The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street by Naguib Mahfouz
“Is the exchange of a few words around a table going to end fifty-three years of foreign occupation?”
“The words have been preceded by the shedding of innocent blood….”
“Even so….”
With a wink, Muhammad Iffat replied, “They'll find themselves in an awkward position, given the grave international situation.”
“They can always come up with someone to protect their interests. Isma'il Sidqy's still alive.”
In a knowing tone, Muhammad Iffat responded, “I've spoken with many informed people and have found them optimistic. They say that the world is threatened by a crushing war, that Egypt is a potential target, and that it's in the best interests of both sides to reach an honorable settlement”. After stroking his belly he continued with smug self-assurance: “Here's some important news for you. I've been promised the nomination for al-Gamaliya district in the forthcoming elections. Al-Nuqrashi himself promised me.”
The faces of his friends shone with delight. When it was Ali Abd al-Rahim's turn to comment, he said with mock seriousness, “The only thing wrong with the Wafd Party is that they occasionally nominate beasts as deputies.”
Ahmad Abd al-Jawad pretended to defend the Wafd against this charge. “What should the Wafd do? It wants to represent the entire nation. Some of the people are good citizens, and others are trash. What better representatives for trash can you have than beasts?”
Muhammad Iffat punched him in the side as he retorted, “You're a sly old fox! You and Jalila are exactly alike. You're a pair of old foxes!”
“I'd be happy to see Jalila nominated. She could sweep the king himself off his feet if she had to.”
Smiling, Ali Abd al-Rahim commented, “I ran into her the day before yesterday near her cul-de-sac. She's still as magnificently massive; as the ceremonial camel litter bound for Mecca, but age has eaten away at her and relieved itself all over her.”
Al-Far added, “She's become a noted madam. Her house is a hotbed of activity, night and day. Even after the piper dies, her fingers keep on playing.”
Ali Abd al-Rahim laughed for a long time and then said, “Passing by her house one day, I saw a man slip inside when he thought no one was looking. Who do you think it was?” With a wink in the direction of Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, he continued: “The dutiful Kamal Effendi, instructor at al-Silahdar School.”
Muh arnmad Iffat and al-Far roared with laughter while Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, his eyes wide with astonishment and alarm, asked in a daze, “My son Kamal?”
“Yes indeed. His overcoat wrapped around him, he paraded along in a most genteel manner sporting his gold-rimmed spectacles and bushy mustache. He walked with such sedate dignity that it was hard to believe he was the son of our court jester. He turned into her establishment as solemnly as if entering the holy mosque in Mecca. Under my breath I said, 'Don't wear yourself out, bastard.'”
They laughed loudly. Ahmad Abd al-Jawad had not recovered yet from his stupor but attempted to overcome it by joining in the laughter.
Staring Ahmad in the face, Muhammad Iffat asked suggestively, “What's so amazing about this? Isn't he your son?”
Shaking hishead with wonder, Ahmad Abd al-Jawad replied, “I've always thought him polite, refined, and cool. He spends so much time in his library reading and writing that I've been afraid he would become isolated from the world. He expends far too much effort on worthless things.”
Ibrahim al-Far joked, “Who knows, perhaps there's a branch of the National Library in Jalila's house.”
Ali Abd al-Rahman ventured, “Or perhapshe retreats to his library to read ribald classics like The Shakyh's Return. What do you expect from a man who began his career with an essay claiming that man is descended from an ape?”
They laughed again, and Ahmad Abd al-Jawad chuckled along with them. He had learned from experience that if he tried to be serious at a time like thishe would become an easy target for jokes and jests. Finally he said, “This must be why the damned fellow has avoided marriage so studiously that I was beginning to have doubts about him.”
“How old is your little boy now?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“My goodness! You ought to get him married. Why ishe so reluctant?”
Muhammad Iffat belched, stroked his belly, and then observed, “It's the fashion now. Girls crowd into the streets, and men don't trust them anymore. Haven't you heard Shaykh Hasanayn sing, 'What startling things we see: the gentleman and the lady both at the barbershop'?”
“Don't forget the economic crisis and the uncertain future facing young people. University graduates accept civil service jobs at only ten pounds a month, if they're lucky enough to find one.”
With obvious anxiety, Ahmad Abd al-Jawad said, “I'm afraid that he's learned Jalila was my mistress or that she knowshe's my son.”
Laughing, Ali Abd al-Rahim asked, “Do you suppose she asks her customers for references?”
With a wink, Muhammad Iffat commented, “If the hussy knew who he was, she'd tell him his father's life story from A to Z.”
Ahmad Abd al-Jawad snorted, “God forbid!”
Ibrahim al-Far asked, “Do you think a fellow who can discern that his original ancestor was an ape will have difficulty discovering that his father's a debauched fornicator?”
Muhammad Iffat laughed so loud that he started coughing. After a few moments of silence he remarked, “Kamal's appearance is truly deceptive … sedate, calm, prim a teacher in every sense of the word.”
In a gratified tone of voice, Ali Abd al-Rahim said, “Sir, may our Lord preserve Kamal and grant him a long life. Anyone who resembles his father can't go wrong.”
Muhammad Iffat commented, “What's important is whether he's a Don Juan like his father. I mean, ishe good at handling women and seducing them?”
Ali Abd al-Rahim replied, “I doubt it. I imagine he preserves his grave and dignified appearance until the door is closed behind him and the lucky girl. Then he removes his clothes with the same grave dignity and throws himself upon her with grim earnestness. Afterward he dresses and leaves with precisely the same solemnity, as though delivering an important lecture to his students.”
“From the loins of Don Juan has sprung a dunce!”
Ahmad Abd al-Jawad asked himself almost resentfully, “Why does this seem strange to me?” He would try to forget about it. Seeing al-Far go to fetch the backgammon set, he proclaimed without any hesitation that it was time for them to play. Even so, his thoughts kept revolving around this news. He consoled himself with the reflection that he had raised Kamal conscientiously and had seen him get a University degree and become a respected teacher. Now the boy could do whatever he wanted. In view of his son's lanky build and enormoushead and nose, perhaps it was lucky that he had learned how to have a good time. If there were any justice in the world, Kamal would have married years ago, and Yasin never would have married at all. But who could claim to understand such mysteries?
Then al-Far asked him, “When did you last see Zubayda?”
After thinking it over, Ahmad answered, “Last January. About a year ago. The day she came to the store to ask me to find a buyer for her house.”
Ibrahim al-Far remarked, “Jalila bought it. Then that crazy Zubayda fell in love with a cart driver. But he left her destitute. Now she's living in a room on the roof of the house belonging to the performer Sawsan. She's such a ghost of her former self, it's pitiful.”
Ahmad Abd al-Jawad shook hishead sorrowfully and murmured, “The sultana in a rooftop shack! Glory to the unchanging One!”
Ali Abd al-Rahim commented, “A sad end, but hardly unexpected.”
A laugh of lament escaped from Muhammad Iffat, and he said, “God have mercy on people who place their trust in this world.”
Then al-Far invited them to play, and Muhammad Iffat challenged him. They quickly turned their attention to backgammon, as Ahmad Abd al-Jawad said, “Let's see whose luck is like Jalila's and whose resembles Zubayda's.”
KAMAL, WAS sitting with Isma'il Latif at Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse iti the same alcove Kamal and Fuad al-Hamzawi had used as students. Although the December weather was cold, it was warm inside this subterranean establishment. With the entrance closed, all openings to the surface of the earth were sealed, and the air inside was naturally warmer and more humid. But for his desire to be with Kamal, Isma'il Latif would not have patronized this place. Of the old group, he was the only one who still kept in touch, although exigencies of employment had forced him to move to Tanta, where he had obtained a position as an accountant, following his graduation from the School of Commerce. Whenever he returned to Cairo on holiday he telephoned Kamal at al-Silahdar School and arranged to meet at this historic spot.
Kamal gazed at this old friend, taking in his compact build and the sharp features of his tapering face. He was pleasantly surprised by what he heard about Isma'il's polite, dignified, and upright behavior. The notorious paradigm of reckless and boorish impudence had become an exemplary husband and father.
Kamal poured some green tea into his companion's glass and then served himself. Smiling, he said, “You don't seem to care for Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse.”
Craning his neck in his familiar way, Isma'il replied, “It really is unusual, but why not choose somewhere aboveground?”
“In any case it's an eminently suitable place for a respectable person like you.”
Isma'il laughed and nodded hishead as if to admit that - after a wild youth he now deserved recognition for his respectability.
To be polite, Kamal asked, “How are things in Tanta?”
“Great! During the day I work nonstop at the office and in the evening I'm at home with my wife and children.”
“How are the offspring?”
“Praise God. Their relaxation always comes at the expense of our fatigue. But we praise Him no matter what.”
Motivated by the curiosity any reference to family life inspired in him, Kamal asked, “Have you really found the kind of true happiness with them that advocates of family life forecast?”
“Yes. I have.”
“In spite of the fatigue?”
“In spite of everything.”
Kamal looked at his friend with even greater interest. This was a new person, quite distinct from the Isma'il Latif he had known from 1921 to 1927, that extraordinary era when he had lived life to the fullest, when not a minute had passed without some profound pleasure or intense pain. It had been a time of true friendship represented by Husayn Shaddad, of sincere love personified by A'ida, and of vehement enthusiasm derived from the torch of the glorious Egyptian revolution. It had also been a time of drastic experiments prompted by doubt, cynicism, desire. Isma'il Latif was a symbol of the former era and a significant clue to it. But how remote his friend was from all that today….
Isma'il Latif conceded almost grumpily, “Of course, there's always something for us to worry about like the new cadre system at work and the freeze on promotions and raises. You know I enjoyed an easy life under my father's wing. But I got nothing from his estate, and my mother consumes all of her pension. That's why I consented to work in Tanta to be able to make ends meet. Would a man like me agree to it otherwise?”
Kamal laughed and said, “Nothing used to be good enough for you.”
Isma'il smiled with what appeared to be conceit and pride at his memorable life, which he had renounced voluntarily.
Kamal asked, “Aren't you tempted to recapture some of the past?”
“Certainly not. I've had enough of all that. I can tell you that I've never regretted my new life. I just need to use a little cleverness from time to time to get some money from my mother, and my wife has to play the same game with her father. I still like to live comfortably.”
Kamal could not keep himself from observing merrily, “You showed us how and then abandoned us….”
Isma'il laughed out loud, and his earnest face assumed much of its mischievous look of the old days. He asked, “Are you sorry about that? No. You love this life with a curious devotion, even though you're a temperate person. In a few playful years I did more than you'll ever do during a whole lifetime”. Then he added in a serious tone, “Get married and change your life.”
Kamal said impishly, “This matter deserves serious thought.”
Between 1924 and 1935 a new Isma'il Latif had come into existence. Curiosity seekers should search out this novelty. Still, he was the one old friend left. France had seduced Husayn Shad-dad away from his homeland. Similarly, Hasan Salim had established himself outside of Egypt. Unfortunately Kamal had no contact with either of them anymore. Isma'il Latif had never been a soul mate. But he was a living memory of an amazing past, and for that reason Kamal could glory in his friendship.
“I also take pride in his loyalty. I derive no spiritual delight from his companionship, but he's living proof of the existence ofthat past. I desire to establish the reality ofthat era as eagerly as I desire life itself. I wonder what Ai'da's doing now. Where is she in this wide world? How was my heart ever able to recover from the sickness of loving her? All those events are marvels of their kind.”
“I'm impressed, Mr. Isma'il. You deserve every success.”
Isma'il glanced at his surroundings, inspecting the ceiling, lanterns, alcoves, and the dreamy faces of the patrons, who were absorbed in their conversations and games. Then he asked, “What do you like about this place?”
Kamal did not answer but remarked sadly, “Have you heard? It will soon be demolished so a new structure can be built on its ruins. This historic spot will vanish forever.”
“Good riddance! Let these catacombs disappear so a new civilization can rise above them.”
“Is be right?” Kamal wondered. “Perhaps… but the heart feels strongly about certain things. My dear coffeehouse, you're part of me. I have dreamt a lot and thought a lot inside you. Yasin came to you foi years. Fahmy met his revolutionary comradeshere to plan for a better world. I also love you, because you're made from the same stuff as dreams. But what's the use of all this? What value does nostalgia have? Perhaps the past is the opiate of the Romantic. It's a most distressing affliction to have a sentimental heart and a skeptical mind. Since I don't believe in anything, it doesn't matter what I say.”
“You're right. I advocate demolition of the pyramids if some future use is discovered for the stones.”
“The pyramids! What's the relationship of the pyramids to Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse?”
“I'm referring to all historic relics. I mean let's destroy all of them for the sake of today and tomorrow.”
Isma'il Latif laughed. He craned his neck, as he had in the past when challenged, and replied, “You've occasionally supported the opposite point of view. As you know, I read al-Fikr magazine from time to time, for your sake. I told you frankly once before what I think of it. Yes, your essays are difficult, and the whole journal is dry, may God grant us refuge. I had to stop buying it, because my wife found nothing in it she wanted to read. Forgive me, but that's what she asserted. I say I've occasionally seen you write the opposite of what you're proposing now. But I won't claim to understand much of what you write. Don't tell anyone, but I don't understand even a little of it. Speaking of this, wouldn't it be better for you to write like popular authors? If you do, you'll find a large audience and make a lot of money.”
In the past Kamal had rebelliously and stubbornly scorned such advice. Now he despised it but did not rebel against it. Yet he wondered whether he should be so disdainful, not because he thought the disdain misplaced, but because he worried at times about the value of what he wrote. He was even uneasy about this worry. He was quick to confess to himself that he was fed up with everything and that the world, having lost its meaning, seemed at times to resemble an obsolete expression.
“You never did approve of my way of thinking.”
Isma'il guffawed and said, “Do you remember? What days those were!”
Those days had passed. Thei
“Don't you hear from Husayn Shaddad or Hasan Salim?”
Isma'il raised his thick eyebrows and replied, “That reminds me! Things have happened during the year I've been away from Cairo…”. With increasing concern he continued: “I learned on my return from Tanta that the Shaddad family has ended.”
Oppressive, rebellious interest erupted in Kamal'sheart, and he suffered terribly as he struggled to conceal it. He asked, “What do you mean?”
“My mother told me that Shaddad Bey went bankrupt when the stock market swallowed up his last millieme. Destroyed, he could not stand the blow and killed himself ”
“What awful news! When did this happen?”
“Some months ago. The mansion was lost along with all his other possessions that mansion where we spent unforgettable times in the garden….”
What times, what a mansion, what a garden, what memories, what forgotten pain, and painful forgetfulness…. The elegant family, the great man, the mighty dream…. Was not his agitation more pronounced than the situation warranted? Was hisheart not pounding more violently than these once forgotten memories deserve d?
Kamal said sorrowfully, “The bey has killed himself. The mansion ha5 been lost. What's become of the family?”
Isma'il replied angrily, “Our friend's mother has only fifteen pounds a month from a mortmain trust and has moved into an unpretentious flat in al-Abbasiya. My mother, who went to visit them, wept upon her return when describing the woman's condition … that lady who once lived in unimaginable luxury. Don't you remember?”