The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street by Naguib Mahfouz
The two men parted on bad terms, and Yasin returned to his desk. The room was large. On both sides there were rows of desks that faced each other. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with files. Some of the clerks were busy with their papers, but others chatted or smoked. Meanwhile messengers carrying files came or left.
Yasin's neighbor told him, “My daughter will do the baccalaureate examination this year. I'll sign her up for the Teacher Training Institute, and then I'll be able to stop worrying about her. It doesn't cost anything, and there will be no difficulty finding her a job after she graduates.”
Yasin said, “You've done the best thing.”
The man asked him argumentatively, “What do you have planned for Karima? By the way, how old is she?”
Although irritated, Yasin relaxed his face into a smile and said, “Eleven. She'll take the elementary-school certificate examination next summer, God willing.” After counting out the months on his ngers, he continued: “We're in November, so there are seven more months until it's over and done with.”
“If she does well in elementary school, she'll succeed in secondary school too. Girls today are a safer bet in school than boys.”
Secondary school?… That was what Zanuba wanted. Certainly not… he could not bear to have a daughter stroll off to school with bouncing breasts … and what about the fees?
“We don't send our girls to secondary school. Why not? Because they're not going to take jobs.”
A third man asked, “Does talk like this make sense in 1938?”
“In our family, they'll be saying it in 2038.”
A fourth clerk laughed as he said, “Admit you'd have to choose between spending money on her and on yourself. The coffeehouse in al-Ataba, the bar on Muhammad Ali Street, and ‘Love for young women has sapped my strength.’ That's the true story.”
Yasin laughed and then said, “May our Lord protect her. But as [said, we don't educate girls beyond the elementary certificate.”
A cough resounded from the corner of the room closest to the entrance. Yasin turned in that direction and then stood up, as if he had remembered something important. He went over to the cougher's desk. Sensing Yasin's presence, the man looked up, and Yasin leaned down to say, “You promised to tell me how to make the elixir.”
The man moved his ear closer to Yasin, asking, “What?”
Since he was afraid to raise his voice, Yasin was distressed by the man's difficulty in hearing him. A loud voice from the middle of the room announced, “I bet he's asking you about the prescription for the aphrodisiac that's going to send all of us to the grave.”
Yasin retreated to his desk in disgust. Paying no attention to his embarrassment, the man said in a voice everyone could hear, “I'll tell you how to make it. Get the peel of a mango, boil it rapidly until the mixture attains the consistency of honey, and take a spoonful of it before breakfast.”
They all laughed, but Ibrahim Fath Allah remarked sarcastically, “That's swell, but wait till you're promoted to the sixth level. See if that doesn't perk you up.”
Laughing, Yasin asked, “Does a man's rank help him in this area?”
His neighbor, who was laughing too, replied, “If this theory was correct, then Uncle Hasanayn, our office boy, should be the Minister of Education.”
Ibrahim Fath Allah clapped his hands together and, pointing to Yasin, asked, “Brothers, this man is nice and pleasant, a good fellow, but doeshe do a millieme's worth of work? Give me your honest opinion.”
Yasin said scornfully, “A minute of my work is equivalent to a day's work by you.”
“The real story is that the director goes easy on you and that you rely on your son's intervention in this bleak era.”
Determined to infuriate his rival, Yasin said, “By your life, I'll have an advocate in every era. Now it's my son. If the Wafd returns to power, you'll find I have my nephew and my father. Tell me what advocates you have.”
Looking up toward the ceiling, the other man answered, “I have our Lord.”
“Glory to Him, I have Him too. Isn't He everyone's Lord?”
“But He's not fond of patrons of drinking establishments on Muhammad Ali Street.”
“Does that mean He likes dope addicts?”
“There's no more revolting creature than a drunkard.”
“Cabinet ministers and ambassadors drink. Don't you see pictures in the papers of them drinking toasts? But have you ever seen a diplomat at an official party offer opium to someone in celebration of the signing of a treaty, for example?”
Trying to stop laughing, Yasin's neighbor said, “Hush, fellows, or the rest of your civil service will be performed in prison.”
Pointing to his adversary, Yasin shot back, “By your life, even in prison he would loathe me and brag about his seniority.”
Then Muhammad Hasan returned from his meeting with the deputy minister. There was universal silence as all faces watched him go to his office without pausing to look at anything. The clerks exchanged inquisitive glances. Probably one of the rivals was now head of his section. But which was the lucky one? The door of the director's office opened. The director's bald head appeared, and he called out in an emotionless voice, “Yasin Effendi”. Yasin rose and directed his huge body toward the office as hisheart pounded.
The director scrutinized him with a strange look and then said, “You've been promoted to the sixth level.”
Relieved and delighted, Yasin replied, “Thank you, sir.”
In a rather dry tone the man continued: “It's only fair to tell you frankly that someone else deserves it more than you do. But strings were pulled on your behalf.”
Yasin was annoyed, as he often was when with this man. He retorted, “Strings! So what? Is anything big or small accomplished without the use of influence? Does anyone get promoted in this bureau or this ministry, yourself included, without influence?”
The ether man restrained his rage and said, “You're nothing but a headache for me. You get promoted without deserving it and then resent the least remark, no matter how appropriate. Don't blame us. Congratulations. Congratulations, sir. I just hope you'll pull yourself together. You're head of your section now.”
Encouraged by the way the director had backed down, Yasin, without modifying his own sharp tone, replied, “I've been a civil servant lor more than twenty years. I'm forty-two. Do you think the sixtb level is too good for me? Boys are appointed at this rank merely because they've graduated from the University.”
“The important thing is for you to pull yourself together. I hope] '11 find you as reliable as the others. When you were the school disciplinarian at al-Nahhasin School, you were a diligent and exemplary employee. Had it not been for that incident long ago…”
“Thai's ancient history. There's no need to mention it now. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“You're a mature adult. If you play around, it will be hard to carry out your duties. When you stay out late every night, what condition is your brain in the next morning when you're supposed to work? I want you to shoulder your responsibilities. That's all there is to it.”
Yasin was offended by the reference to his conduct and said, “I won't let anyone comment on my private life. Once I'm outside the ministry I'm free to do what I want.”
“And inside it?”
“I will do as much work as any other section head. I've toiled enough over the years to suffice for the rest of my life.”
When Yasin returned to his desk, despite the anger raging in his breast, he sported a smile. As the news spread, he was showered with congratulations.
Ibrahim Fath Allah leaned over to whisper spitefully to his neighbor, “His son! That's the whole story. Abd al-Rahim Pasha Isa… you understand? Disgusting!”
142
SEATEED IN a large chair on the latticed balcony, al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad gazed alternately at the street and at al-Ahram, the newspaper spread across his lap. The gaps between the spindles of the latticework allowed patches of lig
“What good companions and neighbors… I wonder how old these men are. Hasanayn the barber has a good build, the kind that rarely shows a man's age. Almost nothing about him has changed except his hair, but he's certainly over fifty. God's grace has preserved these men'shealth. And Darwish? Bald… he always was. But he's in his sixties. What a powerful body he has! I was like that when I was sixty, but now I'm sixty-seven. That's old! I've had my dothes cut down to fit what's left of my body. When I look at the photo hanging in my room, I can't believe I'm that same person. Poor blind al-Fuli is younger than Darwish. Without his apprentice, he wouldn't be able to make his rounds. Abu Sari' is an old man. Old? But he's still working. None of them has given up his shop. It's a shattering experience for a man to abandon his store. Afterward all you have left is sitting in your house, staying home day and night. If only I could go out for an hour every day! I have to wait for Friday and then I need both my stick and Kamal to assist me. Praise God, Lord of the universe, in any case. Bayu-mi's the youngest of them and the luckiest. His prominence began with Mary am's mother, and mine ended with her. Today he owns the most modern building in the neighborhood. That's what became of Mr. Muhammad Ridwan's home. Where it once stood, Bayumi has built a juice shop lit by electricity. A man's good fortune may start with a woman's treachery. Glory to God who gives all things. May His wisdom be exalted. Everything's been modernized. The roads have been paved with asphalt and illuminated with streetlights. Remember how pitch-black the nights were when you used to return home? What a long time it's been since you did that! Every shop has electricity and a radio. Everything's new, except me, an old man of sixty-seven who can only leave his home once a week. Even then I'm short of breath. My heart! It's all the fault of my heart that loved, laughed, rejoiced, and sang for so many years. Today it dictates calm, and there's no way to reject its decree. The doctor said, ‘Take your medicine, stay home, and keep to the diet I've prescribed.’ I told him, ‘Fine. But will that make me strong again? Or give me back at least some of my strength?’ He replied, ‘Warding off further complications is the most we can hope for. Any exertion or movement puts you at risk.’ Then he laughed and wanted to know, ‘Why do you want to regain your strength?’ Yes, why? It's ridiculous and pathetic.”
All the same, al-Sayyid Ahmad had answered, “I want to be able to come and go.”
The physician had commented, “Every condition has its own special pleasures like sitting quietly. Read the newspapers, listen to the radio, enjoy your family, and on Friday ride to the mosque of al-Husayn. That's enough for you.”
“The matter's in God's hands,” he thought. “Mutawalli Abd al-Samad is still stumbling about in the streets…. He says, ‘Enjoy your family.’ Amina no longer stays home. Our roles have been reversed. I'm confined to the latticed balcony while she roams around Cairo, going from mosque to mosque. Kamal sits with me for fleeting moments, as if he were a guest. Aisha? Alas, Aisha, are you alive or dead? And then they want my heart to recover and to feel contented.”
“Master…”
He turned around and saw Umm Hanafi carrying a small tray with a bottle of medicine, an empty coffee cup, and a glass half rilled wi th water.
“Your medicine, master.”
Kitch en fragrances wafted from the black dress of this woman who in the course of time had become one of the family. Picking up the glass, he poured out enough water to fill the cup halfway and then, after removing the medicine bottle's stopper, added four drops to the water in his cup. In anticipation of the taste, he made a face and then swallowed.
“May it bring you health, master.”
“Thanks. Where's Aisha?”
“In her room. May God grant her forbearance.”
“Call her, Umm Hanafi.”
In her room or on the roof… what difference did it make? The radio's cheerful songs were in ironic contrast to the mournful atmosphere of this otherwise silent dwelling. Al-Sayyid Ahmad had been confined to the house for only the last two months. A year and four months had passed since Na'ima's death. When the mari had asked to listen to the radio in view of his urgent need for entertainment, Aisha had replied, “Of course, Papa. May God find ways to console you for being forced to stay home.”
Heanng the rustling of a dress, he turned and saw Aisha approaching in her black attire. Although the weather was warm, she had a black scarf wrapped around her head. Her fair complexion had a strange blue cast to it. “That's a symptom of her depression,” he thought. Then he said tenderly, “Get a chair and sit with me a little.”
But she did not budge and replied, “I'm comfortable like this, Papa.”
The recent past had taught him not to try to make her change her mind about anything. “What were you doing?”
A blank expression on her face, she answered, “Nothing, Papa.”
“Why don't you go out with your mother and visit the blessed shrines? Wouldn't that be better than staying at home alone?”
“Why should I visit shrines?”
He seemed astonished by her response but said calmly, “You could entreat God for solace.”
“God is with ushere in our house.”
“Of course. I mean you shouldn't spend so much time alone, Aisha. Visit your sister. Visit the neighbors. Find some amusements for yourself.”
“I can't bear to see Sugar Street. I have no friends. I don't know anyone anymore. I can't stand to visit people.”
Turning his face away, the man said, “I want you to be brave and to take care of your health.”
“My health!” she exclaimed almost incredulously.
He persisted: “Yes. What's the point of sorrow?”
In spite of her agitated condition, she did not abandon the decorum she observed with him and replied, “What's the point of life, Papa?”
“Don't say that. God's reward for you will be great.”
Bowing her head to hide the tears in her eyes, she replied, “I want to go to Him to receive my reward. It won't come in this world, Papa”. She started to withdraw quietly but before leaving the balcony stopped a moment as if she had remembered something and asked, “How's your health today?”
He smiled and answered, “Fine, praise God, but what's important is your health, Aisha”. Then she was gone.
How could he relax in this house? He glanced down at the street again, and finally his eyes came to rest on Amina, who was returning from her daily circuit. Modestly attired in a coat and a white veil, she proceeded at a slow pace. How she had aged! Since he remembered that her mother had lived to a ripe old age, he was not especially concerned about his wife'shealth. But here she was at sixty-two looking at least ten years older than that.
It was quite a while before she arrived and asked him, “How are you, master?”
Raising his voice loud enough to allow the desired sharpness to reverberate in it, he said, “How are you yourself? God's will be done! You've been out since early this morning, lady.”
She smiled and replied, “I visited the shrines of al-Sayyida Zaynab and of al-Husayn. I pr
Now that she was home, his composure and peace of mind returned, for he sensed he could request anything he wanted without hesitation. “Is it right for you to leave me alone all this time?”
“You gave me permission, master. I haven't been gone long. It's necessary, master. We're badly in need of prayer. I entreated my master al-Husayn to give you back your health so you can go and come as you wish. And I also prayed for Aisha and the others.”
She got a chair and sat down. Then she asked, “Have you taken your medicine, master? I told Umm Hanafi…”
“I wish you had told her to do something nicer for me than that.”
“It's for your good health, master. At the mosque I heard a beautiful talk by Shaykh Abd al-Rahman. Master, he spoke about atonement for sin and how misdeeds can be wiped away. His words were very beautiful, master. I wish I could remember as well as I once did.”
“Your face is pale from your walk. It's just a matter of time before you become one of the doctor's regular patients.”
“Lord protect us! I only go out to visit the tombs of members of the Prophet's family. So how could any harm befall me?” Then she added, “Oh, master, I almost forgot. They're talking about the war everywhere. They say that Hitler has attacked.”
The man asked with interest, “Are you certain?”
“I heard it not once but a hundred times. 'Hitler attacked,… Hitler attacked.'”
To make her think she was not telling him anything he did not already know, the man observed, “People have been expecting this from one moment to the next.”
“God willing, it won't affect us, will it, master?”
“Did they say only Hitler and not Mussolini? Didn't you hear that other name too?”
“Just Hitler's name.”
“Will it affect us?” he asked himself. “Who knows?”