The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail by Naguib Mahfouz
Wasn’t it strange that Ilwan rhymed with Mahran? And that that dog Ilish should grab and wallow in the fruits of my lifetime’s labor?
When a car stopped in front of the villa gate he sprang to his feet. As the porter opened the gate he darted across the road and stood before the car, bending a little so the driver could see him. When the man inside apparently failed to recognize him in the dark, Said roared, “Mr. Rauf, I am Said Mahran.” The man put his head close to the open window of the car and repeated his name, in obvious surprise, his low voice carefully modulated. Said could not read Rauf’s expression, but the tone of voice was encouraging. After a moment of silence and inaction, the car door opened and Said heard him say, “Get in.”
A good beginning, he thought. Rauf Ilwan was the same man he knew, despite the glass-filled office suite and the lovely villa. The car went down a drive that curved like the shape of a violin, toward a flight of steps leading to the main entrance of the house.
“How are you, Said? When did you get out?”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes, I should have come to see you, but I had some things I had to attend to and I needed rest, so I spent the night at Sheikh Ali al-Junaydi’s. Remember him?”
“Sure. Your late father’s Sheikh. I watched his meetings with you lots of times.” They left the car and went into the reception hall.
“They were fun, weren’t they?”
“Yes, and I used to get a big kick out of their singing.”
A servant switched on the chandelier, and Said’s eyes were dazzled by its size, its multitude of upturned bulbs, its stars and crescents. The light that spread throughout the room was caught in mirrors at the corners, reflecting the brilliance. Objets d’art on gilt stands were displayed as if they had been salvaged from the obscurity of history for that sole purpose. The ceiling, he saw, was richly decorated, while all around him comfortable chairs and cushions were casually disposed among vividly patterned carpets. His eyes rested last on the face of Maître Ilwan, now round and full, a face he had loved, whose features he had long ago learned by heart, having gazed at it so often while listening to Rauf speak; and stealing occasional glances at the objets d’art, Said went on examining that face while a servant drew back curtains and opened French windows to the veranda overlooking the garden, letting a breeze heavy with the perfume of blossomy trees flow into the room.
The mixture of light and scent was distracting, but Said observed that Ilwan’s face had become cowlike in its fullness, and that despite his apparent friendliness and courtesy, there was something chilly about him, as well as an unfamiliar and rather disturbing suavity, a quality that could only have come from a touch of blue blood, despite Rauf’s flat nose and heavy jaw. What refuge would be left if this only surviving support also collapsed?
Rauf sat near the French windows to the veranda on a sofa that was arranged with three easy chairs in a square around a luminous pillar adorned with mythological figures. Said sat down, without hesitation and without showing his anxiety.
Ilwan stretched out his long legs. “Did you look for me at the paper?”
“Yes, but I saw it wasn’t a suitable place for us to meet.”
Rauf laughed, showing teeth stained black at the gums. “The office is like a whirlpool, in constant motion. Have you been waiting long here?”
“A lifetime!”
Rauf laughed again. “There was a time no doubt when you were quite familiar with this street?”
“Of course.” Said, too, laughed. “My business transactions with my clients here made their premises unforgettable. The villa of Fadil Hasanayn Pasha, for instance, where my visit netted a thousand pounds, or the one that belongs to the film star Kawakib, where I got a pair of superb diamond earrings.”
The servant came in pushing a trolley laden with a bottle, two glasses, a pretty little violet-colored ice bucket, a dish of apples arranged in a pyramid, plates with hors d’oeuvres, and a silver water jug.
Rauf gestured to the servant to withdraw, filled two glasses himself and offered one to Said, raising the other: “To freedom.” While Said emptied his glass in one gulp, Rauf took a sip and then said, “And how is your daughter? Oh, I forgot to ask you—why did you spend the night at Sheikh Ali’s?”
He doesn’t know what happened, thought Said, but he still remembers my daughter. And he gave Rauf a coldblooded account of his misfortunes.
“So yesterday I paid a visit to al-Sayrafi Lane,” he concluded. “There I found a detective waiting for me, as I’d expected, and my daughter disowned me and screamed in my face.” He helped himself to another whiskey.
“This is a sad story. But your daughter isn’t to blame. She can’t remember you now. Later on she’ll grow to know and love you.”
“I have no faith left in all her sex.”
“That’s how you feel now. But tomorrow, who knows how you’ll feel? You’ll change your opinion of your own accord. That’s the way of the world.”
The telephone rang. Rauf rose, picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. His face began to beam and he carried the telephone outside to the veranda, while Said’s sharp eyes registered everything. It must be a woman. A smile like that, strolling into the dark, could only mean a woman. He wondered if Ilwan was still unmarried. Though they sat there cozily drinking and chatting, Said now sensed that this meeting would be exceedingly difficult to repeat. The feeling was unaccountable, like the whispered premonition of some still undiagnosed cancerous growth, but he trusted it, relying on instinct. A resident now in one of those streets that Said had only visited as a burglar, this man after all, may have felt obliged to welcome him, having actually changed so much that only a shadow of the old self remained. When Said heard Rauf’s sudden laugh resounding on the veranda, he felt even less reassured. Calmly, however, he took an apple and began to munch it, pondering the extent to which his whole life had been no more than the mere acting out of ideas that had come from that man now chuckling into a telephone. What if Rauf should prove to have betrayed those ideas?
He would then have to pay dearly for it. On that score there was not the slightest doubt.
Rauf Ilwan came in from the veranda, replaced the telephone, and sat down looking extremely pleased. “So. Congratulations on your freedom. Being free is precious indeed. It more than makes up for losing anything else, no matter how valuable.” Helping himself to a slice of pastrami, Said nodded in agreement, but without real interest in what had just been said. “And now you’ve come out of prison to find a new world,” Rauf went on, refilling both glasses while Said wolfed down the hors d’oeuvres.
Glancing at his companion, Said caught a look of disgust, quickly covered by a smile. You must be mad to think he was sincere in welcoming you. This is only superficial courtesy—doing the right thing—and will evaporate. Every kind of treachery pales beside this; what a void would then swallow up the entire world!
Rauf stretched his hand to a cigarette box, adorned with Chinese characters, placed in a hollow in the illuminated pillar. “My dear Said,” he said, taking a cigarette, “everything that used to spoil life’s pleasures for us has now completely disappeared.”
“The news astounded us in prison,” Said said, his mouth full of food. “Who could have predicted such things?” He looked at Rauf, smiling. “No class war now?”
“Let there be a truce! Every struggle has its proper field of battle.”
“And this magnificent drawing room,” said Said, looking around him, “is like a parade ground.” He saw a cold look in his companion’s eyes and regretted the words instantly. Why can’t your tongue ever learn to be polite?
“What do you mean?” Rauf’s voice was icy.
“I mean it’s a model of sophisticated taste and—”
“Don’t try to be evasive,” said Rauf with narrowed eyes. “Out with it. I understand you perfectly, I know you better than anybody else.”
Said attempted a disarming laugh, then
“Never forget that I live by the sweat of my brow.”
“I haven’t doubted that for a moment. Please don’t be angry.”
Rauf puffed hard on his cigarette but made no further comment.
Aware that he ought to stop eating, Said said apologetically, “I haven’t quite got over the atmosphere of prison. I need some time to recover my good manners and learn polite conversation. Apart from the fact that my head’s still spinning from that strange meeting, when my own daughter rejected me.”
Rauf’s Mephistophelean eyebrows lifted in what looked like silent forgiveness. When he saw Said’s gaze wander from his face to the food, as if asking permission to resume eating, he said quite calmly, “Help yourself.”
Said attacked the rest of the dishes without hesitation, as if nothing had happened, until he’d wiped them clean. At this point Rauf said, a little quickly, as if he wished to end the meeting, “Things must now change completely. Have you thought about your future?”
Said lit a cigarette. “My past hasn’t yet allowed me to consider the future.”
“It occurs to me that there are more women in the world than men. So you mustn’t let the infidelity of one lone female bother you. As for your daughter, she’ll get to know you and love you one day. The important thing now is to look for a job.”
Said eyed a statue of a Chinese god, a perfect embodiment of dignity and repose. “I learned tailoring in prison.”
“So you want to set up a tailoring shop?” said Rauf with surprise.
“Certainly not,” Said replied quietly.
“What then?”
Said looked at him. “In my whole life I’ve mastered only one trade.”
“You’re going back to burglary?” Rauf seemed almost alarmed.
“It’s most rewarding, as you know.”
“As I know! How the hell do I know?”
“Why are you so angry?” Said gave him a surprised look. “I meant: as you know from my past. Isn’t that so?”
Rauf lowered his eyes as if trying to assess the sincerity of Said’s remark, clearly unable to maintain his bonhomie and looking for a way to end the meeting. “Listen, Said. Things are no longer what they used to be. In the past you were both a thief and my friend, for reasons you well know. Now the situation has changed. If you go back to burglary you’ll be a thief and nothing else.”
Dashed by Rauf’s unaccommodating frankness, Said sprang to his feet. Then he stifled his agitation, sat down again, and said quietly, “All right. Name a job that’s suitable for me.”
“Any job, no matter what. You do the talking. I’ll listen.”
“I would be happy,” Said began, without obvious irony, “to work as a journalist on your paper. I’m a well-educated man and an old disciple of yours. Under your supervision I’ve read countless books, and you often testified to my intelligence.”
Rauf shook his head impatiently, his thick black hair glistening in the brilliant light. “This is no time for joking. You’ve never been a writer, and you got out of jail only yesterday. This fooling around is wasting my time.”
“So I have to choose something menial?”
“No job is menial, as long as it’s honest.”
Said felt utterly reckless. He ran his eyes quickly over the smart drawing room, then said bitterly, “How marvelous it is for the rich to recommend poverty to us.” Rauf’s reaction was to look at his watch.
“I am sure I have taken too much of your time,” Said said quietly.
“Yes,” said Rauf, with all the blank directness of a July sun. “I’m loaded with work!”
“Thanks for your kindness and hospitality and for the supper,” Said said, standing up.
Rauf took out his wallet and handed him two five-pound notes. “Take these to tide you over. Please forgive me for saying I’m overloaded with work. You’ll seldom find me free as I was tonight.”
Said smiled, took the bank notes, shook his hand warmly, and wished him well: “May God increase your good fortune.”
FOUR
So this is the real Rauf Ilwan, the naked reality—a partial corpse not even decently underground. The other Rauf Ilwan has gone, disappeared, like yesterday, like the first day in the history of man—like Nabawiyya’s love or Ilish’s loyalty. I must not be deceived by appearances. His kind words are cunning, his smiles no more than a curl of the lips, his generosity a defensive flick of the fingers, and only a sense of guilt moved him to let me cross the threshold of his house. You made me and now you reject me: Your ideas create their embodiment in my person and then you simply change them, leaving me lost—rootless, worthless, without hope—a betrayal so vile that if the whole Muqattam hill toppled over and buried it, I still would not be satisfied.
I wonder if you ever admit, even to yourself, that you betrayed me. Maybe you’ve deceived yourself as much as you try to deceive others. Hasn’t your conscience bothered you even in the dark? I wish I could penetrate your soul as easily as I’ve penetrated your house, that house of mirrors and objets d’art, but I suppose I’d find nothing but betrayal there: Nabawiyya disguised as Rauf, Rauf disguised as Nabawiyya, or Ilish Sidra in place of both—and betrayal would cry out to me that it was the lowest crime on earth. Their eyes behind my back must have traded anxious looks throbbing with lust, which carried them in a current crawling like death, like a cat creeping on its belly toward a bewildered sparrow. When their chance came, the last remnants of decency and indecision disappeared, so that in a corner of the lane, even in my own house, Ilish Sidra finally said, “I’ll tell the police. We’ll get rid of him,” and the child’s mother was silent—the tongue that so often and so profusely told me, “I love you, the best man in the world,” was silent. And I found myself surrounded by police in Al-Sayrafi Lane—though until then demons themselves with all their wiles had failed to trap me—their kicks and punches raining down on me.
You’re just the same, Rauf—I don’t know which of you is the most treacherous—except that your guilt is greater because of your intelligence and the past association between us: You pushed me into jail, while you leapt free, into that palace of lights and mirrors. You’ve forgotten your wise sayings about palaces and hovels, haven’t you? I will never forget.
At the Abbas Bridge, sitting on a stone bench, he became aware for the first time of where he was.
“It’s best to do it now,” he said in a loud voice, as if addressing the dark, “before he’s had time to get over the shock.” I can’t hold back, he thought. My profession will always be mine, a just and legitimate trade, especially when it’s directed against its own philosopher. There’ll be space enough in the world to hide after I’ve punished the bastards. If I could live without a past, ignoring Nabawiyya, Ilish, and Rauf, I’d be relieved of a great weight, a burden; I’d feel readier to secure an easy life and a lot further from the rope. But unless I settle my account with them, life will have no taste, because I shall not forget the past. For the simple reason that in my mind it’s not a past, but the here and now. Tonight’s adventure will be the best beginning for my program of action. And it’ll be a rich venture indeed.
The Nile flowed in black waves slashed sidelong by arrows of light from the reflected streetlamps along its banks. The silence was soothing and total.
At the approach of dawn, as the stars drew closer to earth, Said rose from his seat, stretched, and began to walk slowly back along the bank toward the place from which he’d come, avoiding the few still-lit lamps, slowing his steps even more when the house came in sight. Examining the street, the terrain, the walls of the big houses as well as the riverbank, his eyes finally came to rest on the sleeping villa, guarded on all sides by trees like ghostly figures, where treachery dozed in a fine unmerited tranquillity. It’s going to be a rich venture, indeed, and one to give an emphatic reply to the treachery of a lifetime.
He crossed the street casually without a movement to either right or left, without looking wary. Then fo
But not a whisper came out of the silence.
Rauf, your pupil is coming, to relieve you of a few worldly goods.
He climbed the hedge nimbly, his expert limbs agile as an ape’s, undeterred by the thick, intertwining branches, the heavy foliage and flowers. Gripping the railings, he heaved his body up over the sharp-pointed spikes, then lowered himself until his legs caught the branches inside the garden. Here he clung for a while regaining his breath, studying the terrain: a jungle of bushes, trees, and dark shadows. I’ll have to climb up to the roof and find a way to get in and down. I have no tools, no flashlight, no good knowledge of the house: Nabawiyya hasn’t been here before me pretending to work as a washerwoman or a maid; she’s busy now with Ilish Sidra.
Scowling in the dark, trying to chase these thoughts from his mind, he dropped lightly to the ground. Crawling up to the villa on all fours, he felt his way along a wall until he found a drainpipe. Then, gripping it like an acrobat, he began to climb toward the roof. Partway up he spotted an open window, just out of reach, and decided to try it. He steered one foot to the window ledge, and shifted his hands, one at a time, to grip a cornice. Finally, when he could stand with his whole weight, he slid inside, finding himself in what he guessed was the kitchen. The dense darkness was disturbing and he groped for the door. The darkness would be even thicker inside, but where else could he find Rauf’s wallet or some of his objets d’art? He had to go on.
Slipping through the door, feeling along the wall with his hands, he had covered a considerable distance, almost deterred by the darkness, when he felt a slight draft touch his face. Wondering where it could come from, he turned a corner and crept along the smooth wall, his arm stretched out, feeling ahead with his fingers. Suddenly they brushed some dangling beads, which rustled slightly as he touched them, making him start. A curtain. He must now be near his goal. He thought of the box of matches in his pocket, but instead of reaching for it he made a quiet little opening for himself in the hanging beads and slipped through, bringing the curtain back into position behind him, slowly, to avoid making any sound. He took one step forward and bumped some object, perhaps a chair, which he edged away from, raising his head to look for a night light. All he could see was a darkness that weighed down upon him like a nightmare. For a moment he thought again of lighting a match.