The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street by Naguib Mahfouz
Lowering his gaze, al-Hamzawi said, “I'm in an awkward position. I don't know how to put it….”
His employer encouraged him: “I've spent more time with you than with my own family…. You should feel free to express yoursel f frankly.”
“Our years together are what make it so difficult for me, al-Sayyid, sir.”
“Our years together!” he thought. This possibility had never occurred to him.
“You want to … really?”
Al-Hamzawi answered sadly, “The time has come for me to retire. God never asks a soul to bear more than it can.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad felt depressed. Al-Hamzawi's retirement was a harbinger of his own. How could he look after the store by himself? He was old and sick.
He looked anxiously at his assistant, who said emotionally, “I'm really sorry. But I'm no longer up to the work. That time has vanished. Still, I've arranged things so you won't be left alone. My place will be taken by someone better able to assist you than I am.”
His trust in al-Hamzawi's honesty had relieved him of half of his labors. How could a man of sixty-three start tending a store again from dawn to dusk? He said, “It's when a man retires and sits at home that his faculties begin to fail. Haven't you noticed that in civil servants with pensions?”
Smili ng, Jamil al-Hamzawi answered, “In my case, decline has preceded retirement.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad laughed suddenly as if to mask his discomfort and them observed, “You old rascal, you're deserting me in response to your son Fuad's requests.”
Al-Hamzawi cried out indignantly, “God protect us! The state of my health is evident to everyone. It is the only reason.”
Whc could say? Fuad was an attorney in the government judicial service. A person like that would not want his father to continue working as a clerk in a store, not even when the owner had made it possible for him to earn his government post. Yet al-Sayyid Ahmad sensed that his candor had distressed his excellent assistant. So he tried to cover his tracks by asking courteously, “When will Fuad be transferred back to Cairo?”
“This summer, or next summer at the latest…”. The moments that followed were heavy with embarrassment until al-Hamzawi, matching his employer's gracious tone, added, “Once he's settled in Cairo with me, I'll have to think about finding a bride for him. Isn't that so, al-Sayyid, sir? He's my only son out of eight children. I've got to arrange a marriage for him. Whenever I think about this, a refined young lady comes to mind your granddaughter”. He glanced quickly and inquisitively at his employer's face before stammering, “Of course, we're not of your class….”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad found himself forced to reply, “May God forgive us, Uncle Jamil. We've been brothers for ages.”
Had Fuad encouraged his father to sound out the situation? To have a position as a government attorney was outstanding, and the most important thing about a person's family was that they be good people. But was this the time to discuss marriage?
“Tell me first of all whether you're determined to retire.”
A voice called out from the door of the shop, “A thousand good mornings!”
Although annoyed at having this important conversation interrupted, al-Sayyid Ahmad smiled to be polite and answered, “Welcome! Welcome!” Then he gestured toward the chair al-Hamzawi had vacated, saying, “Please have a seat.”
Zubayda sat down. Her body seemed bloated, and her face was veiled by cosmetics. There was no trace of the gold jewelry that had once decorated her neck, wrists, and ears, and nothing remained of her former beauty.
As usual, al-Sayyid Ahmad tried to make her feel at home, but he treated her like any other visitor. Hisheart was displeased by this call, for whenever she came she burdened him with requests. He asked about her health, and she replied that she was not suffering from anything, “Praise God.”
After a moment of silence, he said again, “Welcome, welcome. …”
She smiled gratefully but seemed to sense the lack of enthusiasm lurking behind his polite remarks. Pretending to be oblivious to the enveloping atmosphere of disinterest, she laughed. Time had taught her how to control herself. She observed, “I don't like to take up your time when you're busy, but you're the finest man I've ever known. Either give me another loan or find someone to buy my house. I wish you'd buy it yourself!”
Ahmad Abd al-Jawad sighed and said, “Me? If only I could…. Times have changed, Sultana. I keep telling you frankly how things are, but you don't seem to believe me, Sultana.”
She laughed to hide her disappointment and then said, “The sultana's ruined. What can she do?”
“Last time I gave you what I could, but my circumstances won't allow me to repeat that.”
She asked anxiously, “Couldn't you find someone to buy my house?”
'Til look for a buyer. I promise you that.”
She answered thankfully, “This is what I expected from you, for you're the most generous of men”. Then she added sadly, “The world's not the only thing that's changed. People have changed even more. May God pardon them. In my glory days, they vied to kiss my slippers, but now if they spot me on the street they cross over to the other side.”
It was inevitable for a person to be disappointed by something in life, in fact by many thingshealth, youth, or other people - but where were those days of glory, melodies, and love?
“You're partly to blame, Sultana. You never made any provision for this time of your life.”
She sighed sorrowfully and said, “Yes. I'm not like your ‘sister’ Jalila. She doesn't mind whose reputation is tarnished, as long as she gets rich. She's accumulated a lot of money and several houses. Besides, God has surrounded me by thieves. Hasan Anbar was depraved enough to charge me a whole pound for a pinch of cocaine when it was scarce.”
“Curses….”
“On Hasan Anbar? A thousand!”
“No, on cocaine.”
“By God, cocaine's a lot more merciful than people.”
“No. No, it's really sad that you've succumbed to its evil influence.”
With despondent resignation she admitted, “It has sapped my strength and destroyed my wealth. But what can I do? When will you find me a buyer?”
“At the first opportunity, God willing.”
She rose, saying reproachfully, “Listen, the next time I visit you, smile as though you really mean it. I can bear insults from anyone but you. I know my requests are a nuisance, but I'm in straits known only to God. In my opinion, you're the noblest man alive.”
He told her apologetically, “Don't start imagining things. It's just that I was preoccupied with an important question when you arrived. As you know, a merchant's worries never end.”
“May God relieve you of them all.”
Escorting her to the door, he bowed hishead to show his appreciation for her comment. Then he bade her farewell: “You're really most welcome, any time”. He noticed the eloquent look of distress and defeat in her eyes and felt sorry for her. Returning to his seat with a heavy heart, he looked at Jamil al-Hamzawi and remarked, “What a world!”
“May God spare you its evils and treat you to its blessings”. But al-Hamzawi's tone grew harsh when he continued: “Still, it's the just reward for a debauched woman.”
Ahmad Abd al-Jawad shook hishead quickly and briefly as if to protest silently against the cruelty of this moralizing remark. Then resuming the merrier tone of voice he had used before Zubayda's interruption, he asked, “Are you still resolved to desert us?”
The other man answered uneasily, “It's not desertion but retirement. And I'm very sorry about it.”
“Words… like the ones I used to deceive Zubayda a minute ago.”
“God forbid! I'm speaking from my heart. Don't you see, sir, that old age has almost carried me off?”
A customer came into the store, and al-Hamzawi went to wait on him. Then the voice of an elderly man cried out flirtatiously from the doorway, “Who's that person as handsome as the full moon sitting behind the desk?
Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad stood there in a crude, tattered, colorless gown and torn red leather shoes, hishead wrapped in a camel's-hair muffler. Propping himself up with a staff, he gazed with bloodshot eyes at the wall next to the desk, thinking that he was looking at the proprietor.
In spite of his worries, al-Sayyid Ahmad smiled and said, “Come here, Shaykh Mutawalli. How are you?”
Opening a toothless mouth, the old man yelled, “High blood pressure, go away! Health, return to this lord of men.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad stood up and walked toward him. The shaykh stared in his direction but backed away as if preparing to flee. Then turning around in a circle, he pointed in each of the four directions and shouted, “You'll find relief here… and here … and here … and here”. Exiting to the street, he intoned, “Not today. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Say: God knows best”. He strode off with long steps that seemed incongruous for a man who looked so feeble.
118
THE EXTENDED family returned to its roots every Friday, and the old house came alive with children and grandchildren. This happy tradition had never lapsed. Since Umm Hanafi now held pride of place in the kitchen, Amina was no longer the heroine of the day. Still, the mistress never tired of reminding her family that the servant was her pupil. Amina's desire for praise became more pronounced as she sensed increasingly that she did not deserve it. Although a guest, Khadija alwayshelped with the cooking too.
Shortly before al-Sayyid Ahmad's departure for the store, he was surrounded by family members: Ibrahim Shawkat and his two sons, Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad, along with Yasin and his children, Ridwan and Karima. They were all subject to a humility that transformed laughter to smiles and conversation to whispers. The older al-Sayyid Ahmad got, the more he delighted in their company. He was critical of Yasin for curtailing visits to the store in exchange for this Friday gathering. Did the mule not understand that his father longed to see him as often as possible?
Yasin's son, Ridwan, had a handsome face with memorable eyes and a rosy complexion. His good looks suggested many different sources, reminding al-Sayyid Ahmad of Yasin, of Yasin's mother, Haniya, and of Muhammad Iffat, a beloved friend and the young man's other grandfather. Ridwan was al-Sayyid Ahmad's favorite grandchild. The boy's sister, Karima, was a little lady of eight. She would surely grow up to be a marvel, if only because of her black eyes, so like those of her mother, Zanuba, that they stirred within the patriarch an embarrassed smile rich with memories.
The decisive feature in the appearance of both Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad was a lesser version of their grandfather's huge nose, but he could also recognize the small eyes of Khadija, their mother. They were bolder too than the others in addressing him. All these grandsons were pursuing their studies with a successhe was proud of, but they seemed too busy with their own affairs to pay much attention to him. While they consoled their grandfather by showing him that his life was being passed on through new generations, they reminded him as well that he was gradually having to relinquish the dominant position he had reserved for himself in the family. He was not as sad as he might have been about this, since age had brought him wisdom along with illness and infirmity. Yet it would have been absurd to imagine that his new insight could prevent a flood of memories from bursting forth. Back in 1890, when he had been their age, he had studied only a little and played a lot, dividing his time between the homes of musi cians in al-Gamaliya and the haunts of Ezbekiya. Even then his loyal companions had been Muhammad Iffat, Ali Abd al-Rahim, and Ibrahim al-Far. His father, who had run the store, had scolded his only son a little and pampered him a lot. Life had been a tightly wound scroll crowded with hopes. Then he had married Haniya…. But not so fast… he should not allow memories to carry him away.
He rose to prepare for the afternoon prayers. This was a sign he would soon depart. After he had changed clothes and left for the store, they all assembled in a congenial chatty mood around the grandmother's brazier for the coffee hour.
Amina, Aisha, and Na'ima occupied the center sofa. The one on the right was taken by Yasin, Zanuba, and Karima. On the left-hand one were seated Ibrahim Shawkat, Khadija, and Kamal. Ridwati, Abd al-Muni'm, and Ahmad had chairs in the center of the room, beneath the electric light. Following his time-honored practice, Ibrahim Shawkat extolled the disheshe had most enjoyed. Even so, during the past few yearshe had changed the direction of his praise toward the excellent instruction Amina was providing her outstanding pupil, Umm Hanafi.
Zanuba always echoed his words, for she never overlooked an opportunity to ingratiate herself with a member of her husband's family. In fact, ever since her in-laws had opened their doors to her, permitting her to mingle with them, she had shown extraordinary skill in strengthening her ties to them. She considered their welcome an acknowledgment of her status, coming as it did after the years she had lived in isolation like an outcast. The death of a baby had been the pretext for the initial visit, when Yasin's family had come to his home to offer their condolences. Those calls had emboldened her to visit first Sugar Street and then at a time when al-Sayyid Ahmad was quite ill - Palace Walk. She had even ventured into his room, where they had met like strangers with no past history. Thus Zanuba had become part of al-Sayyid Ahmad's family, calling Amina “Auntie” and Khadija “Sister”. She was always exceptionally modest. Unlike other women of the family, she dressed simply when she made her calls, so that she seemed older than she was. Neglected, her beauty began to fade prematurely, and Khadija would never believe she was only thirty-six.
Zanuba had succeeded in gaining everyone's respect, and Amina said of her one day, “No doubt she comes from a good family - even if one or two generations back. It doesn't matter, for she's a good girl and the only one who has been able to live with Yasin.”
Khadija seemed to surpass even Yasin in the flabby abundance of flesh and saw no reason to claim she was anything but happy about that. She was delighted with her sons, Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad, as well as with her generally successful marriage, but to ward off the evil eye of jealousy never let a day go by without some complaint. Her treatment of Aisha had undergone a total change. During the last eight years she had not addressed a single sarcastic or harsh word to her younger sister, not even in jest. In fact, she bent over backwards to be courteous, affectionate, and gracious to Aisha, since she was touched by the widow's misery, frightened that fate might deal her a comparable blow, and apprehensive that Aisha would compare their lots. She had generously insisted that her husband renounce his share of his brother's estate, so that it went in its entirety to Aisha and her daughter, Na'ima. Khadija had hoped her action would be remembered in time, but Aisha was in such a state that she forgot her sister's generosity. This oversight did not keep Khadija from lavishing enough affection, sympathy, and compassion on Aisha to seem a second mother for her younger sister. To feel secure about her own God-granted prosperity, Khadija desired nothing more than Aisha's complaisant affection.
Ibrahim Shawkat took out a pack of cigarettes, and Aisha accepted one gratefully. He helped himself, and they both started smoking. Aisha's excessive dependence on cigarettes and coffee had been the subject of many comments, but her normal response to them was a shrug of her shoulders. Amina limited herself to the prayerful remark: “May God grant her endurance.”
Yasin offered the most outspoken advice of any member of the family, for he appeared to think that the death of one of his children gave him this right. Aisha considered his loss inferior to her own and begrudged him any standing in the realm of the afflicted, since his son had died during the first year - unlike Uthman and Muhammad. Discussion of disastrous losses often seemed to be her favorite pastime, and her distinguished rank in the world of suffering was a consolation to her.
Kamal listened attentively to the conversation Ridwan, Abd al-Muni'm, and Ahmad were having about their future. Yasin's son, Ridwan, said, “We're all in the arts, not science. So the only college worth choosing in the University is Law.”
Also gesturing toward Ahmad, Ibrahim Shawkat seized this opportunity to remark, “He can go into the College of Arts if he wants to, but first he has to convince me of its value. I understand the importance of Law School, but not of Arts.”
Kamal looked down rather sadly, stirred by old memories of a debate about the relative merits of the Law School and the Teachers College. He still nourished many of his former hopes, but life kept dealing him cruel blows every day. A government attorney, for example, would need no introduction, but the author of articles in al-Fikr magazine might be in even greater need of one than his obscure articles. Ahmad Ibrahim Shawkat left him no time for anxious musings. Looking at him with small protruding eyes, the boy said, “I'll let Uncle Kamal answer for me.”
Ibrahim Shawkat smiled to hide his embarrassment, and with little enthusiasm Kamal said, “Study what you feel is most appropriate for your talents.”
Ahmad turned his slender head to look victoriously from his brother to his father, but Kamal added, “Still you ought to realize that Law School opens up a wider range of good career opportunities for you than Arts. If you choose the Arts Faculty, your future will lie in teaching, which is a difficult profession with little prestige.”
“I'm planning a career in journalism.”
“Journalism!” shouted Ibrahim Shawkat. “He doesn't know what he's saying.”
Ahmad complained to Kamal, “In our family, they see no distinction between guiding thought and guiding a cart.”
Smiling, Ridwan observed, “The great intellectual leaders in our country have been Law School graduates.”
Ahmad replied proudly, “I'm thinking of quite a different type of intellectual leadership.”
Scowling, Abd al-Muni'm Shawkat said, “Unfortunately I know what you have in mind. It's frightening and destructive.”