The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street by Naguib Mahfouz


  They were silent for a time, as though the song had distracted them. Then Na'ima said, “I saw my friend Salma in the street today. She was in grade school with me. Next year she's going to sit for the baccalaureate examination.”

  Aisha commented with annoyance, “If only your grandfather had let you stay in school, you would have surpassed her. But he refused!”

  The protest implied by Aisha's final phrase did not escape her mother, who said, “Her grandfather has his ideas, which he won't abandon. Would you have wanted her to pursue her studies, despite the effort involved, when she's a delicate darling who can't stand fatigue?”

  Aisha shook her head without speaking, but Na'ima said with regret, “I wish 1 had finished my education. All the girls study today, just like boys.”

  Umm Hanafi observed scornfully, “They study because they can't find a bridegroom. But a beauty like you …”

  Amina nodded her head in agreement and said, “You're educated, young lady. You have the grade school certificate. Since you won't need to find a job, what more than that would you want? Let's pray that God will strengthen you, clothe your captivating beauty with health, and put some meat and fat on your bones.”

  Aisha retorted sharply, “I want her to be healthy, not fat. Obesity's a defect, especially in girls. Her mother was the outstanding beauty of her day, and she wasn't fat.”

  Smiling, Amina said gently, “It's true, Na'ima, your mother was the most beautiful girl of her day.”

  Aisha sighed and said, “And then she became the cautionary tale of her day.”

  Umm Hanafi murmured, “May our Lord bring you happiness with Na'ima.”

  Patting the girl affectionately on the back, Amina said, “Amen, Lord of the universe.”

  They fell silent again as they listened to a new voice sing, “I want to see you every day.”


  Then the door of the house opened and closed. Umm Hanafi said, “My master”. She rose and rushed out of the room to turn on the staii-way light.

  They soon heard the customary taps of his walking stick. When he appeared at the entrance to the sitting room, they all stood up politely. Breathing heavily, he gazed at them a moment before saying, “Good evening.”

  They replied in unison, “Good evening to you.”

  Amina went to his room to put on the light, and he trailed after her, exuding an aura of dignified old age.

  He sat down to regain his breath. It was only nine o'clock. He was dressed as elegantly as ever. His broadcloth cloak, striped silk caftan, and silk scarf were of the same type as before, but the white in his hair, his gray mustache, his slender, “deserted” body, and his early return were all symptomatic of a new era. Another novel development was the bowl of yogurt and the orange prepared for his supper. He had to avoid alcohol, the appetizershe ate when drinking, red meat, and eggs. Still, the sparkle in his wice blue eyes indicated that his desire for life had not flagged.

  He proceeded to remove his clothes with Amina's assistance as usual. Then he put on a wool nightshirt, wrapped up in a robe, donned a skullcap, and sat down cross-legged on the sofa. Amina seived him supper on a tray, and he ate without enthusiasm. Afterward she gave him a glass half filled with water, to which he added six drops from a bottle of medicine. He got it down with a frowning expression of disgust. Then he mumbled, “Thanks to God, Lord of the universe.”

  His doctor had frequently told him that the medicine was a temporary measure but that this new diet would be permanent. The physician had often cautioned him against being reckless or neglectful, for his high blood pressure had become severe, affecting hisheart. Experience had taught al-Sayyid Ahmad to heed these instructions, because he had suffered whenever he had ignored them. Every time he had exceeded the limits, he had paid the price. He had finally been forced to give in, eating or drinking only what he was supposed to and coming home by nine. Hisheart had not given up hope that, by whatever means, he would regain hishealth and enjoy a pleasant, quiet existence, even though his past life had disappeared forever.

  He listened with pleasure to the song coming from the radio. Seated on the pallet, Amina was talking about the cold and the rain that had poured down before noon. Paying no attention to her, he commented happily, “I heard that some of the old songs will be broadcast tonight.”

  The woman smiled appreciatively, since she liked that kind of music, perhaps most of all because her husband did. Delight sparkled for a few moments in the man's eyes before giving way to listlessness. He could no longer enjoy happy feelings unreservedly without having them suddenly turn sour on him. A confrontation with the facts would awaken him from his happy dream, as reality impinged on him from every direction. The past was nothing but a dream. What occasion was there for joy, when the days of fellowship, musical ecstasy, and health had departed forever? Delicious food and drink had vanished along with his well-being. Once he had strutted across the earth like a camel, his laughter reverberating from deep inside him, and dawn had found him intoxicated with all sorts of delights. Now he was obliged to return home from his soirees at nine so he could be in bed by ten, and the amountshe ate, drank, and walked were carefully prescribed.

  He was the heart and the mainstay of this household, which time had afflicted with sorrows. The wretched Aisha was a thorn in his flesh, for he was incapable of mending the shreds of her life. He could hardly feel comfortable about her condition, since the morrow might find her miserably alone, without a father or a mother. He was also anxious about his own health, which was threatened by various complications of high blood pressure. What he feared most was having his strength fail him, so that he would be forced to lie in bed like a dead man. This had happened to many of his friends and loved ones. These thoughts hovered around him like flies, and he sought refuge with God from their evil torment. Yes, he would hear the old songs and fall asleep to their melodies.

  “Leave the radio on even after I'm asleep.”

  She nodded her head with smiling agreement. Then he sighed and continued: “The stairs are really hard on me!”

  “Rest at the landings, sir.”

  “But it's so humid in the stairwell. What cursed weather we're having this winter…”. Then he asked, “I bet you visited al-Husayn as usual despite the cold.”

  She answered shyly and uneasily, “Hardships seem trivial when I visit him, sir.”

  “It's all my fault!”

  Trying to appease him, she added, “I walk around the holy tomb and pray for your health and well-being.”

  He was in urgent need of sincere prayers. Every good thing in life had been denied him. Even the cold shower with which he always refreshed his body had been forbidden him, since it was said to be dangerous for his arteries. “God have mercy on us,” he thought, “when everything good becomes harmful.”

  They soon heard the door of the house slam shut. Raising her eyes, Amina murmured, “Kamal.”

  In a few minutes their son entered the room in his black overcoat, which revealed how thin and tall he was. He looked at his father through gold-rimmed glasses. A compact, bushy black mustache lent him a dignified and manly air. He leaned over to greet his father.

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad invited him to sit down and as usual asked with a smile, “Where have you been, Professor?”

  Kamal loved this gracious, affectionate tone, which his father had only recently adopted with him. Taking a seat on the sofa, he answered, “I was at the coffeehouse with some friends.”

  What sort of friends would they be? Kamal appeared exceptionally serious, sober, and dignified for his age, spending most of his evenings in his study. What a difference there was between him and Yasin! Of course, each had his defects. Still smiling, al-Sayyid Ahmad asked, “Did you attend the Wafd Party congress today?”

  “Yes. We heard a speech from the leader, Mustafa al-Nahhas. It was a memorable day.”

  “I was told it would be an important event but wasn't able to go. I gave rny ticket to one of my friends. My health's no longer up to the fatigue.”
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  Overcome by sympathetic affection, Kamal stammered, “May our Lord strengthen you.”

  “Weren't there any incidents?”

  “No. The day passed peacefully. For a change, the police were co>nteni: to watch.”

  The man nodded hishead with relief. Then in a tone of voice that indicated the special significance he attached to the topic, he said, “Let me revert to an old subject. Do you still persist in your mistaken opinion about private lessons?”

  Kamal always felt uncomfortable and uneasy when forced to disagree openly with one of his father's ideas. He replied gently, “We've finished discussing that.”

  “Every day friends ask if you won't give their children private lessons. You shouldn't reject honest work. Private lessons are a source of substantial income for teachers. The men asking for you are some of the most distinguished inhabitants of this district.”

  Kamal said nothing, but his face showed his polite refusal. His father asked regretfully, “You refuse and waste your time with endless reading and writing for free. Is that appropriate for an intelligent person like yourself?”

  At this point Amina told Kamal, “You ought to love wealth as much as you love learning”. Then, smiling proudly, she reminded al-Sayyid Ahmad, “He's like his grandfather. Nothing equaled his love of learning.”

  Her husband grumbled, “The grandfather again! I mean, washe an important theologian like Muhammad Abduh?”

  Although she knew nothing about this distinguished modern reformer, she replied enthusiastically, “Why not, sir? All our neighbors came to him with their spiritual and worldly concerns.”

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad's sense of humor got the better of him. He laughed and said, “There are more religious scholars like him than you can shake a stick at.”

  The woman's protest was conveyed by her face, not her tongue. Kamal smiled affectionately but uneasily. He asked their permission to depart and left the room. In the sitting room Na'ima stopped him, wishing to show him her new dress. While she went to get it, he sat down beside Aisha to wait. Like the rest of the family, he indulged Na'ima in order to humor Aisha. But he was also as fond of this beautiful girl as he had been of her mother in the old days. Na'ima appeared with the dress, which he spread out in his hands. He examined it appreciatively and gazed at its owner with love and affection. He was struck by her gentle but extraordinary beauty, which purity and delicacy made magnificently luminous.

  Kamal left the room with a heavy heart. It was sad to watch a family age. It was hard to see his father, who had been so forceful and mighty, grow weak. His mother was wasting away and disappearing into old age. He was having to witness Aisha's disintegration and downfall. The atmosphere of the house was charged with warning signs of misery and death.

  He ascended the stairs to the top floor, which he called his apartment. He lived there alone, going back and forth between his bedroom and his study, both of which overlooked Palace Walk. He removed his clothes and put on his house shirt. Wrapping his robe around him, he went to the study, where a large desk with bookcases on either side stood near the latticed balcony. He wanted to read at least one chapter of Bergson's The Two Sources of Morality and Religion and to revise for the final time his monthly column in the magazine al-Fikr. This one happened to be about Pragmatism. The happiest part of his day was the period he devoted to philosophy. Lasting until midnight, it was the time as he put it when he felt like a human being. The rest of his day spent as a teacher in al-Silahdar School or in satisfying various needs of daily life was the stamping ground of the animal concealed inside him. That creature's goals were limited to self-preservation and the gratification of desires.

  He neither loved nor respected his career but did not openly acknowledge his annoyance with it, especially not at home, for he wished to deprive people of the opportunity of rejoicing at his misfortune. All the same he was an excellent teacher who had won everyone's respect, and the headmaster had entrusted some administrative chores to him. Kamal jokingly accused himself of being a slave, for a slave might have to master work he did not like. The truth was that his desire to excel, which had stayed with him from his youth, compelled him to work hard for recognition. From the beginning he had resolved to win the respect of his pupils and colleagues, and he had achieved that goal. Indeed he was both respected and loved, in spite of his large head and prominent nose. Without any doubt, they or his painful self-consciousness about them were primarily responsible for his powerful determination to fashion a dignified persona. Realizing that these features would cause trouble, he had steeled himself to defend them against the plots of troublemakers. He did not escape the occasional gibe or taunt in class or on the playground but countered these attacks with an unflinching resolve softened by his innate sympathy for others.

  His ability to explain the lessons in a way students could understand and his selection of interesting and engaging topics related to the nationalist movement or to memories of the revolution also swayed public opinion among the pupils in his favor. These factors as well as his firmness when it was necessary nipped rebellion in the bud. At first he had been hurt by the taunts, which were extremely effective at stirring up forgotten sorrows, but he was pleased by the high status accorded him by the youngsters, who regarded him with respect, love, and admiration.

  His monthly column in al-Fikr magazine had caused him another problem, for he had to worry about the reaction of the headmaster and the other teachers. They might ask if his presentation of ancient and contemporary philosophical ideas that occasionally seemed critical of accepted beliefs and customs was compatible with a teacher's responsibilities. Fortunately none of these colleagues read al-Fikr. He realized at last that only a thousand copies of each issue were printed, of which half were exported to other Arab countries. That fact encouraged him to keep writing for the magazine, without fear of attacks or of losing his job.

  During these brief nocturnal periods the English-language teacher at al-Silahdar School was transformed into a liberated voyager who traversed the limitless expanses of thought. He read, pondered, and jotted down observations that he later incorporated into his monthly columns. His efforts were motivated by a desire to learn, a love for truth, a spirit of intellectual adventure, and a longing for alleviation of both the nightmare engulfing him and the sense of isolation concealed within him. He escaped his loneliness by adopting Spinoza's notion of the unity of existence and consoled himself for his humiliations by participating in Schopenhauer's ascetic victory over desire. He put his sympathy for Aisha's misery into perspective by devouring Leibniz's explanation of evil and quenched hisheart's thirst for love by appealing to Bergson's poetic effusions. Yet this continuous effort did not succeed in disarming the anxiety that tormented him, for truth was a beloved as flirtatious, inaccessible, and coquettish as any human sweetheart. It stirred up doubts and jealousy, awakening a violent desire in people to possess it and to merge with it. Like a human lover, it seemed prone to whims, passions, and disguises. Frequently it appeared cunning, deceitful, harsh, and proud. When he felt too upset to work, he would console himself by saying, “I may be suffering, but still I'm alive…. I'm a living human being. Anyone who deserves to be called a man will have to pay dearly in order to live.”

  117

  LOOKING OVER the ledgers, keeping the books, and balancing the previous day's sales were all tasks Ahmad Abd al-Jawad performed as expertly and exactly as ever, but he accomplished them with greater difficulty now that he was old and sick. He looked almost pitiable as he sat hunched over his ledgers, beneath the framed inscription reading “In the Name of God,” his gray mustache almost concealed by his large nose, which looked bigger now because of the thinness of his face. The appearance of his assistant, Jamil al-Hamzawi, almost seventy, was even more pathetic, and the moment he finished waiting on a customer, he would collapse, breathless, on his chair.

  Ahmad told himself rather resentfully, “If we were civil servants, our pensions would spare us work and effort at our age”.
Raising hishead from the accounts, he announced, “Sales are still off because of the economic crisis.”

  Al-Hamzawi pursed his pale lips with annoyance and said, “No doubt about it. But this year's better than last year, and that was better than the one before. Praise God in any event.”

  Merchants called the period commencing with 1930 the days of terror. Isma'il Sidqy had dominated the country's politics, and scarcity had governed its economy. From morning to night there had been news of bankruptcies and liquidations. Throwing up their hands in dismay, businessmen had wondered what the morrow had in store for them. Al-Sayyid Ahmad was definitely one of the lucky ones. Although bankruptcy had threatened him year after year, he had never gone over the brink.

  “Yes, praise God in any event.”

  He noticed that Jamil al-Hamzawi was gazing at him in a strange, hesitant, and embarrassed way. What could be on the man's mind? Al-Hamzawi stood up to move his chair closer to the desk. Then, sitting down again, he smiled uneasily. It was bitterly cold, although the sun was shining brightly. Gusts of wind rattled the doors and windows, making a whistling sound.

  Al-Sayyid Ahmad sat up straight and remarked, “Say what you want to. I'm sure it's important.”

 
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