The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street by Naguib Mahfouz
This roof, with its inhabitants of chickens and pigeons and its arbor garden, was her beautiful, beloved world and her favorite place for relaxation out of the whole universe, about which she knew nothing. As usual at this hour, she set about caring for it. She swept it, watered the plants, fed the chickens and pigeons. Then for a long time, with smiling lips and dreamy eyes, she enjoyed the scene surrounding her. She went to the end of the garden and stood behind the interwoven, coiling vines, to gaze out through the openings at the limitless space around her.
She was awed by the minarets which shot up, making a profound impression on her. Some were near enough for her to see their lamps and crescent distinctly, like those of Qala'un and Barquq. Others appeared to her as complete wholes, lacking details, like the minarets of the mosques of al-Husayn, al-Ghuri, and al-Azhar. Still other minarets were at the far horizon and seemed phantoms, like those of the Citadel and Rifa'i mosques. She turned her face toward them with devotion, fascination, thanksgiving, and hope. Her spirit soared over their tops, as close as possible to the heavens. Then her eyes would fix on the minaret of the mosque of al-Husayn, the dearest one to her because of her love for its namesake. She looked at it affectionately, and her yearnings mingled with the sorrow that pervaded her every time she remembered she was not allowed to visit the son of the Prophet of God's daughter, even though she lived only minutes away from his shrine.
She sighed audibly and that broke the spell. She began to amuse herself by looking at the roofs and streets. The yearnings would not leave her. She turned her back on the wall. Looking at the unknown had overwhelmed her: both what is unknown to most people, the invisible spirit world, and the unknown with respect to her in particular, Cairo, even the adjacent neighborhood, from which voices reached her. What could this world of which she saw nothing but the minarets and roofs be like? A quarter of a century had passed while she was confined to this house, leaving it only on infrequent occasions to visit her mother in al-Khurunfush. Her husband escorted her on each visit in a carriage, because he could not bear for anyone to see his wife, either alone or accompanied by him.
She was neither resentful nor discontented, quite the opposite. All the same, when she peeked through the openings between the jasmine and the hyacinth bean vines, off into space, at the minarets and rooftops, her delicate lips would rise in a tender, dreamy smile. Where might the law school be where Fahmy was sitting at this moment? Where was the Khalil Agha School, which Kamal assured her was only a minute's trip from the mosque of al-Husayn? Before leaving the roof, she spread her hands out in prayer and called on her Lord: “God, I ask you to watch over my husband and children, my mother and Yasin, and all the people: Muslims and Christians, even the English, my Lord, but drive them from our land as a favor to Fahmy, who does not like them.”
7
WHEN AL-SAYYiD Ahmad Abd al-Jawad reached his store, situated in front of the mosque of Barquq on al-Nahhasin Street, his assistant, Jamil al-Hamzawi, had already opened and readied it for their customers. The proprietor greeted him courteously and, smiling sweetly, headed for his desk. Al-Hamzawi was fifty. He had spent thirty of these years in this shop as an assistant to the founder, al-Hajj Abd al-Jawad, and then to al-Sayyid Ahmad after the father's death. He remained loyal to his master both for the sake of his job and out of devotion. He revered and loved him the way everyone did who had any dealings with him, whether of business or friendship.
The truth was that he was dreaded and feared only in his own family. With everyone else - friends, acquaintances, and customershe was a different person. He received his share of respect and esteem but above all else was loved. He was loved for the charm of his personality more than for any of his many other fine characteristics. His acquaintances did not know what he was like at home. The members of his family did not know him as others did.
His store was of medium size. Containers of coffee beans, rice, nuts, dried fruit, and soap were crammed on the shelves and piled by the Avails. The owner's desk with its ledgers, papers, and telephone stood on the left opposite the entrance. To the right of where he sat there was a green safe mounted in the wall. It looked reassuringly solid, and its color was reminiscent of bank notes. In the center of the wall over the desk hung an ebony frame containing an Arabic inscription illuminated in gold that read: “In the name of God.”
Business was light early in the morning. The proprietor began to review the accounts of the previous day with a zeal inherited from his father but preserved with his own abundant vitality. Meanwhile al-Hamzawi stood by the entrance, his arms folded against his chest. He was reciting to himself the Qur'an verseshe knew best. His voice could not be heard, but the continual motion of his lips gave him away. From time to time a faint whisper slipped out from a sibilant s sound. He continued his recitation until the arrival of the blind shaykh who had been retained to recite the Qur'an every morning.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad would raise hishead from his ledger every so often to listen to the recitation or look out at the street and the endless flow of passersby, hand and horse carts, and the Suares omnibus, which was so big and heavy it could scarcely wobble along. There were singing vendors who chanted jingles about their tomatoes, mallow greens, and okra, each in his own style. The commotion did not interfere with the proprietor's concentration. He had grown accustomed to it over a period of more than thirty years. He was so lulled by the noise that he was disturbed if it ceased.
A customer came in and al-Hamzawi waited on him. Some friends and neighbors who were merchants stopped by. They liked to visit with al-Sayyid Ahmad, even if only for a short time. They would exchange greetings and enjoy one of his pleasantries or witty sayings. They made him feel proud of his skill as a gifted storyteller. His conversation had brilliant touches relating to the popular culture that he had absorbed not from schooling, since he had never finished primary school, but from reading newspapers and befriending an elite group of gentry, government officials, and attorneys. His native wit, graciousness, charm, and status as a prosperous merchant qualified him to associate with them on an equal footing. He had molded a mentality for himself different from the limited mercantile one. The love, respect, and honor these fine people bestowed on him doubled his pride. When one of them sincerely and truthfully told him, “If you had had the opportunity to study law, you would have been an exceptionally eloquent attorney,” this statement inflated his ego. All the same, he was good at hiding his pride with his charm, modesty, and affability. None of these visitors stayed long. They went off one after the other, and the pace of work increased in the shop.
All at once a man rushed in as though propelled by a powerful hand. He stood in the middle of the store, squinting his narrow eyes to see better. He aimed them at the owner's desk. Although he was 10 more than three meters away, his efforts to make him out were to no avail. So he called out, “Is al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad here?”
The proprietor replied with a smile, “Welcome, Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al-Samad. Have a seat. You bless us with your presence.”
The man bent hishead. It so happened that as al-Hamzawi approached to greet him, the visitor, who did not notice his outstretched hand, sneezed unexpectedly. Al-Hamzawi drew back and took out his handkerchief. A smile and a frown collided on his face. The shaykh plunged toward the desk, muttering, “Praise God, Lord of the universe”. He raised the edge of his cloak and wiped his face with it. He sat down on the chair his host offered him.
The shaykh appeared to be in enviable health for his age, which was over seventy-five. If it had not been for his weak eyes, his eyelids that were inflamed at the edges, and his sunken mouth, he would have had nothing to complain of. He was wrapped in a faded, threadbare cloak. Although he could have exchanged it for a better one through the donations of benefactors, he clung to it. He said that al-Husayn had blessed him in a dream and thus had given the cloak he wore an excellence that would not fade away. The shaykh had performed miracles by penetrating the barriers of normal human knowledge to the invisib
The owner gestured to his assistant to prepare the usual present of rice, coffee, and soap for the shaykh. Then he said to welcome him, “We've missed you, Shaykh Mutawalli. We haven't had the pleasure of seeing you since the holiday of Ashura.”
The man replied bluntly, “I'm absent when I think fit and present when I choose. You should not ask why.”
The proprietor, who was used to his style, stammered, “Even when you are absent, your blessing is present.”
The shaykh did not seem touched by this praise. On the contrary, he shook hishead in a way that showed his patience was exhausted. He said gruffly, “Haven't I warned you more than once not to speak to me until I address you? You should be silent.”
Peeling an urge to vex him, the proprietor said, “Sorry, Shaykh Abd al-Samad. I forgot your warning. My excuse is that I forgot it because you have been absent so long.”
The shaykh struck his hands together and shouted, “An excuse is worse than a sin”. Pointing his index finger in a threatening way, he continued: “If you persist in disobeying me, I'll be unable to accept your gift.”
The proprietor sealed his lips and spread out his hands in submission, constraining himself to be quiet this time. Shaykh Mutawalli waited to be sure of his obedience. After clearing his throat he said, “I commence with a prayer in honor of Muhammad, the beloved master of creation.”
The proprietor responded from his depths, “God's blessing and peace oti him.”
' praise your father as he deserves; may God have plentiful compassion for him and grant him a spacious abode in His paradise. I can almost see him sitting where you are. The difference between the two of you being that your late father retained the turban and you have traded it in for this fez.”
The proprietor murmured with a smile, “May God forgive us.”
The shaykh yawned till tears came to his eyes. Then he spoke again: “I pray to God that He may grant your children prosperity and piety: Yasin, Khadija, Fahmy, Aisha, and Kamal and their mother. Amen.”
Hearing the shaykh pronounce the names Khadija and Aisha sounded odd to al-Sayyid Ahmad, even though he was the one who had told him their names a long time ago, so he could write amulet inscriptions for them. It was not the first time the shaykh had pronounced their names, nor would it be the last, but never would the name of any of his women be mentioned outside their chambers, even on the tongue of Shaykh Mutawalli, without its having a strange and unpleasant impact on him, even if only for a short time. All the same, he muttered, “Amen, O Lord of the universe.”
The shaykh said with a sigh, “Then I ask God the Benefactor to return to us our leader Abbas, backed by one of the caliph's armies, which are without beginning or end.”
“We so ask Him and it would not be difficult for Him.”
The shaykh's voice rose as he said angrily, “And that He afflict the English and their allies with a shocking defeat, leaving them without a leg to stand on.”
“May our Lord carry them all off”
The shaykh shook hishead sorrowfully. He said with anguish, “Yesterday I was walking in the Muski when two Australian soldiers blocked my way. They told me to hand over everything I had. So I emptied my pockets for them and brought out the one thing I had, an ear of corn. One of them took it and kicked it like a ball. The other snatched my turban. He unwound the cloth from it, ripped it, and flung it in my face.”
The proprietor listened closely, fighting off the temptation to smile. He quickly disguised it by an exaggerated display of disapproval. He shouted in condemnation, “May God destroy and annihilate them.”
The other man concluded his account: “I raised my hand to the sky and called out, 'Almighty God, rip their nation to shreds the way they ripped my turban cloth.'”
“Your prayer will be answered, God willing.”
The shaykh leaned back and closed his eyes to rest a little. Meanwhile the proprietor scrutinized his face and smiled. Then the religious guide opened his eyes and addressed him in a calm voice and a new tone, giving warning of a new subject. He said, “What an astute and gallant man you are, Ahmad, you son of Abd al-Jawad.”
The proprietor smiled with pleasure. He responded in a low voice, “I ask God's forgiveness, Shaykh Abd al-Samad…”
The shaykh interrupted him, saying, “Not so fast. I'm the sort of person who praises only to clear the way to speak the truth, for the sake of encouragement, son of Abd al-Jawad.”
A wary circumspection was evident in the eyes of the proprietor. He muttered, “May our Lord be gracious to us.”
The shaykh gestured at him with his gnarled forefinger and asked him threateningly, “What do you have to say as a devout Muslim concerning your lust for women?”
The proprietor was accustomed to his candor. Thushe was not troubled by his assault. After a brief laugh he replied, “How can you fault me for that? Didn't the Messenger of God (the blessing and peace of God upon him) speak of his love for perfume and women?”
The shaykh frowned and looked even grimmer in protest against the proprietor's logic, which he did not like. He countered, “Licit acts are not the same as forbidden ones, you son of Abd al-Jawad. Marriage is not the same as chasing after hussies.”
The proprietor stared at nothing in particular and said in a serious tone, “I have never allowed myself to offend against honor or dignity at all. Praise God for that.”
The shaykh struck his hands on his knees and exclaimed with astonishment and disgust, “A weak excuse fit only for a weak person. Immorality is damnable even if it is with a debauched woman. Your father, may God have mercy on him, was crazy about women. He married twenty times. Why don't you follow his path and shun the sinner's?”
The proprietor laughed out loud. He asked, “Are you one of God's saints or a nuptial official? My father was almost sterile; so he married many times. Even though I was his only child, his property was split up between me and his last four wives, not to mention what he lost during his lifetime in divorce settlements. Now I'm the father of three males and two females. It wouldn't be proper for me to slip into more marriages and have to divide the wealth that God has bestowed on us. Don't forget, Shaykh Mutawalli, that the professional women entertainers of today are the slave girls of yesterday, whose purchase and sale God made legal. More than anything else, God is forgiving and merciful.”
The shaykh moaned. Shaking his torso right and left, he said, “How adept you are, you sons of Adam, in embellishing evil. By God, you son of Abd al-Jawad, were it not for my love of you, I would not suffer you to speak to me, you fornicator.”
The proprietor spread out his hands and said with a smile, “God grant…”
The shaykh snorted in annoyance and yelled, “If it weren't for your jokes, you'd be the most perfect of men.”
“Perfection is God's alone.”
The slaykh turned toward him and motioned with his hand as if to say, “Let's put this aside”. Then he asked in the tone of an interrogator tightening his grip around his victim's throat, “And wine? What do you say about that?”
Suddenly the proprietor's spirits flagged. His discomfort was apparen: in his eyes. He remained silent for some time. The shaykh sensed submission in his silence. He shouted in triumph,“Isn't it forbidden? No one would succumb to it who strives to obey and love God.”
The proprietor interrupted with the zeal of a man fending off a veritable disaster: “I certainly strive to obey and love Him.”
“By word or deed?”
Although he had an answer ready, he took some time to think about it before replying. He was not accustomed to busying himself with introspection or self-analysis. In this w