The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street by Naguib Mahfouz
He found himself wondering who her fiance was. Kamal had not been able to scrutinize the young man, although he would have loved to. He hoped if the man was in the civil service that his rank was inferior to that of a teacher. But what were these childish thoughts? It was embarrassing. As for the pain, a person as experienced with it as he was should not worry, since he would know from experience that its fate like that of all things was death. For the first time, he noticed the toys that were spread before his eyes. The display was beautiful and well arranged. Included in it were all the kinds of toys that children adore: trains, cars, cradles, musical instruments, and dollhouses with gardens. He was so drawn to this sight by the strange force welling up in his tortured soul that he could not take his eyes off the shop window. In his childhood, he had not been allowed to enjoy the paradise of toys. He had grown up harboring this unsatisfied longing, and now it was too late to gratify it. People who spoke of the happiness of childhood what did they know? Who could declare authoritatively that he had been a happy child? How foolish this wretched and unexpected desire was to become a child again, like that wooden one playing in a beautiful make-believe garden…. The impulse was both absurd and sad. By their very nature children tended to be unbearable creatures. Perhaps it was only his vocation that had taught him how to communicate with them and how to guide them. But what would life be like if he returned to his childhood while retaining his adult mind and memories? He would play once more in the roof garden but with a heart filled with memories of Aida. He would go to al-Abbasiya in 1914 and see A'ida playing in the yard. Yet he would be aware of the treatment he would receive at her hands in 1924 and thereafter. Speaking to his father with a lisp, he would disclose that war would break out in 1939 and that al-Sayyid Ahmad would die following an air raid. What foolish thoughts these were…. All the same, they were better than focusing on this new disappointment, which he had just encountered on Fuad I Street. They were better than thinking about Budur, her fiance, and Kamal's relationship to her. Perhaps unconsciously he was atoning for some past error. How and when had that mistake occurred? Whether an act, a word, or a situation, it was the cause of the torment he was suffering. If he came to know himself thoroughly, he could easily separate the cause from the pains it brought. The battle was not over. The capitulation had not yet taken place. Nor should it. Perhaps this was the reason for the infernal vacillation that had left him biting his fingernails while Budur strolled by arm in arm with her fiance. He would have to think twice about this torment that concealed within it a mysterious delight. Had he not experienced it once before, when he was in the desert at al-Abbasiya, looking at the light from the window of Aida's bridal chamber? Had hishesitation with Budur been a trick to put himself into a comparable situation so that he could revive the old sensations, reliving their pleasure and their pain? Before lifting a hand to write about God, the spirit, and matter, he ought to know himself, his individual personality, that of Kamal Effendi Ahmad… Kamal Ahmad… no, just plain Kamal. Then he would be able to create himself anew. He should start that night by reviewing his diary in order to examine the past very carefully. It would be a night without sleep, but not his first. His collection of them could be put into a single album under the title “Sleepless Nights”. He should never say that his life had been in vain, for he would leave behind some bones future generations could play with. Budur had vanished from his life forever, and this truth was as doleful as a funeral dirge. She had left behind not a single affectionate memory, not an embrace or a kiss, not even a touch or a kind word.
He no longer feared insomnia. In the past he had faced it alone. Today he had countless ways of diverting his mind and heart. He would go to Atiya in her new house on Muhammad Ali Street. They would continue their endless conversation.
Last time he had told her with a diction slurred by drink, “We're perfect f}r each other.”
With resigned irony she had answered, “You're very sweet when you're drunk.”
He had continued: “What a happy couple we'll make if we ever get married.”
Frowning, she had said, “Don't make fun of me. I've been a lady in every sense of the word.”
“Yes. Yes. You're more delectable than ripe fruit.”
She had pinched him mischievously, observing, “That's what you say, but if I asked you for an extra twenty piasters, you'd flee.”
“What we have goes way beyond money.”
Giving him a look of protest, she had remarked, “But I have two children who prefer money to talk about a loving relationship.”
His sorrow and intoxication having reached their climax, he had said sarcastically, “I'm thinking of following Madam Jalila's example and repenting. When I become a Sufi, I'll leave you my entire fortune.”
Giggling, she had said, “If repentance catches up with you, that will be the end of us.”
He had laughed loudly and answered, “If repentance would harm women like you, I'll certainly forget about it.”
This v/as his refuge from insomnia. Realizing that he had tarried by the toy display long enough, he turned and walked away.
163
KHALO, THE proprietor of the Star Tavern, asked, “Is it true, my dear, that they're going to close all the bars?”
With confident self-assurance, Yasin replied, “Inconceivable, Khalo! The deputies say all sorts of things when the budget is being debated, and the government complacently promises to investigate the deputies' requests at the earliest opportunity. But this has a way of never arriving.”
The members of Yasin's group in the bar on Muhammad Ali Street vied with each other to offer their comments.
The personnel director said, “For as long as anyone can remember they've been promising to throw the British out of Egypt, to open a new university, and to widen al-Khalig Street. Have any of these pledges been kept, Khalo?”
The honorary dean of pensioners observed, “Perhaps the deputy proposing that had drunk some of the lethal wartime liquor and was attempting to get even.”
The attorney said, “No matter what, bars on streets visited by foreigners won't be touched. So, Khalo, if the worst happens, just buy into some saloon or other. Like buildings that stand cheek by jowl, dramshop owners support each other.”
The head clerk from mortmain trusts remarked, “If the English advanced on the Abdin Palace with their tanks over a trivial question like returning al-Nahhas to power, do you think they'd stand for having the bars closed?”
In addition to Yasin's group, some local merchants were in the room. All the same, the head clerk suggested blending song with drink: “Let's sing 'Prisoner of love.'”
Khalo scurried back to his place behind the counter, and the friends began to sing, “What humiliations the prisoner of love experiences”. Inebriation's tune rang out more clearly than any other one, and the grimaces of the merchants showed their disdain for this performance. But the singing did not last long. Yasin was the first to drop out, and the others followed suit, leaving only the head clerk to finish the piece. The ensuing silence was interrupted only by slurping and smacking noises or by the handclap of a patron ordering a drink or a snack.
Then Yasin asked, “Is there some proven way to induce pregnancy?'”
The aged civil servant protested, “You keep harping on that question and repeating it. By God, have patience, brother.”
The head clerk observed, “There's no cause for alarm, Yasin Effendi. Your daughter's going to get pregnant.”
Smiling fatuously, Yasin said, “She's a blooming bride and the belle of Sugar Street. But she's the first girl in our family not to get pregnant during the first year of marriage. That's why her mother is concerned.”
“And her father too, it seems.”
Laughing, Yasin responded, “When a wife is upset, her husband is too.”
“If a man recalled how nasty children are, he'd detest pregnancy.”
“So what! People usually get married to have children.”
“That's right! If
Yasin finished his drink and said, “I'm afraid my nephew may hold this opinion.”
“Some men want children so they can regain a bit of their lost freedom while their wives are busy with the kids.”
Yasin exclaimed, “How absurd! A woman may be nursing one child and rocking another, but she'll still glare at her husband and ask, ‘Where were you? Why did you stay out so late?’ All the same, even the best minds have been unable to improve on this universal system.”
“Whit's stopping them?”
“Their wives, who don't let them have time to think about this issue….”
“Have no fear, Yasin Effendi. Your daughter's husband can't forget your son's favor in getting him a government job.”
“Anything can be forgotten”. The alcohol had begun to addle his brain. Laughing, he continued: “Besides, my darling son's out of power right now.”
“Oh! This time it seems that the Wafd has settled in for a long stay.”
The attorney said grandiloquently, “If things follow their natural course in Egypt, the Wafd will stay in power forever.”
“This idea would be more palatable,” Yasin replied cheerfully, “if my son had not left the Wafd.”
“Don't forget the traffic accident at al-Qassasin. Had the king lost his life, the enemies of the Wafd would have been finished.”
“The king's fine.”
“But Prince Muhammad Ali has his ceremonial uniform ready, just in case. He's always been sympathetic to the Wafd.”
“Whoever is on the throne no matter what his name is will be an enemy of the Wafd by virtue of his position, just as surely as whiskey and sweets don't go together.”
Laughing drunkenly, Yasin said, “Perhaps you're right. They say that a man even a day older than you is a year wiser, and some of you have reached your dotage while others are almost there.”
“God protect you! You're forty-seven!”
“At any rate I'm the youngest.”
Swaying back and forth drunkenly but proudly, he snapped his fingers and added, “One's real age shouldn't be measured by years but by the level of intoxication you attain. During the war years, alcoholic beverages have deteriorated in quality and in taste, but the effect is still the same. Waking up the next morning you have a pounding headache, you need pincers to pry open your eyes, and your breath reeks of alcohol when you belch. But I tell you that any side effects of inebriation are trivial compared to its pleasures. Often a brother will ask, ‘What of its impact on your health?’ Yes, my health isn't what it was. A man of forty-seven today would be no match for one that age back in the old days. This is a sign that everything has become more valuable during the war except age…. In these trying times, a man of forty asks experts for prescriptions to fortify him and a bridegroom on his honeymoon is barely strong enough to stay afloat.”
“The good old days! The whole world is nostalgic for them.”
With the melodies of intoxication reverberating in his voice, Yasin continued: “The good old days God have mercy on my father! He frequently beat me to keep me from joining the violent demonstrations of the revolution. But a fellow who can't be frightened off by English bombs is not going to be scared away by a scolding. We met at the coffeehouse of Ahmad Abduh, where we plan tied the demonstrations and the bombings.”
“This same old recording! Tell me, Yasin Effendi: Were you as heavy then as you are today?”
“Yes, or even heavier… but in the heat of the struggle, I was as energetic as a bee. The day of the great battle, I walked at the head of the demonstration with my brother, who was the first martyr of the nationalist movement. I heard the whine of the bullet as it sailed past my ear and landed in my brother. What a memory! If he had lived, he would have been one of the select group of cabinet ministers who first rose to prominence during the revolution.”
“But you're the one who survived!”
“Yes, but it wasn't possible for me to become a cabinet minister with only the elementary certificate. Moreover, in our struggle, we fought expecting death, not high office. Sa'd Zaghlul marched in my brother's funeral procession, and the leader of the students introduced me to him. That's another momentous memory.”
“In view of your dedication to the revolutionary cause, how did you find time to raise cain and fall in love?”
“Listen to that, will you! Aren't the soldiers who screw women in the streetshere the same ones who routed Rommel? Armed struggle has no distaste for fun. Don't you realize that alcohol is an essential part of heroism? The combatant and the drunkard are brothers, you genius.”
“Didn't Sa'd Zaghlul say anything to you at your brother's funeral?”
The attorney answered for Yasin: “Sa'd told him, wish you'd been the martyr and not your brother.' ”
They laughed, for they had reached the point of laughing first and asking why later. Yasin joined in the laughter magnanimously and then continued his lecture: “He did not say that, God rest his soul. He was polite, unlike you, and knew how to have a good time. For this reason, he was broad-minded. He was a politician, a freedom fighter, a man of letters, a philosopher, and a jurist. One word from him could mean life or death.”
“May God be compassionate to him.”
“And to everyone else. All the dead deserve God's mercy, by the very fact that they've lost their lives … even the prostitute, the pimp, and the mother who sent her son to fetch her boyfriend.”
“Would a mother do that?”
“Everything you can imagine and lots that you can't exist in this life.”
“Wouldn't she find someone to send besides her son?”
“Who takes better care of a woman than her son? And aren't you all products of sexual intercourse?”
“Legal intercourse.”
“A mere formality… it comes down to the same thing. I've known unfortunate prostitutes whose bed didn't entertain a lover for a week or more. Show me any of your mothers who went that long without a visit from her husband.”
“I've never known any people besides the Egyptians to be so interested in discussing their mothers' reputations.”
“We're not very polite.”
Yasin laughed and replied, “Time has disciplined us too often. When excessive emphasis is placed on something, the opposite occurs. That's why we're rude but generally good-natured. In the end, most of us repent.”
“I'm a pensioner, and I haven't repented yet.”
“Repentance doesn't follow the civil service structure. Besides, you're not doing anything wrong. You get drunk several hours every night, and there's no harm in that. One day ill health or the doctor they amount to the same thing will prevent you from drinking. By nature we're weak. Otherwise we would not have developed a taste for liquor and we would not put up with married life. With the passing days we grow ever weaker, but our desires remain limitless. How absurd: We suffer and then get drunk again. Our hair goes gray, betraying our age, and some insolent oaf accosts you on the street, saying, ‘You shouldn't be chasing women now that your hair is white.’ Glory to God! ‘What difference does it make to you whether I'm young or old and chasing a woman or a donkey?’ You may imagine at times that people are conspiring with your wife against you. Add to that, the officer's truncheon and the aggravations of coquetry, for even the serving girl struts flirtatiously through the vegetable market. You find yourself in a quarrelsome world without a friend to your name save the bottle. Then along come mercenary physicians to tell you as bluntly as possible: ‘Don't drink!’ ”
“Even so, do you deny that we love this world with all our hearts?”
” With all our hearts! Even evil has some good in it. Even the English have redeeming qualities. I once knew some of them intimately. I had some English friends during the revolutionary era.”
The attorney cried out, “But you were fighting against them! Have you forgotten?”
“Yes… yes. There's a time and place for everyth
“ ‘Long live Yasin! Long live Yasin!’ But what were you doing in the mosque of al-Husayn?”
“Answer him! This is an extremely important point.”
Yasin laughed and replied, “We were at the Friday prayer sendee. My father used to take us with him to the Friday prayers. Don't you believe it? Ask the people at al-Husayn.”
“You prayed to butter up your father?”
“By God… don't think ill of us. We're a religious family. Yes, we're dissolute inebriates, but we all plan to repent eventually.”
Moaning, the attorney asked, “Shouldn't we sing a bit more?”
Yasin shot back, “Yesterday when I left the bar singing, a policeman stopped me and cried out to warn me: ‘Mister!’ I asked him, ‘Don't I have a right to sing?’ He answered, ‘Screeching after midnight is forbidden.’ I protested, ‘But I'm singing!’ He said sharply, ‘As far as the law's concerned it's all the same thing.’ I asked, ‘What about bombs that explode after midnight - shouldn't that be considered screeching?’ He answered threateningly, ‘It's plain that you want to spend the night at the station.’ I backed away, saying, ‘No, I'd rather spend the night at home.’ How can we be a civilized nation when we're ruled by soldiers? At home you find your wife on the lookout for you, at the ministry there's your boss, and it's said that even in the grave two angels with truncheons will be waiting to examine you.”
The attorney suggested again, “Let's have a tidbit of singing to go with our drinks.”
The dean of all pensioners cleared his throat and began to chant: