The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail by Naguib Mahfouz
“Don’t you think I’m always useful?”
“Always. And you were fantastic, too. Why don’t you go on the stage?”
“In the beginning I was really scared.”
“But later?”
“I hope I was convincing, so he won’t suspect me.”
“He was so out of his mind with fear he wasn’t capable of suspecting anything.”
“Why do you need a gun and a car?” she asked, putting her head close to his.
“They’re the tools of the trade.”
“Heaven! When did you get out of jail?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“And you’re already thinking of doing that again?”
“Have you ever found it easy to change your job?”
Staring ahead at the dark road, visible only in the car’s headlights, Nur made no reply. At the turn, the hill of the Muqattam loomed nearer, like a chunk of the night more solid than the rest.
“Do you realize how sad I was,” she said softly, “when I heard you’d been sent up?”
“No. How sad?”
“When will you stop being sarcastic?” She sounded a little annoyed.
“But I’m dead serious. And absolutely certain of the sincerity of your affection.”
“You have no heart.”
“They’ve got it locked up in prison, according to regulations!”
“You were heartless long before you ever went to jail.”
Why does she harp on the subject of affection? She should talk to that treacherous woman, and the dogs, and the little girl who rejected me. “One day we’ll succeed in finding it,” he said.
“Where will you stay tonight? Does your wife know where you are?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you going home, then?”
“I don’t think so. Not tonight, in any case.”
“Come to my place.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes, in Sharia Najm al-Din beyond the cemetery at Bab el-Nasr.”
“Number?”
“There’s only one house on the street; it’s over a sackcloth store and right behind it is the cemetery.”
“What a great location!” Said laughed.
Nur laughed, too. “No one knows me there and no one’s ever visited me. You’ll find it on the top floor.” She waited for his reply, but he was busy watching the road, which began to narrow between the hill and the houses that came after Sheikh Ali al-Junaydi’s place. At the top of Sharia Darrasa he stopped the car and turned toward her.
“This is a good place for you to get out.”
“Won’t you come with me?”
“I’ll come to you later on.”
“But where are you going at this hour of night?”
“You go straight to the police station now. Tell them exactly what happened as if you had nothing to do with me and give them a description of a person completely different from me. Say he’s fat, fair-skinned, and has an old scar on his right cheek. Tell them I kidnapped you, robbed you, and raped you.”
“Raped me?”
“In the desert at Zinhum,” he went on, ignoring her exclamation, “and say I threw you out of the car and drove away.”
“Are you really coming to see me?”
“Yes, that’s a solemn promise. Will you be able to act as well in the police station as you did in the car?”
“I hope so.”
“Goodbye, then.” And he drove away.
SEVEN
To kill them both—Nabawiyya and Ilish—at the same time would be a triumph. Even better would be to settle with Rauf Ilwan, too, then escape, go abroad if possible. But who’ll look after Sana? The thorn in my side. You always act impulsively, Said, without thinking, but you mustn’t rush this time; you must wait until you’ve arranged things, then swoop like an eagle. But there’s no point in delay either: you’re a hunted man—you became a hunted man as soon as they knew you were coming out—and now, after the car incident, the search will be intensified. Only a few pounds in the wallet of the factory owner’s son—another stroke of bad luck. If you don’t strike soon everything will collapse. Who’ll look after Sana, though? That thorn again. She rejected me but I still love her. Should I spare your unfaithful mother for your sake, then? I must find the answer right away.
He was hovering on foot in the pitch-darkness surrounding the house at the crossroads where two lanes met in Imam Way. The car was parked at the top of the road, back toward the Citadel square. Shops were closed, the road was deserted, and no one seemed to be looking for him: at such an hour every creature took shelter, blind and unsuspecting, in his hole. Said could easily have taken further precautions, but he was not going to be diverted from his purpose, even if it meant Sana’s having to live alone all her life. For treachery, Mr. Rauf, is an abomination.
He looked up at the windows of the house, his hand clutching the revolver in his pocket. Treachery is abominable, Ilish, and for the living to enjoy life it is imperative that criminal and vicious elements be eradicated. Keeping close to the wall, he approached the door, then entered the house and cautiously climbed the pitch-dark stairs, passing the first floor, then the second to the third. Right. And there was the flat, the door, snugly closed on the most rotten intentions and desires. If he knocked, who would answer? Would it be Nabawiyya? Was the police detective perhaps lurking somewhere? There was hellfire for them both even if he had to break into the flat. He must act at once. It was not right that Ilish Sidra should stay alive for even one day while Said Mahran was a free man. You’ll get away without a scratch, just as easily as you have scores of times: you can scale an apartment building in seconds, jump unhurt from a third-floor window—even fly if you wish!
It seems you must knock on the door. But knocking might arouse suspicion, especially at this hour. Nabawiyya would fill the world with her screams, and bring some cowardly fools. That detective, too. So you’d better break the little glass pane in the door.
He’d had the idea in the car on the way here and now he came back to it. He drew his gun and gave the glass one blow through the twisted bars that protected it. As the glass broke and the pieces scattered, it made a noise like a choked-off scream in the silent night. He flattened himself against the wall, next to the door and waited, his heart beating fast and his eyes peering into the darkness of the entrance hall, where the gun was pointed. A man’s voice, which he could recognize as Ilish Sidra’s despite the throbbing noise in his temples, said, “Who’s there?” and a door to the left opened, giving a faint light by which he could just make out the figure of a man approaching cautiously. Said pressed the trigger and the gun roared like a demon in the night. The man cried out and began to fall, but another bullet struck him even before he hit the floor, where he lay like a sack. A woman shrieked for help—Nabawiyya’s voice. “Your turn will come! There’s no escape from me! I’m the devil himself!” he shouted as he turned to escape, leaping down the stairs so recklessly that he reached the bottom in seconds, where he paused briefly to listen, then slipped out. Once outside he walked away calmly, keeping close to the wall, leaving behind him the sounds of windows opening and voices questioning and vague cries whose words he could not make out. When he reached the place at the top of the road where he’d parked the car, and had pulled open the door to get in, he spotted a policeman running from the square toward Imam Way. Ducking down, he hid on the floor of the car as the policeman ran on past toward the screaming, remaining still until the footsteps sounded far enough away, then he sat up behind the steering wheel and sped off. At the square he slowed down to a normal speed, the din still haunting his senses and settling at last within his nerves. He felt stunned. Confusion pervaded his whole being and he was only half aware of what he did as he drove on. A murderer! But there’s still Rauf Ilwan, the high-class traitor, really much more important and dangerous than Ilish Sidra. A murderer! You are now one of those who commit murder; you have a new identity now and a new destiny! You
Your turn will come, Nabawiyya. There’s no escape from me. I’m the devil himself. I’ve granted you life, thanks to Sana, but I’ve enclosed you in a punishment greater than death; fear of death, the unrelenting terror. As long as I live you’ll never enjoy the taste of peace.
He came down Sharia Muhammad Ali in a stupor, without a thought to where he was going. Many people would now have a murderer on their minds. The murderer must hide. He must take care to avoid the rope and the gallows. You must never have the executioner asking what your last wish is, Said! Oh no. The government must be made to ask you this question, but on some better occasion!
When he returned to full awareness he found he’d covered the last stretch of Sharia al-Gaysh and was speeding toward Abbasiyya. Alarmed to find himself unexpectedly returning to a place of danger, he doubled his speed and in a few minutes reached Manshiyyat al-Bakri, where he stopped at the first street branching from the main road, quietly abandoned the car, and walked away without looking left or right, slowly, as if exercising his legs. He felt numbness, then some sort of pain, as if in reaction to the great nervous effort he had made. Nowhere is safe for you now. Or ever after. And Nur? It would be risky to go to her place tonight, of all nights, what with the investigations and suspicions that are bound to ensue. Darkness must extend from now on to all eternity.
EIGHT
He pushed the Sheikh’s door, met no resistance, entered, closed it behind him, and found himself in the open courtyard where the palm tree towered, as if stretched upward into space as high as the watchful stars. What a superb place for hiding, he thought. The Sheikh’s room was open at night, just as it was by day. There it stood, pitch-black, as if waiting for his return, and he walked toward it quietly. He heard the voice muttering but could only distinguish the word “Allah,” “God!” It went on muttering as if the Sheikh were unaware or perhaps reluctant to acknowledge his presence.
Said withdrew into a corner at the left of the room close to his pile of books and flung himself down on the rush mat, still in his suit and shoes and carrying his revolver. He stretched out his legs, supporting his trunk on the palms of his hands, his head falling back in exhaustion. His head felt like a beehive, but there was nothing he could do.
You wish to recall the sound of the bullet and the screams of Nabawiyya, feeling happy again that you did not hear Sana scream. You’d better greet the Sheikh, but your voice is too weak to say “Peace be upon you!” There’s this feeling of helplessness, as if you were drowning. And you thought you were going to sleep like a log as soon as your skin touched the floor!
How the righteous and God-fearing would have shuddered, turned away from him in fright—until recitation of the name of God had made them less particular, less hard of heart. When would this strange man go to sleep? But the strange old man now raised his voice and began to sing: “In my view, passion is nothing but ingratitude unless it issues from my witnesses.” And in a voice that seemed to fill the room, he said, “The eyes of their hearts are open, but those in their heads are closed!” Said smiled in spite of himself. So that’s why he is not aware of my presence. But then I, too, am not fully aware of my own self.
The call to the dawn prayers rose above the quiet waves of the night. It reminded him of a night he’d once spent sleepless until the same call to the dawn prayers, excited over some special joy promised for the following day. On that occasion, he’d got up as soon as he heard the call, happy at release from a night of torment, had looked out of the window at the blue dawn and the smiling sunrise, and had rubbed his hands in anticipation of whatever it was he’d been about to enjoy, something he had since completely forgotten. And therefore he loved the dawn, which he associated with the singing of the prayer call, the deep blue sky, the smile of the approaching sunrise, and that unremembered joy.
It was dawn now, but his exhaustion was so great he could not move, not even to shift his revolver. The Sheikh rose to perform his prayers. Showing no awareness of Said’s presence, he lit the oil lamp, spread out the prayer mat, took up his position on it, then suddenly asked, “Aren’t you going to perform the dawn prayers?”
Said was so tired he was incapable of giving an answer, and no sooner had the Sheikh begun his prayers than he dropped off to sleep.
He dreamt that he was in jail, being whipped despite his good conduct, screaming shamelessly, but not offering any resistance. They gave him milk to drink. Suddenly he saw little Sana lashing Rauf Ilwan with a whip at the bottom of a staircase. He heard the sound of a Koranic recitation and had the impression that someone had died, but then he found himself, a wanted man, somehow involved in a car chase! The car he was driving was incapable of speed—there was something wrong with its engine—and he had to begin shooting in every direction. Suddenly, Rauf Ilwan appeared from the radio in the dashboard, grabbed his wrist before Said was able to kill him, and tightened his grip so mercilessly that he was able to snatch the revolver. At this point Said Mahran said to him, “Kill me if you wish, but my daughter is innocent. It wasn’t she who whipped you at the bottom of the staircase. It was her mother, Nabawiyya, at the instigation of Ilish Sidra.” Escaping his pursuers, Said then slipped into the circle of Sufi chanters gathered around Sheikh al-Junaydi, but the Sheikh denied him. “Who are you?” he asked. “How did you come to be with us?” He told him he was Said Mahran, son of Amm Mahran, his old disciple, and reminded him of the old days, but the Sheikh demanded his identity card. Said was surprised and objected that a Sufi disciple didn’t need an identity card, that in the eyes of the mystical order the righteous and the sinner were alike. When the Sheikh replied that he did not like the righteous and wanted to see Said’s identity card to make sure that Said was really a sinner, Said handed him the revolver, explaining that every missing bullet meant a murder, but the Sheikh insisted on seeing his card; the government instructions, he said, were stringent on this point. Said was astounded: why did the government interfere with the affairs of the order? he asked. The Sheikh informed him that it had all resulted from a suggestion by their great authority Rauf Ilwan, who had been nominated for the post of Supreme Sheikh. Stunned with amazement for the third time, Said protested that Rauf was nothing but a traitor who had only criminal thoughts, and the Sheikh retorted that that was why he’d been recommended for this responsible position. He added that Rauf had promised to offer a new exegesis of the Holy Koran, giving all possible interpretations, so as to benefit each man according to his purchasing power; the money this beneficent move would bring in would be invested in setting up clubs for shooting, hunting, and committing suicide. Said declared that he was prepared to act as treasurer for the new Exegesis Administration and that Rauf Ilwan would no doubt testify to his integrity as one of his brightest former pupils. At that point the Sheikh intoned the opening chapter of the Koran, lanterns were suspended from the trunk of the palm tree, and a reciter chanted, “Blessed be ye, O people of Egypt, our lord Husayn is now yours.”
When he opened his eyes the whole world looked red, empty and meaningless. The Sheikh sat in repose, everything about him, from his loose garment to his skullcap and beard, a shiny white, and at Said’s first movement the Sheikh turned his gaze on him. Said sat up hurriedly and looked apologetic, assailed by memories that rushed into his mind like roaring flames.
“It is now late afternoon,” said the Sheikh, “and you haven’t had a bite of food.”
Said looked first at the hole in the wall, then at the Sheikh, and muttered absentmindedly, “Late afternoon!”
“Yes. I thought to myself: Let him sleep. God presents His gifts as His will alone decides.”
Said was suddenly troubled. He wondered if anybody had seen him asleep there all day. “I was aware of many people coming in while I was asleep,” he lied.
“You were aware of nothing. But one man brought me my lunch, another came to sweep the place, water the cactus, tend the palm tree, and get the courtyard ready for Go
“What time are they coming?” he said, a little worried.
“At sunset. When did you arrive?”
“At dawn.”
The Sheikh sat silent for a while, stroking his beard, then said, “You are very wretched, my son!”
“Why?” said Said, anxious to know the answer.
“You’ve had a long sleep, but you know no rest. Just like a child laid under the fire of the blazing sun. Your burning heart yearns for shade, yet continues forward under the fire of the sun. Haven’t you learned to walk yet?”
Said rubbed his bloodshot almond-shaped eyes. “It’s a disturbing thought, to be seen asleep by others.”
“The world is unaware of him who is unaware of it,” the Sheikh replied, showing no concern.
Said’s hand passed lightly over the pocket where he kept the revolver. He wondered what the Sheikh would do if he were to point his gun at him. Would his maddening composure be shaken?
“Are you hungry?” the Sheikh asked.
“No.”
“If it is true that man can be poor in God, so is it true man can be rich in Him,” the Sheikh went on, his eyes almost smiling.
If, that is, the first proposition is indeed true! thought Said. “Well then, Master,” he said lightly, “what would you have done if you’d been afflicted with a wife like mine and if your daughter had rejected you as mine has me?”
A look of pity appeared in the old man’s clear eyes. “God’s slave is owned by God alone!”
Cut off your tongue before it betrays you and confesses your crime! You wish to tell him everything. He probably doesn’t need to be told. He may even have seen you fire the gun. And he may be able to see much more than that.
A voice outside the window hawked The Sphinx. Said got up at once, walked to the window, called the newspaper boy, handed him a small coin, and returned with the paper to where he’d been sitting, forgetting all about the Sheikh, his eyes riveted to a huge black headline: “Dastardly Murder in the Citadel Quarter!” He devoured the lines beneath in a flash, not understanding anything. Was this another murder? His own picture was there and so were pictures of Nabawiyya and Ilish Sidra, but who was that bloodstained man? His own life story was staring at him, too, sensational doings blown in every direction like dust in a whirlwind—the story of a man who came out of prison to find his wife married to one of his underlings. But who was the bloodstained man? How had his bullet entered this stranger’s chest? This victim was someone else, and Said was seeing him for the first time in his life. You’d better start reading again.