Respected Sir, Wedding Song, the Search by Naguib Mahfouz
Meanwhile, much to my bafflement, I read a great deal about the success of the play, dozens of critiques lavishing praise on the author and predicting how much the theater would profit from his talent. This critical reception, coming on the heels of my tortured attempts at writing in this hell of barrenness, this hell of sorrow and want, with my resources dwindling every day, was sheer mockery. To the gloom enveloping me I said aloud: “You never expected this.”
Far from enjoying the rainy season that Sirhan al-Hilaly had predicted, I could not even think. Any idea I conceived came to nothing, shriveling as the wells of contemplation dried up. It was death, a living death: I saw death, touched it, smelled it, and lived with it.
When the money was all gone, I went to see Sirhan al-Hilaly at home. He didn’t begrudge me an extra hundred pounds over and above the contracted price.
I’d entered a race with death, but I was so dried up within me that mine had become a living body without a soul. The voice of annihilation stole into my ears, jeering, letting me know that I was finished—it had played with me as it wished, baring its fangs to pronounce a sentence of death.
When the money ran out again, I rushed off a second time to Sirhan al-Hilaly, who politely but firmly made it clear that he was ready to grant me another sum whenever I showed him a portion of a new play—and only then.
Returning to solitude, with destitution now added to grief and sterility, I contemplated seeking a haven—Bab al-Shariya—but something stopped me. At that point, willfully parentless, soon to be homeless, and no longer belonging to any quarter, I said to myself that nothing was left except the end I’d assigned to my own protagonist. And eventually I hit upon the appropriate exit line. I despised my burdens and afflictions. No mention of them. I would die keeping them to myself.
Shortly before the call to afternoon prayers, I went to the Japanese Garden*7 and sat down on a bench, oblivious of what was going on around me, aware only of my own thoughts in lurid collision with one another. By what means? And when?
I’d only slept an hour the night before. The wind blew, my head grew heavy, daylight was rapidly fading. Lassitude crept over me.
When I opened my eyes it was dusk, darkness falling with ponderous slowness; I must have slept for an hour or more. I got up from the bench—to find myself rising with unexpected buoyancy, filled with energy. My head was free of fever, my heart from its weight—how marvelous!—gloom had dispersed, depression had vanished, and I was a completely different person. When had he been born? How had he been born? And why? What had happened in the space of an hour?
I hadn’t slept through an hour, but an era, from which I’d awakened into a new one. Something had happened during my sleep, something so preciously significant that surely, had it not been for this joy at sudden recovery, this joy that had loosened at last my death grip on memory and cast into oblivion even the recollection of priceless things, I might have been able to call to mind at least an inkling of the onset of this miraculous change. I could only think that somehow I must have completed a long and successful journey. From where otherwise—and how—had the resurrection come? Incomprehensible, unbidden, perhaps undeserved—but so tangible, so real that it could be seen and felt, in the very midst of spiritual emptiness and physical destitution, despite all opposition, obstacles, losses, and sorrows—this joy was all I wanted to cling to, this ecstasy, as if to a talisman. Let its strength remain unfathomably in its mystery! Lo, its life-giving force marches forward, bearing with it the fragrance of triumph!
I set out at once for the station, which was no mean distance away, and with every step new vigor rushed in, as full of promise as great clouds laden with rain—potentiality, feeling, responsiveness, far above and beyond the fact that I was penniless and pursued and carried sadness with me. Only after I’d covered a considerable stretch did I suddenly remember the note and realize that it was too late to retrieve it. I told myself that it didn’t matter, that nothing mattered now—let whatever might happen to that letter happen, whatever the outcome might be—except to keep on going. This ecstasy at its peak may glow on a body stripped by penury, bared to its own aridity, but on a will that the challenge of joy has made free.
Translated from the Arabic by Olive E. Kenny.
Edited and revised by Mursi Saad El Din and John Rodenbeck.
* * *
*1Abu al-Ala al-Maarry (973–1057), born near Aleppo, was a blind poet-philosopher who is said to have been a skeptic, freethinker, and materialist.
*2The first verse of the Fatha, Sura I, Qur’an.
*3Female characters in well-known Arab love lyrics.
*4Coptic name of the windy month that follows Touba, the coldest month, corresponding to January. The rich weather lore associated with the Coptic calendar has kept it in use throughout Egypt by both Copts and Muslims.
*5Meaning morning and light.
*6A town about twenty-five kilometers south of Cairo. With its warm, dry climate and mineral springs, it was once a famous spa.
*7A public garden at Helwan decorated with Japanese statues and laid out in Japanese style.
The Search
One
Tears filled his eyes. In spite of his control over his emotions and the repugnance he felt at weeping before these men, he was quite overcome. With moist eyes he looked at the corpse as it was removed from the coffin and carried to the open grave, the dead body seemingly weightless in its white shroud. Oh, how you’ve wasted away, Mother.
The scene faded and he could see only darkness, and the dust stung his nostrils, and the unpleasant stench of the men around him filled the air.
The wailing of the women, mingled with the sting of the dust, utterly disgusted him, and he moved forward, leaning over the open grave, but a hand pulled him back and a voice said, “Remember your God.”
He was repulsed by the touch and cursed the man inwardly. That man’s a pig like the rest of them. But then the awe of the moment roused him with a pang of remorse and he said, “A quarter of a century of love, tenderness, care, all gone, swallowed up by the earth as though it had never existed.”
A wailing heralded the entrance of a group of blind men who surrounded the grave and sat cross-legged. He felt eyes gazing intently upon him and others stealing an occasional glance. He knew what these looks meant and stretched his lean body in stubborn defiance. They must be wondering why he was so strange in his appearance and dress, as though he were not one of them. Why did his mother remove him from his environment, then abandon him?
They have not come here to pay their condolences, but rather to gloat over you.
The grave digger and his assistant appeared from below and proceeded vigorously to fill the grave with loose earth. The blind men were chanting on cue from their leader.
She will be truly lonely. What do these pigs have to say? Reverence, covering their faces like a summer cloud. He became impatient, craving the solitude of his house so he could meditate on his situation. Embarrassing questions will be put to his mother in the darkness of the grave. None of these devils will be of any help to her then. “But your time will come!”
The sounds died down, indicating the end of the ceremony, and the grave digger took a few steps toward him but was stopped by the man standing on his right. “Let me deal with this. I know these people.” He felt revulsion again, but as he realized that it was all over, his sense of loneliness overcame all else. He cast one last look at the grave, feeling at peace with its orderly appearance. Through the bars of the window he could see the creepers growing on the wall of the tomb. His mother, God rest her soul, was fond of the good life, but now all she had left was the grave.
The people moved slowly to offer him their condolences. First the women, who despite their weeping and wailing and mourning dress could not hide the licentious look in their eyes; then the men, drug peddlers, ruffians, hustlers, pimps, all muttering incoherent words of condolence. He looked at them all coldly, knowing full well that the feeling was reciprocated.
On his way home a refreshing breeze fanned him, carrying with it the fragrance of spring. His house on Nabi Danial Street was the scene of a happy, comfortable period in his life. However, the only signs of comfort remaining were the large hall and an abandoned water pipe under his mother’s empty bed.
He sat on the balcony overlooking the intersection of Nabi Danial and Saad Zaghlul streets, smoking a cigarette. His attention was drawn to a flat across the street; foreigners lived there, and preparations were being made for a party. He could see a man and a woman embracing, rather inappropriate for that early time of the day.
He decided that as of today he would know life as it really was. He was lonely, without friends, work, or family, and he was left with nothing but a dreamlike hope. He must as of this moment fend for himself; that was previously his mother’s domain, and he had been free to enjoy life to the fullest. Only yesterday thoughts of death could not have been further from his mind. It was yesterday, too, at about the same time, that the carriage had arrived bringing his mother home. He led her into the house, the house she had prepared for her son. She was weak and haggard, looking thirty years older than her fifty-odd years. That’s how he remembered Basima Omran, as she was when she came home the previous day after having spent five years in jail.
“Your mother is through, Saber.”
Carrying her effortlessly in his arms, he said, “Nonsense, you are in the prime of your youth.”
She lay down on the bed fully clothed, leaned over to look in the mirror, and repeated, “Your mother is through, Saber. Who would believe that this is Basima Omran’s face?”
How true. A round, handsome face, and the pink coloring of a ripening apple. Her laughter that had reverberated through every drawing room in Alexandria now failed to cause the slightest ripple on her large, fat body.
“May God curse sickness and disease.”
Wiping her face, despite the cool weather, she said, “It’s not sickness, but jail. I fell ill in jail. Your mother wasn’t made for jails. They said it was my liver, my blood pressure, then my heart, curse them. Can I ever again be what I was?”
“And even better, with rest, and medicine.”
“And money?”
He winced and said nothing.
“How much have you got left?”
“Very little.”
“I was wise to register the house at Ras el-Tin in your name; otherwise they would have taken that, too.”
“But I sold it when I ran out of money. I told you at the time.”
She groaned and placed her hand on her forehead. “Oh, my head, I wish you hadn’t sold the house. You had a lot of money; I wanted you to lead the good life, to live like the aristocracy. I wanted to leave you a fortune, but…”
“Everything was lost in one stroke.”
“Yes, may God forgive them, a mean revenge from a mean man, a man who enjoyed my wealth, then dropped me for a worthless slut. Suddenly he remembered the call of duty, law, and honor and discarded me, the bastard. I spat on him in court.”
She asked for a cigarette; he lit one for her, saying, “It’s better that you don’t smoke now. Did you smoke in there?”
“Cigarettes, hashish, opium, but I always worried about you.” She drew on the cigarette breathlessly, wiped her damp face and neck, and said, “What about your future, my boy?”
“How should I know? There’s nothing for me to do but become a ruffian, a hustler or a pimp.”
“You?”
“I know, you taught me a better life, but I’m afraid that won’t do me any good.”
“You weren’t made for that kind of life.”
“What else can I do in this world?” Then with sudden rage he exclaimed, “How my enemies gloated when you were away.”
“Saber. Avoid anger. It’s anger that sent me to jail; it would have been easier to appease that scoundrel who betrayed me.”
“Everywhere I find people I’d like to crush.”
“Let them say what they want, but don’t use your fists.”
Clenching his hands, he growled, “If it weren’t for these fists I’d have been humiliated everywhere I went; no one dared mention a word about you when you were in jail.”
She blew out the smoke angrily and said, “Your mother is far more honorable than their mothers. I mean it. They don’t know, but if it weren’t for their mothers my business would have floundered!”
Saber smiled, in spite of the oppressive atmosphere. His mother continued: “They’re very clever at fooling people with their appearance, cars, clothes, expensive cigarettes. Well-spoken, smelling good, but I know them as they really are. I know them in the bedroom, naked except for their defects. I have endless stories about them, those dirty, sly bastards. Before the trial, many of them contacted me and urged me with great persistence not to mention their names at the trial, and in return they promised me freedom. Such people have no right to speak ill of your mother, for she is far more honorable than their mothers, wives, and daughters. Believe me, if it weren’t for them I would be out of business.”
The smile returned to his lips.
“Where have those laughing, carefree days gone?” She sighed. “I loved you with all my heart; everything I had was at your disposal. I let you live here in this lovely house far from my world. If I ever wronged you it was unknowingly. Your looks and elegance are unequaled, but you must avoid losing your temper or worry about what’s happened to me.” Her sadness was contagious.
He said softly, “Everything will be just as it was.”
“As it was…I’m finished. The Basima of days long ago will never return; my health would not permit it, and neither would the police.”
He looked at the floor. “Very little of the price of the house is left.”
“What is there to do? You must maintain the standard of living I have accustomed you to.”
“I’ve never known you to lose hope before.”
“Only this once.”
“Then I must either work or kill.”
She put out her cigarette and closed her eyes as if trying to concentrate on a single idea.
“There must be a way out,” continued Saber.
“Yes, I’ve given the matter much thought in jail.”
For the first time his confidence in his mother was shaken.
“Yes,” she continued, “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I am now convinced that I have no right to keep you here, since it is no longer good for you.”
He looked at her, a questioning glance in his dark eyes.
Then with a tone of defeat she whispered, “You don’t understand. The government took you away from me at the same time that they confiscated my wealth. I don’t have the right to own you either. I knew that the day they sentenced me.” She was silent for a while, utter despair on her face. “Saber, this means that you must leave me,” she said.
“Where to?” he asked resentfully.
“To your father,” she replied in a barely audible voice.
He raised his eyebrows in bewilderment and cried, “My father…”
She nodded.
“But he’s dead. You told me he died before I was born.”
“I told you so. But it wasn’t true.”
“My father, alive…Incredible…My father…alive.”
She looked at him with sudden disdain as he continued: “My father alive…Why did you hide this from me?”
“Yes, the hour of reckoning has come.” She sighed.
“No, no. But I’ve got a right to know.”
“What father could have done for you all that I’ve done, your happiness…?”
“I don’t deny this at all…”
“Then don’t reproach me and start searching for him.”
“Searching?”
“Yes. I’m talking about a man whom I married thirty years ago, and now I don’t know anything about him.”
In a calmer vein but still bewildered, he asked, “Mother, what does all this mean?”
&nb
“But he might be dead.”
“Or alive.”
“Must I waste my life, then, looking for someone I’m not even sure exists?”
“You’ll never be sure unless you find out. Anyway, it’s better than staying as you are with no work and no hope.”
“It’s a very strange and unenviable situation!”
“Your only alternative is to become a hustler, a crook, a pimp, or a murderer. So you must do what must be done.”
“How can I find him?”
She sighed, and an even greater sadness fell upon her. “His name is on your birth certificate, Sayed Sayed el-Reheimy.” Her eyes grew misty as she continued: “He fell in love with me thirty years ago. That was in Cairo.”
“Cairo…Then he’s not even in Alexandria.”
“I know that your real problem will be to find him.”
“Why didn’t he try to find me?”
“He doesn’t know about you.”
A look of resentment and indignation crept into his eyes. “Wait,” she said, “don’t look at me like that. Listen to the rest of it. He is a man of means in every sense of the word. At the time he was a student, but even then he had considerable means and prestige.”
He looked at her with increasing interest but somewhat distantly.
“He loved me. I was a beautiful, lost girl. He kept me secretly, in a golden cage.”
“He married you?”
“Yes. I still have the marriage certificate.”
“He divorced you?”
She sighed, “I ran away.”
“You ran away?”
“I ran away after some years. I was pregnant. I ran away with a man from the gutter.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“Now you are going to blame me for your problem.”
“I’m not blaming you for anything. But didn’t he look for you?”
“I don’t know. I ran away to Alexandria and never heard any more about him. Many times I expected to see him in one of my establishments, but I never set eyes on him again.”