The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail by Naguib Mahfouz
He remarked, “The ancients used to ask where the sun disappeared to. We no longer question.”
Zeinab looked at the sun for a moment, then said, “How marvelous to have ended the question!”
Rational answers strangle you to provocation. Sensible behavior annoys you unreasonably. How grand it would be if the sea turned violent, drove away those who loitered on the shore, incited the pedestrians on the Corniche to commit unimaginable follies, sent the casino flying above the clouds, and shattered the familiar images forever. So the heart throbs in the brain and the reptiles dance with the birds.
The two girls stopped in front of the San Stefano cinema, then resumed walking. Suddenly Zeinab put her arm through his and whispered imploringly, “Omar, what’s wrong?”
He glanced with a smile at those around him. “So much flirtation!”
“That’s nothing new….What’s wrong?”
He said, intent on ignoring her question, “There’s a lot Buthayna doesn’t know. I was thinking of that when I—”
She interrupted him impatiently. “I know what I’m doing. She’s an unusually sensitive girl, but you’re escaping.”
Your soul longs for escape, the magic key at the bottom of a well.
“I’m escaping?”
“You know what I mean, so confess.”
“To which crime?”
“That you’re no longer yourself.”
How we need a violent storm to wash away this cloying humidity.
“Only in body are you among us. Sometimes I’m so sad I could die.”
“But as you can see, I’m following the regime rigorously.”
“I’m wondering what’s behind this change. Your behavior makes me question it again.”
“But we diagnosed the condition thoroughly.”
“Yes, but is there anything in particular which disturbs you?”
“Nothing.”
“I must believe you.”
“But apparently you don’t, completely.”
“I thought maybe something in your office or at the court had disturbed you. You’re sensitive, but able to hide your feelings well.”
“I went to the doctor only because I couldn’t find a tangible cause.”
“You haven’t told me how it all started.”
“I talked to you so often about that.”
“Only about the results, but how precisely did it start?”
A reckless impulse drives you to confess. “It’s difficult to establish when or how the change began, but I remember meeting with one of the litigants of Soliman Pasha’s estate. The man said, ‘I’m grateful, Counselor. You’ve grasped the details of the situation superbly. Your fame is well deserved. I have great hopes of winning the case.’
“I replied, ‘So do I.’
“He laughed contentedly and I felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of anger. ‘Suppose you win the case today and possess the land only to have it confiscated tomorrow by the government?’ He answered disparagingly, ‘All that matters is that we win the case. Don’t we live our lives knowing that our fate rests with God?’ I had to admit the validity of his argument, but my head began to spin and everything seemed to disappear.”
She glanced at him with surprise, and said, “That was the reason?”
“No, I don’t know an exact reason, but I was undergoing a subtle, persistent change; thus I was agitated unreasonably by the man’s words, words repeated by millions of others every day without any effect.”
“Of course you can only think about death as men of wisdom do.”
“I wonder how wise men regard death.”
“Well, fortunately, that’s known.” She looked at him inquiringly. “And after that you hated work.”
“No…no, I can’t say that. It may have been earlier, or later.”
“I’m so depressed that I can hardly discuss it with you.”
“Are you so concerned about the work?”
“I care only about you.”
A case is postponed, another, then a third. You spend the day glued to your chair, legs stretched under the desk, chain smoking and staring vacantly at the ceiling.
“I’m tired of walking,” she said.
“But generally you walk twice this distance.”
She lowered her eyes. “It’s my turn to confess. I may be pregnant.”
His stomach sank and he yearned more sharply for the magic key of escape. “But,” he murmured.
She said calmly, “Dear, God’s will is stronger than any of our designs.” Then she added, pressing his arm, “And you’ve not been blessed with your crown prince!”
As they walked back home, a coquettish smile played in her eyes. He said to himself that a bit of liquor would dissipate the languor so he could feign the role of lover, as he feigned marriage and health.
He woke up early, after a few hours of sleep, to the thudding of the waves in the dark, silent morning. Zeinab was sound asleep, satiated, her lips parted in a soft, steady snore and her hair disheveled. And you despair. It’s as though you were doomed to thwart yourself. I don’t love her anymore. After long years of love, shared life, and loyal memories, not a grain of love remains. Pray that it’s just a symptom of the disease which will disappear with recovery, but now I don’t love her. This is the most bitter disillusionment. You hear her snoring and feel no sympathy or tenderness. You look at her and only wonder what brought you together, who imposed this damned parody.
“Mustapha, there’s the girl.”
“The one leaving the church?”
“That’s the one. She’s wearing black in mourning for her uncle. How pretty she is.”
“But her religion.”
“I no longer care about those obstacles.”
I told her how pleased I was that she’d condescended to meet me. In the public garden, Omar al-Hamzawi, the lawyer, had introduced himself, while she responded with a barely audible murmur, “Kamelia Fouad.” Dearest, our love is stronger than all else. Nothing can stand in our way. She answered with a sigh, “I don’t know.”
Mustapha laughed at all the commotion, saying, “I’ve known you forever, and you’ve always sought trouble. A tempest at your house, a more violent one at hers. I’m spinning between the two.”
Then what a marvelous attitude he’d had later when, raising his glass of whiskey, he’d said, “Congratulations to both of you. The past is buried, but she’s sacrificed much more than you. Beliefs are apt to tyrannize even those who’ve deserted them. To your health, Zeinab. To yours, Omar.”*
He took you aside and, completely drunk, began to expostulate. “Don’t forget the bad times ahead, but never forget love. Remember that she has no other family in the world now. She’s been cut from the tree, and has no one but you.”
I married a woman of great vitality and charm, a model student of the nuns, refined to the letter. She seemed to be a born businesswoman, with an unflagging zeal for work and a shrewd eye for investment. In her era, you rose from nothing to great eminence and wealth, and in the warmth of her love, you found consolation for wasted effort, for failure, and for poetry.
Still sleeping, she rolled over on her face. Her nightgown slid up, exposing the naked lower half of her body. He slipped from the bed and went out to the balcony, shutting the door behind him. Enveloped by the murky air, he watched the waves racing madly toward the shore and the spray flying against the cabanas. Flocks of clouds had spread across the pale dome of the sky, fogging up the early-morning weather. No feet yet walked the ground. Your spirit was unreceptive and the air did not refresh you. How long will you wait for deliverance? If only he could ask Mustapha about the meaning of the contradictions. He’s a great resource of ideas, even if he only sells popcorn and pumpkin seeds now. Does Zeinab have a role only after work? One of the waves rose to an extraordinary height, shattered in tons of foam, then spread out defeated, giving up the ghost.
Dear God, Zeinab and work are the same. This malady which turns me from work is what turns me from Zei
The first spacemen have arrived, selling microbes, selling lies.
* * *
* Kamelia converted to Islam and changed her name to that of the Prophet Mohammed’s daughter, Zeinab. By marrying Omar, she also cut herself off from her family.
SIX
At the end of August, the family returned to Cairo. The view of Al-Azhar Square on his way to work the first day was upsetting. It remained a depressing thoroughfare, unchanged since his departure. He was warmly welcomed at the office, especially by Mahmoud Fahmi, his assistant, and the files were soon brought out, the postponed cases and those under review. September had its sticky days, but a gentle breeze had arisen and the early mornings were shaded by the suggestions of white clouds. Mustapha embraced him at length. They stood face to face, Omar towering above his friend, whose bald head, tilted back, was spotlighted by the silver lamp.
He said, sitting on the leather couch before the desk, “You’re as slender as a gazelle. Bravo.”
He took out a cigarette from the box—a wooden box ornamented with mother-of-pearl which played a tune when opened—lit it, then continued. “I often thought of visiting you in Alexandria, but family obligations called me to Ras el Bar. Apart from that, I was tied up in preparing a new radio serial.”
Omar looked at the case files, then at his friend’s eyes, pleading for an encouraging word. He smiled enigmatically, then finally said, “I worked without stop this morning.”
Mustapha breathed a sigh of relief, but then Omar murmured, “But…”
Mustapha inquired anxiously, “But?”
“Honestly, I’ve regained no desire to work.”
An uneasy silence prevailed. Mustapha exhaled the cigarette smoke with a tense expression, then suggested, “Maybe you should have taken more rest.”
“Let’s stop kidding ourselves. The problem is more serious than that.”
Then he lit a cigarette in turn and continued to the echo of new tunes. “The problem is more serious, for it’s not only work which has become unbearable. This illness is consuming other things, far more precious than work—my wife, for instance.”
“Zeinab?”
He said with something like shame, “I don’t know how to put it, but sadly enough, I can’t bear her now. My house is no longer the happy abode.”
“But Buthayna and Jamila are part of it.”
“Fortunately they don’t need me…”
Mustapha frowned and blinked his round, filmy eyes. In his inquisitive glance was a sorrowful, pressing desire to solve the riddle. “But someone of your intelligence can discover the secret.”
He said, smiling bitterly, “Maybe the universe in its eternal, monotonous revolving is the primary cause.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating, at least as far as Zeinab is concerned.”
“It’s the appalling truth.”
He asked with solicitude, “What’s to happen in this state of affairs?”
“I live, questioning all the time, but with no answer.”
“By now, you must be convinced, at least, that you’re going through some sort of psychological crisis.”
“Call it what you wish, but what is it, what do I want, what should I do?”
“You’re too sensible to be plagued by questions. Probe your hidden desires, look into your dreams. There are things you want to run away from, but where to?”
“That’s it. Where?”
“You must find the answer.”
“Tell me, what makes you stick to work and marriage?”
Because the question seemed somehow funny, he smiled, but the sober atmosphere quickly dispelled his gaiety. “My attachment to my wife is based on reality and on habit. My work is a means of livelihood. Besides, I’m happy with my audience, I’m happy with the hundreds of letters I get from them each week. Acceptance by the public is gratifying, even if it means selling popcorn and watermelon seeds.”
“I have neither public, nor reality, nor habit.”
Mustapha paused a while and then said, “In fact, you’ve been extraordinarily successful in your work and your wife worships you, so you’re left with nothing to fight for.”
Omar smiled sarcastically. “Should I pray God for failure and adultery?”
“If it would help you regain some interest in life!”
Each retreated into himself and the tense silence carried ominous forebodings.
Omar spoke. “It sometimes consoles me that I hate myself just as much.” He squashed his cigarette butt in the ashtray impatiently. “My work, Zeinab, and myself are really all one thing, and this is what I want to escape from.”
Mustapha looked at him quizzically. “An old dream is enticing you?”
He hesitated before confiding, “Buthayna wrote some poems.”
“Buthayna!”
“I read them, and while we were discussing them, I felt a strange yearning for the old books I’d deserted twenty years ago.”
“Ah, how often I’ve thought that would happen.”
“Hold on. Yes, a certain sensation crept into my sluggish brain and I began searching for lost tunes. I even asked myself whether it might be possible to start again. But it was just a fleeting sensation which soon disappeared.”
“You retreated quickly.”
“No. I went back to reading, and jotted down a few words, but it came to nothing. One evening when I was at the cinema, I saw a beautiful face and felt the same sensation.”
“Is sensation what you’re after?”
“Sensation or intoxication—the creature within me revived all at once and I believed it to be my aim, rather than work, family, or wealth. This strange, mysterious intoxication appeared as the sole victory among a series of defeats. It alone can vanquish doubt, apathy, and bitterness.”
Mustapha looked at him steadily, his chin resting on his hand, and asked, “You wish to bid love a final farewell?”
He said, rather vexed, “So you think it’s a symptom of middle age. However, this is easily cured when the respectable husband rushes off to the nightclub or marries a new wife. And maybe I, too, will run after a different woman. But what aggravates me is more serious than that.”
Mustapha couldn’t refrain from laughing. “Is it really a strange intoxication or simply a philosophical justification for adultery?” he asked.
“Don’t laugh at me. You were once in a pretty bad way yourself.”
A smile spread on his face as he looked into his memories. “Yes,
“Well, I’ve missed the way. I turned from art to a profession which is also dying. Law and art both belong to the past. I can’t master the new art, as you have done, and like you, I failed to study science. How can I find the lost ecstasy of creation? Life is short and I can’t forget the vertigo caused by the fellow’s words: ‘Don’t we live our lives knowing that our fate rests with God?’ ”
“Does the idea of death disturb you?”
“No, but it urges me to taste the secret of life.”
“As you found it in the movie theater?”
He doesn’t know of your walks through the streets and squares of Alexandria, yearning for a face which promised the long-sought ecstasy, of your lingering under the trees by the stream which swayed with the cries of your burning emotions. The mad giant searching for his lost mind beneath the damp grass.
He referred to these times at some length, speaking with a solemnity befitting the mysterious and strange. “Those nights I was not an animal moved by lust, but I was suffering and in despair.”
SEVEN
“I can’t help wanting you more every time we meet.
The flame leaps higher with each heartbeat.”