeminate, though. Another polished plebeian, whose diffidence tempts me to punch him in the face.

  When the fellow has gone I ask Madame whether he is a resident or a transient guest.

  “A resident, my dear,” she says proudly. “I don’t take transient guests.”

  Zohra comes back from the market, her plastic shopping bag heavy with groceries. I look after her greedily. The town is full of women, but this girl excites me. Is it my fault, Ferekeeko?

  “So you’ve fallen in love, after all?”

  “Not really, Aunt, but she’s a fine girl. She’s my cousin, and I want to get married.”

  “At any rate, you’re a young man after any girl’s heart.”

  —

  The evening of Umm Kulthum’s concert is a magnificent occasion, even at the Pension Miramar; we drink, laugh, and talk of many things, including politics. But even strong drink cannot get the better of fear.

  Amer Wagdi rambles on about the glory of his own past, deeds for which his own conscience must serve, alas, as the only witness; the old wreck wants to convince us that he was formerly a hero. So no one is commonplace in this damned world. And everyone sings the praises of the Revolution. Even Tolba Marzuq. So do I. Take care, I say to myself. Sarhan is an opportunist and Mansour is probably an informer. Even the ancient scribbler…who knows? Madame herself is probably required to keep her eyes open, in the service of security.

  When Zohra comes with a bottle of soda water I ask her, “And you, Zohra, do you like the Revolution?”

  “Oh, you should see the portrait handing on the wall in her room,” says Madame. Tacit permission for me to creep into the girl’s room some night?

  The whiskey draws us together in a sort of familiarity, but I know it won’t last, that there will never be any real friendship between me and Sarhan and Mansour; at most a transitory intimacy that will soon evaporate, just like the girl I picked up at the Metro. I remind myself that I should find some business to use up my energy and fill my time. Otherwise, who knows? I might do something stupid. Or commit some crime—a crime worthy of myself.

  What is clear is that if getting married means risking another no, I’d prefer to remain a bachelor. And since it’s impossible for me to find a suitable wife in this “Progressive Society,” I’ll permit myself to look upon all womankind as my personal harem. To fill the vacancy in my future home, I’ll simply find a first-class maid. Right. A maid like Zohra, and why not Zohra herself? She’ll certain accept; she’ll be grateful for the chance to play the lady without the trouble of childbearing, nursing, and all that. She’s beautiful. And she’ll put up with my whims, my other love affairs. How could a girl from her background do anything else? Life isn’t so bad, after all, and there’s plenty of fun to be wrung out of it yet.

  Sarhan tells us so many jokes that we are exhausted. Even Mansour bursts out laughing, then draws back into his shell.

  “Listen! Read this! A death sentence. Will the English do nothing about it? Will they let the Communists take over?”

  The singing starts and they listen greedily to the radio. I grow tense. As usual, sure, I can follow a verse or two, but I quickly get bored and distracted. There they sit, wrapped up in the music, and all I feel is terrible isolation. I’m astonished to notice that Madame is as fond of Umm Kulthum as any of them. “I’ve listened to her for so many years,” she explains when she observes my surprise.

  Tolba Marzuq is listening intently. “Thank God they didn’t confiscate my ears too,” he whispers to me.

  As for the Doddering Sultan, he’s closed his eyes, also listening. Or having a quiet snooze.

  Then I steal a look at Zohra on her seat near the screen. Very charming. But is she listening too? What’s she thinking? What’s she hoping? Is she being tossed around by life like the rest of us? She goes away for a moment. They are all drunk with rapture, absorbed in the music. I go after her, through the passage to the washroom, and playfully pull her plait of hair, whispering, “The only thing lovelier than the music is your face.”

  She steps back firmly. I try to take her into my arms, but stop short at her frigid look.

  “I’ve waited so long, Zohra!”

  With a light step, she turns away and goes back to her seat in the hall. All right, suit yourself! There are dozens like you at the big house in Tanta, you fool. Or do you think my education is lacking something too, you yokel?

  I go back to the group of listeners, disguising my anger with exaggerated applause for the concert I am not following. I have a sudden impulse to speak out for once, to tell them what I really think of it, but I don’t. During the intermission they all scatter and I take the opportunity to leave the house.

  I drive to Cleopatra: it’s cold and windy but I’m on fire with the whiskey. I go to the house of a Maltese madame where I used to go on summer nights. She’s surprised to see me out of season and it’s past midnight.

  “I have no one here,” she says. “And I can’t get you a woman now.” She stands in front of me in her nightgown, past fifty, fat and flabby; but a woman still, though the down on her upper lip is like a mustache.

  I push her into the bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” she says with surprise. “I’m not ready.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I laugh. Nothing matters!

  Later we spend another hour talking. Wh
en she hears about my business plans, she says, “People are selling out and leaving.”

  I yawn. “I’m not starting a factory or a company.”

  “Then look for some foreigner who wants to leave and buy his business.”

  “Not a bad idea, but I must think it over.”

  On the way back it rains heavily and I can hardly see my way through the windshield. I’m in a rotten temper. I know I’ve just been wasting my time.

  —

  Pretty, in spite of the smell of cooking.

  “Two pieces of sugar, please.” To stir the sugar for me she has to stay a little longer in my room. “You were hard on me, Zohra.”

  “No, you went too far.”

  “I wanted to tell you how much I admire you.”

  “I’m just here to work,” she says coldly.

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t seem to be convinced.”

  “You misunderstand me.”

  “You’re a gentleman. Please be reasonable.”

  “I shall love you forever,” I call out after her as she leaves the room.

  —

  Come with me on a strange trip. A terrible day: my brother scolding, my uncle thundering: “School! School!” Let us wander in the country lanes, a long strange trip, north and south, night and day. We’ll stop at every village for food and drink. “I’m over twenty-one!”

  —

  “I’ve seen you together.” I see you together in the passage to the bathroom. It’s Dream Boy Sarhan. He gently pinches your cheek. You do not raise your head in protest. Your charming face is lit by a happy smile. Your plaited hair sways skittishly, the way things do in a cornfield. So the peasant has got in first. That’s all right, just as long as we observe absolute equality of opportunity, even if he winds up with two evenings when I get only one.

  —

  Climbing into the Ford, I laugh and laugh. Ferekeeko, don’t blame me.

  —

  I give Tolba Marzuq a lift to the Trianon and he asks me to have a drink with him. Sarhan is there with another man. We exchange a passing nod. When Tolba asks me how I spend my time, I tell him that I drive around making plans for my new business.

  “Have you any business experience?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t throw your money away.”

  “But I’ve made up my mind.”

  “You should get yourself a wife. You’d learn to be more cautious with your money.”

  I can hardly control my anger. “I’m determined to stay a bachelor and get on with a project.”

  “A smart boy,” he says, indicating Sarhan. “A friend of mine works at the same firm. They speak of him there as a zealous revolutionary. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t you think he’s a phony?”

  “We live in a jungle. Beasts of prey are fighting over the loot—our property!” I find a secret satisfaction in listening to him. “Under those uniforms,” he continues, “they’re mad for luxury.”

  “But you can’t deny there have been a few reforms.” I am feeling comfortable in our privacy.

  His mouth twitches. “All meant for the diversion of this ignorant mob, who don’t have the head for it all. We’re at the mercy of the Uniforms.”

  Sarhan joins me as I leave the tearoom. I give him a lift to the pension. He’s a friendly bastard. And though I heartily detest him, I’d rather stay on good terms. He may come in useful someday.

  “A fine conquest.” I nudge him with my elbow. He shows a puzzled smile. “Zohra.” He raises his thick eyebrows in surprise, then lowers them in virtual confession. “You’re an openhanded country boy. Don’t begrudge me a share.”

  “To tell the truth,” he says humorlessly, “I don’t understand you.”

  “Let’s be frank, just between friends—is it her you pay or Madame?”

  “No, no!” he protests. “It’s not the way you think.”

  “What way should I think, then?”

  “She’s a good girl. She’s not like that, believe me.”

  “All right! Okay! I seem to have mistaken a private vehicle for some form of public transport.”

  Don’t worry yourself over trifles, Ferekeeko!

  I’ve made a mistake, all right. I’ve taken the New Age for my friend when it’s really my enemy. But never mind—I’m happy in my freedom. So what if my class has left me to the waves and the boat sinking? How marvelous to be loyal to nothing, to be free, completely free, free of claims from class, country, or any duty whatever. And all I know of faith is that God is merciful and compassionate. Ferekeeko, don’t blame me!

  —

  A terrible commotion, unheard of at a place like the pension. Just woken from my siesta, I run out into the hall to see what’s happening. A fight in the entryway, which I watch from behind a screen. It’s rather entertaining: a strange woman holding our friend Beheiry by the throat, cursing and flailing him, with Zohra standing there nervously, trying to pull them apart. The woman suddenly turns on her, but Zohra is a magnificent fighter and punches her twice, banging the stranger each time into the wall. She’s a lovely girl, Zohra, but as tough as an old boot.

  I stay behind the screen for a while, the best seat in the house; then when other doors open behind me, I emerge from behind the screen and take the strange woman firmly by the wrist. I pull her gently out, apologizing and trying to calm her down. She is seething with anger, swearing nonstop, and doesn’t seem to know I’m there.

  Not bad as women go. I stop her when we get to the second floor. “Wait a bit! You should tidy yourself up before you go out.” She smooths her hair, takes out a hairpin and pins up a tear in her dress. I give her my handkerchief—it’s scented—to wipe her face. “My car’s at the door. I can take you home if you’ll let me.”

  She looks at me for the first time. I am in my pajamas and dressing gown. She thanks me. In the car I ask her where she wants me to take her.

  “Mazarita,” she replies in a hoarse voice.

  The sky is clouded and it is dark soon, sooner than one would have expected. I try to draw her into conversation.

  “You shouldn’t get so worked up.”

  “The filthy bastard!” she hisses.

  “He seems to be a nice country boy.”

  She says again, “Filthy bastard.”

  “Your fiancé?” I enjoy my own sarcasm.

  She doesn’t answer. She is still burning with rage. Really not bad, as women go, and on fire somewhere, that’s for sure. We stop in front of a building on Sharia Lido. “You’re a decent man,” she says as she opens the door of the car.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? I don’t want to leave you unless you’re recovered.”

  “I’m all right, thank you.”

  “Then it’s goodbye, is it?”

  “I work at the Genevoise,” she says, giving me her hand.

  I start the car, wanting to know more about her. Same old story, I suppose, a runaway boyfriend and the usual fracas. Now that he’s met Zohra he’s started a new romance. The woman is passable. I may need her some night. But why did I take the trouble to drive her home? Stupid! Ferekeeko, don’t blame me!

  By the time I get back to the pension I’ve forgotten her.

  —

  My car eats up the tarmac of crazed streets, lampposts and eucalyptus trees flying past in the opposite direction. Pure speed revives the heart, sweeping boredom away, while the wind howls like a maniac rattling the branches and the leaves of trees, and rain beats down, washing the fields bright green. From Qaitbay to Abu Qir, from the harbor to Siyouf, from the heart to the farthest limbs of the city, wherever there are roads, I wander with my car.

  Time has passed and I’ve taken no serious steps as far as business is concerned. Then it occurs to me to conduct a systematic investigation of certain familiar centers of radiation. I pay a visit to an old procuress at Chatby; she brings me a girl who isn’t bad to begin the day with. I have lunch with another madame in the neighborhood
of the Sporting Club, who provides me an Armenian woman somewhat above the average.

  And then my Sidi Gaber madame presents me with a lovely piece (Italian mother, Syrian father), whom I insist on taking out in my car. She plays shy a little, says she’s worried about the possibility of a storm, but I tell her I wish it would rain, I want it to. All the while I make love to her in the car, she keeps looking at the gathering clouds and saying, “What if it starts to rain?”

  And finally, there on the open country road to Abu Qir, it begins to pour, just as I’ve been hoping it would. The place is deserted. I shut the windows and watch the deluge, the dancing boughs, the endlessly stretching landscape. The Italo-Syrian beauty at my side is in a panic.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Just think,” I say, trying to calm her down. “The two of us naked in a car, but safe and sound all the same, kissing each other to the clap of thunder and the sound of the driving rain!”

  “This is impossible,” she says.

  “But just think. Wouldn’t you like, from this snug little shelter in the midst of cosmic rage, to stick your tongue out at the entire world?”

  “Impossible,” she says. “Impossible.”

  “Yes, but it will happen. Any minute now, my love.” I drink straight from the bottle. And the more the thunder claps, the more I ask for, begging the sky to pour down its whole hoard of rain.

  “But the car may break down!” says my beauty.

  “Amen!”

  “It will be dark soon!”

  “Let it be dark forever.”

  “You’re crazy! Crazy!”

  “Ferekeeko,” I shout into the storm, “do not blame me!”

  —

  At breakfast I hear about Zohra’s strange new resolution. The fellaha wants an education! Many comments, much joking, but everyone is generally encouraging. My old wound gives a twinge. Nobody looked after me when I grew up; I ran wild. I had no regrets then, but I’ve found out since, too late, that time is no friend. And now here’s a fellaha who wants to learn to read. Madame explains the girl’s situation and why she left her home village, all of which shows that she is not one of Madame’s disciples. She may even be a virgin, unless Sarhan the Dream Boy doesn’t care for virgins.

 
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