Respected Sir, Wedding Song, the Search by Naguib Mahfouz
Eleven
His Excellency the Director General
Sir,
I have the honor to advise Your Excellency that as an external student I have, this year, obtained the degree of Bachelor of Laws, seeking to acquire more knowledge and to perfect the tools necessary for a government employee. All along, Your Excellency’s genius has been my inspiration under the protection of His Majesty the King, God save him.
Please take note and authorize the enclosed certificate to be kept in my record of service.
I am, sir, with the highest respect,
Your obedient servant
Othman Bayyumi
Archives Clerk
(Incoming Mail)
He had achieved a brilliant record among external candidates. His note addressed to His Excellency would take its splendid course and proclaim to the world his superiority. It would first go to his immediate senior, Sa‘fan Basyuni, to authorize its submission to His Honor the Director of Administration, Hamza al-Suwayfi. That meant it would first be recorded in the Archives’ register of outgoing mail and then recorded again in the department’s register of incoming mail. This done, it would be taken to Hamza al-Suwayfi to approve its submission to His Excellency the Director General. Thereupon it would be recorded in the department’s register of outgoing mail and then in the register of incoming mail in the Director General’s office. Then His Excellency the Director General would read it. He would take it in with his eyes, absorb it in his mind, and maybe it would move him. Then he would sign it and pass it to the Personnel Office for disposal. Whereupon it would be recorded in the register of outgoing mail at the office of the Director General and then in the register of incoming mail in the Personnel Office. Thus action would be taken and a copy would be sent to Archives, where the letter was first issued, for retention in his service record. In this way the astronomical orbit would be completed and those who did not know would know.
He was drunk with happiness for a day. But days went by. What then? Would everything be swallowed up in silence? Nothing happened. The sacred fire burned in his heart. The shrine of al-Husayn bore witness to his prolonged prayers. The path stretched ahead without a single flicker of light. He had finished his studies but his quest for culture never ceased. It satisfied his yearning for knowledge, refining his spiritual qualifications for the position he was one day, by the grace of God, going to fill. It also fortified him in his long and bitter struggle in the jungle of officialdom where everyone in power claimed sacrificial offerings from him. He did not possess the magic of wealth, nor did he enjoy the privileges which belong to a great family. No political power was behind him. Nor was he prepared to play the part of a clown, a servant, or a pimp. He was one of the wretched people who had to arm themselves with every weapon available, seize every chance, rely on God and seek His eternal wisdom which ordained that man should fall on earth in order to rise again, through sweat and blood, to heaven.
With the passage of time in its eternal course a post in grade seven became vacant in the Archives Section when its occupant was transferred to another ministry. Sa‘fan Basyuni said to him, “I’ve recommended you for the vacant post. Nobody in Archives deserves it more than you do.”
He shook his hand gratefully and felt he wanted to kiss him.
The old man spoke again: “You’ve spent seven years in grade eight during which you became a Bachelor of Laws and showed beyond doubt unmatched efficiency.” The man laughed, revealing his black teeth with gaps in between, and went on: “It will be yours for sure. People with connections wouldn’t be interested in a post at an office inhabited by snakes and insects.”
Waiting was long and days went by. Seven years I have spent in one grade, he told himself; at this rate I will need sixty-four years to achieve my ambition. He had not seen the Director General, who had kindled the sacred flame in his heart, since the day he had stood in audience before him among the new appointees. It was his great joy to stand in a corner of the square and watch his procession as he left the ministry with the pomp and circumstance of royalty. That was the goal, the meaning and glory of life.
Work intensified in the department during the preparation of the budget. The Director of Administration needed additional officers from his subordinate sections and Othman was seconded from the Archives. This pleased him and he thought his chance had come. He braced himself for the task with great eagerness. He worked with the auditors and also with the deputy directors. Moreover, he attended meetings with the Director of Administration himself. It was like a volcanic eruption—as if he had just been waiting for the chance ever since his heart had taken fire with sacred ambition. He did not hesitate to place himself at the disposal of his seniors from early morning until midnight. In conditions so critical and delicate the administration was oblivious to everything save true competence. The budget was a serious business connected with the Director General, the Under Secretary of State, the Minister, the Cabinet, the Parliament, and the press. In those busy strenuous days nepotism stood no chance; rather, natural selection prevailed, the competent came to the forefront, and personal ability was recognized, though not, perhaps, rewarded. Othman attracted attention and won full confidence. His extraordinary capacity for work was evident and so was his knowledge of laws and regulations. As if he had not achieved enough success, he volunteered in secret to draft the budget statement which was normally written by the Director of Administration himself. On one occasion he had a chance to see the Director on his own on some business. When he had shown him his papers, he said with great deference, “Director, allow me to present to you some notes I took during work. They may be of some use in the editing of the budget statement.”
Hamza al-Suwayfi did not seem to take him seriously. “You are an excellent young man as everyone says…” he said kindly.
“I do not deserve the compliment, sir.”
“By the way, congratulations! Your promotion to grade seven has been approved today.”
This was Othman’s moment of triumph. “It’s thanks to you and your help,” he said gratefully.
“Congratulations!” the Director said, smiling. “But as for the budget statement, that’s a different matter.”
“Forgive me, sir,” said Othman apologetically. “I wouldn’t dare to handle the budget statement itself. It’s just that I made some notes during work. They’re the notes of a hard worker who has studied law and finance and only wished to be of some service to you when you set about composing the real statement.”
The man took the notes and started to read them while Othman watched attentively. He found the work absorbing. That was obvious. At last he said with an air of superficial calm, “Your style is good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It seems you are an excellent reader.”
“I believe so, sir.”
“What do you read?”
“Literature, biographies of great men, English and French.”
“Can you do translation?”
“I spend my spare time perusing dictionaries.”
Hamza al-Suwayfi laughed and said, “Splendid! Good luck to you!”
He gave him permission to leave and kept the notes. Othman walked out of the room drunk with happiness, convinced that earning the confidence of the Director as he had just done was more valuable than the grade seven itself.
When the draft budget was printed several months later Othman anxiously read the preamble—and there was the passage he had written with his own hand, apart from a slight alteration of absolutely no consequence. He was thrilled, full to the brim with faith in himself and his future. He was wise enough, though, not to divulge the secret to anybody.
It was not long before a decision was made to transfer him from Archives to the Budget Department. That night he stood behind the window in his room and gazed down the alley sunk in darkness. He lifted his eyes to the sky and the wakeful stars. They looked motionless. But there was nothing static in the universe. He thought God had create
Twelve
“I’m sorry at your leaving the Archives Section and happy for your sake, in equal degrees,” said Sa‘fan Basyuni.
In the emotional atmosphere Othman’s heart melted with momentary sincerity. Tears came to his eyes as he murmured, “I will never forget you, Mr. Basyuni, and I’ll never forget the time I spent in Archives.”
“Yet I’m happy because you are.”
Othman sighed and said, “Happiness is very short-lived, Mr. Basyuni.”
Sa‘fan did not understand his remark but Othman lived it. He carried time on his back moment by moment and suffered patience drop by drop. He soon forgot that he was promoted to grade seven or that he worked in the Budget Department. He worked at the ministry like a man possessed, and in his tiny room he delved into more knowledge. Occasionally he would tell himself apprehensively that life flitted by, youth flitted by, and that the river of time flowed on and would not rest…
He was still at the beginning of the path. His frugality increased with time and his attachment to his primitive house grew stronger. Money was a safeguard, he felt; and, if need be, it could be a dowry for the bride of his dreams. The bride of his dreams who would open closed doors and entice the treasure of the future out of its hiding place. Officials had a whole lore of wise sayings and proverbs on the subject. The right bride would be either the reward of glory achieved early or the key to glory that otherwise could hardly be achieved at all. The path seemed long and difficult and he needed succor. Rumor had it that His Excellency the Director General reached his unique position when he was fairly young thanks to politics and family connections and that as a result he married a girl of ineffable beauty from a highly respected family.
It was also rumored that the First Deputy Director of the department was promoted because of his wife, or more correctly his wife’s family.
Othman had equipped himself with every possible weapon. Nobody could blame him, then, if he sought the support of a wellborn bride; otherwise how was he to stand against the ruthless current of time? So he started to do translations for newspapers and magazines to earn more money and build up his savings. In this too he was by no means unsuccessful, but he did not spend a single piastre more to alleviate the harshness of his life. Of all the fun in the world he knew only one thing: his weekly visit to Qadriyya in the lane and that hellish glass of wine at half a piastre.
Once she said to him, “You never change this suit. You wear it summer and winter. I’ve known it for years just as I’ve known you.”
He frowned and said nothing.
“Don’t be cross! I like a good laugh.”
“Have you counted the money I have given to you over the past years?” he said to her naively.
“I once had a crush on a man,” she retorted sardonically, “and he stole two hundred pounds from me. Do you know what two hundred pounds means?”
At the thought of such a disaster he prayed to God for protection from the countless afflictions of life.
“And what did you do?” he asked her.
“Nothing. God keeps us in good health. That’s what matters.”
He told himself there was no doubt that she was mad and that was why she was a whore. But she was the only recreation in his rigorous life and she gave him comfort of sorts. Sometimes he yearned for real love and its charms which gave life a different savor. He would remember Sayyida and the steps of the forlorn fountain and the desert, but in the end he would surrender to the harsh jests of life, resting content with himself, despite the torment in his soul, for having chosen the arduous path attended by the blessing of God and His lofty glory.
One night Qadriyya said to him, “Why don’t the two of us go on a picnic on Friday morning?”
He was astonished and said, “I steal my way to you in the dark like a thief…”
“What are you afraid of?”
What could he say? She understood nothing. “It wouldn’t be right if anyone saw me…” he replied in a tone of apology.
“Are you committing a crime?”
“The people…”
“You are the bull who carries the earth on its horns…” she said satirically.
He was a godly and righteous man with a good reputation to take proper care of.
“You could keep me all to yourself for a whole night,” she said seductively. “We could make an arrangement…”
“And the cost?” he said warily.
“Fifty piastres.”
He contemplated the idea with concern. It would bring him, despite the terrible price, real consolation. And he needed consolation.
“A good idea,” he said. “Let it be once a month.”
“Would once a month be enough for you?”
“I might come more often, but in the normal way.”
He admitted he could not live without her. She was his age, but she appeared insensible to time and the effect it was rapidly making on her. She lived without love and without glory as if, in a kind of fury, she had made a pact with the devil. And how it galled him when she once confessed to him that she had taken part in a demonstration.
“A demonstration!” he shouted angrily.
“What’s the matter? Yes. A demonstration…Even this back street felt patriotic once…”
He told himself that insanity was more widespread than he had reckoned. Political interests exasperated and amazed him. Yet he was determined not to pay attention to them. He believed that man had only one path along which he had to trek without flinching and all alone, taking no part in politics and demonstrations, that only a solitary man could be aware of God and what He wished him to do in this life, and that man’s glory was fulfilled in his muddled but conscious effort to distinguish good and evil and in resisting death until the last moment.
Thirteen
One day Othman came across an advertisement of some interest. It had been put out by his ministry to fill a vacancy for a translator with a knowledge of both English and French at a salary of thirty-five pounds per month. A date was announced for a competition. He entered the competition without hesitation and without giving it much thought. It so happened that he won it, and this increased his self-confidence and the pride he took in his own talents. He was called to see Hamza al-Suwayfi in his office (the new appointment was under his direct supervision).
“I congratulate you on your success. It shows how versatile you are,” he said.
Othman thanked him with his usual politeness.
“But that’s a post with a fixed salary,” the man said. “If you take it, you will be excluded from the ordinary promotion scale. Have you thought about that?”
He had not in fact realized this and soon his enthusiasm for the job’s relatively high salary subsided.
“Actually I do not wish to withdraw from the ordinary scale…” he said.
“That means we should appoint the runner-up.”
Othman thought of a good idea and said, “Wouldn’t it be possible to have me promoted to grade six, add the translation work to my responsibilities, and thus save a considerable sum in the budget?”
The Director of Administration thought for a long while and then said, “The question must be raised with the Personnel Office and the Legal Department.”
“Very well, sir.”
Hamza laughed and said, “You are ambitious as well as wise. I hope your suggestion will be accepted.”
His promotion to grade six was settled at a monthly salary of twenty-five pounds. And though he had to sacrifice ten pounds a month, still he earned a promotion that otherwise he would not have reached for years, quite apart from the special importance attached to him because of his dual job. As usual, he enjoyed a brief spell of happiness. His acquaintance with happiness was ephemeral, like chance encounters on the road. He went back to measuring t
Sa‘fan Basyuni embraced him and said, “You are making marvelous leaps ahead, my son…”
“But days are swifter than a fleeting thought,” he said wistfully.
“They are indeed. Heaven protect you from their evil…”
Othman gazed at his wrinkled face and said, “Tell me about the ambitions you had when you were young, would you?”
“Me? God be praised! The position of Head of Archives was greater than anything I dreamed of.”
“Didn’t you aspire to become Director General?”
The old man broke into a fit of laughter until tears came to his eyes. “Common people like us cannot aim at anything beyond being the head of a section,” he said.
He was wrong. What he said was true of reaching the position of Minister or Under Secretary of State, but to become a Director General was not impossible for ordinary people. It was their ultimate aspiration, particularly for those special cases who prepared themselves for that exalted glory. But days went by incessantly and stealthily. And the position of Director General would be of no avail if it were not held long enough for it to be enjoyed, for life to be appreciated under it, and for the most sublime of services to be rendered in its name to the sacred apparatus called the government.
When was he going to fulfill the requirements of his faith? Before achieving his life’s ambition or after? He must have a family and father children or else he would be damned. Either the bride that exalts a man to glory or the glory that attracts a dazzling bride. Under the intensity of his anguish, he sometimes craved for tranquillity and leisure as he brooded over the hard struggle which gave life its sole meaning and sacred agony.