The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail by Naguib Mahfouz
The man said, “Dear, it’s becoming very dangerous.” The woman replied, “This means you don’t love me.” “But you know very well that I love you.” “You’re speaking reasonably, which means that you no longer love me.” “Can’t you see I’m a grown man with responsibilities?” “Just say you don’t love me anymore.” “We’ll destroy ourselves and our homes.” “Will you stop preaching?” “You have your husband and daughter; I have my wife and children.” “Didn’t I say you don’t love me anymore?” she said. “But I do love you.” “Then don’t remind me of anything but love.”
I left imagining the delicious scandal and laughing at the woman’s daring and the man’s consternation. But they reminded me of an old friend called love. God, what a long time has passed without love! All that is left are mummified memories. How I’d like to sneak into the heart of a lover. As you know, Zeinab has been my only love; but that was more than twenty years ago, and what I remember of that affair are events and situations rather than the feelings and agitations. I remember I told you one day, “Her eyes slay me,” but you never forsook me in my insanity. However, the memory of insanity is not like insanity itself—the feverish thoughts, volcanic heart, and sleepless nights. Agony lifted me to poetic ecstasies. Tears streamed from my eyes and I approached heaven. But these are no more than mummified memories. Here I am struggling to lose weight and I see in dear Zeinab only a statue of family unity and constructive work. Honestly, I’ve lost interest in everything. Let them take the three apartment buildings and the revenues. I won’t claim that the principles which once nearly landed us in jail along with Othman make it easy to accept, for those days of strife are themselves no more than pallid memories. I don’t know what has happened to me or changed me. Rejoice, dear friend, for while I grow healthy in body, I’m approaching an exquisite madness. May you be so lucky.
“Don’t forget to write him about the medicine.”
“I haven’t, dear.”
How sweet you are, Buthayna. Your budding breasts are proof of the world’s good taste. Perhaps I’m an old conservative, for I’ve let your mother take over your instruction about the facts of life. It’s regrettable that you know nothing about life, that I’ve kept you enclosed like a little canary in your school bus. What lies behind your dreamy look? Despite the frankness of our talks, haven’t you withheld certain secrets from me? Are you affected by the scent of these bare bodies, by the flirtations exchanged among the waves? God, let society conform with her thoughts and deeds so that she won’t be exposed to evil. He said to her as she was sitting with her bare legs stretched under his beach chair, “We haven’t had such a good time together before.”
“It’s your fault.”
“I’ve stayed in the office all my life for your sake alone.”
She leaned back on her elbows, exposing her stomach and chest to the sun, which shone in the clear sky while one lonely white cloud floated above the curve of the bay. Her mother said without raising her head from her embroidery, “Tell him that his health is now more important than anything else.”
“More important than the building nationalizations?”
She answered defiantly, “Even than the building nationalizations.”
He remarked factually, “Social conformity is a fine thing.”
She said nothing. A pretty girl strutted in front of them and the glance he caught from her delighted his senses like the scent of jasmine.
“When I return to normal, I’ll have to develop a philosophy of life which allows true happiness.”
“God help us.”
“God wishes us to be concerned about the welfare of all.” He glanced at her teasingly, then said, “But how would God respond to supplication in this case?”
She understood the implication, but withheld comment. He forgot the subject and turned to other thoughts. Although he felt lighter and more energetic, a nagging exasperation remained—the flies, his work, and his wife. One day Buthayna will be preoccupied by someone other than you, as will Jamila, who now builds pyramids in the sand. For God’s sake, what do you want? Why does silence reign amid all the clamor? Why do you have the foreboding of fantastic perils? You hear the distressing sound of links snapping and feel that your footing is shaking so violently that your teeth will fall out. In the end you’ll lose all your weight and float in space. Hold fast to things and regard them carefully, for soon their forms will disappear and no one will heed you. The waves are destroying Jamila’s sand pyramid and the wind blows away the newspapers in which truth is relegated to the obituary sections. The client says to you, “I want to entrust my case to the Master.” How ludicrous! Honorable counselors. All that’s left for us is to work in the national circus.
“Why are you so distracted, dear?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you really all right?”
“I think so.”
“Judging from experience, I think you’re in need of care.”
“We must respect experience.”
“Shall I tell you the cook’s opinion?”
“Does the cook have an opinion?”
“She said that the man who’s satisfied and successful is vulnerable to the evil eye.”
“And you believe that?”
“Of course not, but sometimes confusion drives us to seek any explanation.”
“So all you have to do is consult an exorcist.”
“Sarcasm was not in your nature before.”
He said, smiling, “A little sarcasm doesn’t do any harm.”
“Let’s forget it, dear.”
On their way home, she detained him briefly as the two girls walked ahead. “I have some good news for you.”
He looked at her with secret despair.
“I discovered something unexpected in Buthayna.”
“Other than what you discovered last year?”
“Yes. She’s a poet, Omar.”
He raised his thick eyebrows in surprise.
“I’d noticed her absorption in writing and that she’d tear up what she’d worked on only to start it again. At last she confided to me that she writes poetry, so I laughed and told her….”
Zeinab hesitated, so he asked, “What did you tell her?”
“I told her that you also started out as a poet.”
He frowned and asked, “Didn’t you tell her how I ended up?”
“But it’s lovely for a girl her age to write poetry.”
“It is.”
“You must read her poetry and give her some advice.”
“If my advice had any value it would have benefited me!”
“You’re pleased with the news?”
“Very much so.”
FOUR
His sudden happiness gave way to an agitation, alarming in its intensity, a feeling he had not known for the last twenty years. Buthayna, wearing a printed blouse and brown tapered pants, came at his beckoning to the balcony overlooking the sea.
“I wanted to invite you to watch the sunset with me,” he said as she sat down in front of him.
She seemed on the verge of excusing herself, for, as he knew, this was the time she went out with her mother and sister for a late-afternoon stroll on the Corniche, so he said, “You’ll join them soon. Poets should enjoy the sunset.”
He noticed her cheeks redden, and smiled.
“But…but I’m not a poet!”
“But you write poetry.”
“How do I know it’s poetry?”
“I’ll judge after looking at it.”
“No,” she said, timid and apprehensive.
“There’s no secret between us. I’m proud of you.”
“It’s just silly scribblings.”
“I’ll love even your silly scribblings.”
She lowered her eyes submissively, her long curving eyelashes nearly brushing her cheeks.
“Buthayna,” he said with sudden concern, “tell me why you turned to poetry.”
“I don’t know.”
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Frowning, she made an effort to remember. “The school readings. I enjoyed them very much, Papa.”
“So do many people.”
“I was more strongly affected, I think.”
“Have you read any other poetry?”
“I’ve read some collections.”
“Collections?”
She laughed. “I borrowed them from your library.”
“Really?”
“And I know that you’re a poet, too.”
The remark pained him but he dissimulated gaiety. “No, no, I’m not a poet. It was a childhood pastime.”
“You certainly were a poet. Anyway, I was strongly tempted by poetry.”
You suggest the theater, my friend, but I’m a poet. I find myself caught in a whirlpool from which there’s no escape except through poetry, for poetry is the very aim of my existence. Without it, what would we do with the love which surrounds us like air, the secret feelings which burn us like fire, the universe which oppresses us without mercy? Don’t be supercilious about poetry, my friend.
“Tell me more.”
She continued, regaining her usual courage. “It’s as though I’m searching for tunes in the air.”
“A nice sentiment, Buthayna, and poetry is fine as long as it doesn’t spoil life….”
“What do you mean, Papa?”
“I mean your studies and your future. But it is time to look at your poems.”
She brought him a silver-colored notebook. With love and anxiety he opened the pages, but as he began to read, the year 1935 intervened tauntingly, that year of agony, secret schemes, wild hopes, and dreams of Utopia spurred by Othman’s declaration that he had found the ideal solution. It was evident that his little girl, the bud which had not yet flowered, was in love. Who is this glorious being, whose breath is the clouds, whose mirror is the sun, and for whom the tree branches sway in yearning? Why should we be upset when our children travel the path we once took? What would his father think if he could hear him talking to his granddaughter about love?
“This is really poetry.”
Her eyes shone with joy as she exclaimed, “Really?”
“Lovely poetry.”
“You’re only trying to encourage me, Papa.”
“No, it’s the truth.” Then he asked her, smiling, “But who is he?”
The spark of enthusiasm died down in her eyes and she asked, rather disappointed, “Who?”
“Who is it you’re addressing in these lyrics?” Then he said more forcefully, “Come, there are no secrets between us.”
She answered enigmatically, “No one.”
“It seems I’m no longer the father confidant.”
“I mean it’s not a human being.”
“One of the angels?”
“Nor one of the angels.”
“What is it, then—a dream—a symbol?”
In evident confusion, she replied, “Perhaps it is the final purpose of all things.”
He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and arms and, making a valiant effort to remove any trace of jest or sarcasm from his tone, said seriously, “Then you are enamored of the secret of existence.”
She said nervously, “That’s quite possible, Papa.”
We’re fools to think of ourselves as stranger than others. “And what brought all this about?”
“I don’t know…It’s difficult to say, but your poems first pointed the way.”
Omar laughed mechanically, saying, “A family conspiracy! Your mother knew what you were up to all along and showed you that stuff which you call poetry.”
“But it’s wonderful poetry, and so inspired.”
He laughed loudly, attracting the attention of the organ grinder below him on the Corniche who was filling the air with his jarring tones.
“At last I’ve found an admirer! But it wasn’t poetry, just a feverish delusion. Fortunately I got over it in time.”
“While it makes me ecstatic!”
“So poetry is your beloved.”
“As it is yours.”
It was, but is no longer, and my heart feels the deprivation. Between the stars lie emptiness and darkness and millions of light-years.
“What is your advice, Papa?”
“All I can say is, do as you wish.”
She asked gaily, “When will you take up poetry again?”
“For God’s sake, let me get back to the office first!”
“I’m surprised that you could give it up so easily.”
He said, smiling diffidently, “It was simply a frivolous…”
“But your collection of poems, Papa.”
“I once thought I’d continue.”
“I’m asking what made you stop.”
He smiled sarcastically, but then a sudden desire to be frank prompted him to confess, “No one listened to my songs.”
The silence hurt you, but Mustapha urged, “Perseverance and patience,” and Othman said, “Write for the Revolution and you’ll have thousands of listeners.”
You were beset by privation and oppressed by the silence. Poetry could not sustain you. One day Mustapha announced happily that the Tali’a troupe had accepted his play. The silence became more oppressive. Samson fell asleep before he could destroy the temple.
Buthayna asked, “Do there have to be listeners, Papa?”
He reached over and stroked a lock of her black hair. “Why rescue the secret of existence from silence, only to be greeted by silence?” Then he added gently, “Don’t you want people to listen to your poems?”
“Of course, but I’ll keep on anyway.”
“Fine, you’re braver than your father, that’s all.”
“You can return to poetry if you want.”
“The talent has died completely.”
“I don’t believe it. In my mind you will always be a poet.”
What has poetry to do with this hulking body, with the preoccupation with legal cases, the construction of apartment buildings, and gluttony to the point of illness? Even Mustapha slumped on the couch one day as if he were declining visibly into old age.
“What wasted effort,” he said.
You replied with concern, “But the Tali’a troupe welcomes your plays, and they’re excellent works.”
He gestured with his hand in deprecation. “I have to reconsider my life as you have.”
“You’ve always counseled perseverance and patience.”
He laughed harshly. “You can’t ignore the public.”
“You’d like to start out again as a lawyer?”
“Law died even before art. In fact, the concept of art changed without our realizing it. The era of art has ended, and the art of our age is simply diversion, the only art possible in an age of science. Science has taken over all fields except the circus.”
“Really, we’re all going to pieces, one after the other.”
“Say rather that we’ve grown up, and regard your success in life as an exemplary case. I think that amusement is a splendid objective for the world-weary people of the twentieth century. What we consider real art is only the light coming from a star which died millions of years ago. So we’d better grow up and pay the clowns the respect they deserve.”
“It seems to me that philosophy has destroyed art.”
“Rather science has destroyed both philosophy and art. So let’s amuse ourselves without reserve, with the innocence of children and the intelligence of men—light stories and raucous laughter and nonsensical pictures—and let’s renounce delusions of grandeur, and the exalted throne of science, and be content with popular acclaim and the material rewards.”
That both pleased me and saddened me. I suffered from conflicting emotions and recollected in dismay the one still in prison.
“Dear Baldy” applies the balsam of consolation to your failure with surprising skill. In the future he’ll strive on a lower level for the force you once had. While you, who o
“If science is what you imagine, what are we but intruders on the periphery of life?”
“We’re successful men with a secret burden of sorrow; it’s unwise to open the wounds.”
“We belong, in fact, to a bygone age.”
“For God’s sake, don’t open the wounds.”
“Scientists are strong through their allegiance to the truth, but our strength derives from money which loses its legality day by day.”
“So I say that death represents the one true hope in human life.”
Omar looked gently at his daughter’s green eyes and said, “Buthayna, is it unreasonable to ask you not to give up your scientific studies?”
“No, I won’t, but poetry will still be the most beautiful thing in my life.”
“Let it be. I won’t dispute that. But you can be a poet and at the same time an engineer, for example.”
“You seem to be preoccupied with my future!”
“Of course! I don’t want you to wake up one day to find yourself in the Stone Age while everyone around you is in the age of science.”
“But poetry—”
He interrupted. “I won’t contradict you, dear. My friend Mustapha finds poetry, religion, and philosophy in science, but I won’t argue that position. I’m pleased and proud of you.”
The large red disk of the sun was sinking, its force and vitality absorbed by the unknown. The eye could gaze easily at it now, as at the water. Rosy dunes of clouds pressed around it.
Do you really want to know my secret, Mustapha? In the agony of failure, I sought power, that evil which we’d wanted to abolish. But you already know this secret.
FIVE
In the fading glow of the sun, she looked sedate, even elegant. In spite of her extraordinary rotundity, the exasperating evidence of indulgence, she retained a winsome beauty. Her serious green eyes still had their charm, but they were now the eyes of a stranger. She was the wife of another man, the man of yesterday who hadn’t known listlessness or fatigue, who had forgotten himself. How was she related to this man, the invalid without an illness, who avoided starches and liquor and who scrutinized the humid air for warnings of undefined peril? The two sisters are ahead; Jamila walks along the stone wall of the Corniche while Buthayna, on the street below, leads her by the hand. They are on the road between Glim and Sidi Bishr, where the crowds are a bit thinner. Buthayna attracted many glances and many murmured comments. Although indistinguishable, their meaning was clear enough. Omar smiled to himself. In a few years you’ll be a grandfather, and life will go on, but where to? He watched the last of the sunset in the clear, pallid sky until only a sliver remained on the horizon.