The Cairo Trilogy: Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street by Naguib Mahfouz
At first the day was quiet. He was able to reflect on his obvious triumph and to congratulate himself. Yet, as the day progressed, it started to seem dull or even dead. He could not think of any reason for this, unless it was a reaction to his nervous exhaustion of the last two days, in fact of the last months to a lesser degree. The truth was that his affair with Zanuba now appeared to have been a tragedy from start to finish. He had difficulty accepting this first defeat in his long string of romances, and it made a deep impression on hisheart and imagination. He was enraged whenever his mind whispered that his youth had fled, for he was proud of his vigor, good looks, and vitality. He clung to the explanation he had provided the woman the previous evening -r that she did not love him because trash can only appreciate trash. All day long he yearned for the reunion with his cronies. As the time neared, he grew impatient and rushed off to Muhammad Iffat's house in al-Gamaliya to visit with him before the others trooped in.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad proclaimed at once, “I'm finished with her.”
Muhammad Iffat asked, “Zanuba?”
He nodded in the affirmative, and the other man asked smilingly, “So quickly?”
Laughing sarcastically, al-Sayyid Ahmad answered, “Would you believe she demanded I marry her? I got fed up.”
Muhammad Iffat laughed scornfully and said, “Not even Zubayda herself would think ofthat. How amazing! Her excuse is that you pampered her beyond her wildest dreams. So she wanted even more.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad muttered derisively, “She's crazy.”
Muhammad Iffat laughed again and said, “Perhaps love for you affected her brain?”
“What a jab,” he thought. “Laugh to compensate for the pain.”
“I told you she's crazy. That says it all.”
“What did you do?”
“I told her bluntly that I was leaving, never to return. Then I left.”
“How did she take it?”
“She cursed and threatened me. She said, ‘Go to hell.’ So I left the lunatic. It was a mistake from the very beginning.”
Shaking hishead with satisfaction, Muhammad Iffat replied, “Yes. We've all slept with her but never thought of having an affair with her.”
“You've pounced and roamed with the lions only to be routed by a mouse,” he told himself. “Hide your shame even from your closest friends and praise God that it's all over.”
But in fact nothing really was over, for she lived on in his imagination. In the following dayshe realized that he could not think of her in the abstract. Her image was always linked to a deep pain, which spread and increased. It became clear to him that this pain was not caused merely by anger over outraged honor but by regret and longing. Apparently it was a tyrannical emotion that demanded nothing less than the destruction of the person experiencing it. All the same, he was fiercely proud of the victory he had recently won and indulged himself in the hope of eventually vanquishing his high-handed and traitorous emotions. For whatever reason, peace of mind had left him. He spent his time in thought, mulling over his sorrows, tormented by thingshe imagined and remembered. He occasionally felt so weak he considered telling Muhammad Iffat about the pains tormenting him. Indeed he went so far as to think once of asking for Zubayda'shelp. But these moments of weakness were like bouts of fever, and when he recovered from one he would shake hishead with perplexed amazement.
His crisis lent a coarseness to his behavior, although he resisted as much as possible, relying on his forbearance and civility. His self-control was lessened only to a limited degree, and that change passed unnoticed except by friends and close acquaintances accustomed to his mildness, understanding, and tact. The members of his family were not aware of any shift, for his conduct with them remained much the same. What differed was the sentiment underlying his behavior. His feigned ferocity became so real that only he was aware of its intensity. Yet he did not escape his own cruelty. In fact, he may have been its primary target. He attacked himself, scolding and railing against his humiliation. Eventually he began to acknowledge his disgrace, wretchedness, and loss of youth.
He consoled himself by saying, “I won't make a move. I won't humiliate myself any further. Let my thoughts wander in all directions. Let my emotions be convulsed repeatedly. I'll stay right where I am, and only the compassionate and forgiving God will know the pain I'm suffering.”
He would suddenly find himself wondering whether she was still on ttie houseboat or not. If still there, did she have enough of his money to make her independent of other men? Or was the other man meeting her there? He frequently asked himself questions like these, and each time the torture he experienced leached from his spirit to his flesh and bones, breaking him down bit by bit. The only time he felt at peace was when he recollected that final scene in the houseboat. He had left her with the impression, which he had almost shared, that he was repudiating and shunning her. But he c ould not help recalling scenes recording his humiliation and weakness, and others of unforgettable happiness. His imagination also created fresh scenes in which they met again, quarreled, settled accounts, scolded each other, and then were reconciled and reunited…. This was a dream he saw frequently in his inner wodd, which was teeming with countless varieties of sorrow and happiness…. But why should he not discover for himself what had become of the houseboat and its resident? After dark he could go there without being seen by anyone.
Concealing himself in the shadows like a thief, he set off When he passed the houseboat he saw light filtering out from the shutters, but he did not know whether she or some new tenant was benefiting from this light. Yet hisheart felt it was her light, not someone else's. Looking at the houseboat, he imagined that he could detect the mistress's spirit and that all he needed to do to see her face to face was to knock on the door. When it opened, there she would be, just as in the old days, both the happy and the miserable ones. But what would he do if a man's face confronted him? She really was close, but how remote…. He had been eternally forbidden use of this gangplank. Oh, had this situation appeared in any of his dreams? She had told him to leave. She had said it from her heart and then had proceeded on with her life as though she had never known him and was totally oblivious to his existence. Such a cruel person could not be expected to pay attention to a plea for mercy or forgiveness.
He went there repeatedly. It became a customary pastime for him to loiter in front of the houseboat after night fell and before he went to his friends' party. He did not seem to want to do anything in particular, except satisfy an insane but sterile curiosity.
He was about to go on his way one evening when the door opened and a figure he could not see clearly in the shadows emerged. Hisheart pounded with fear and hope. He crossed the road quickly and stood beside a tree, his eyes staring into the darkness. The figure crossed the wooden gangplank to the road and set off in the direction of the Zamalek Bridge. He could tell it was a woman. Hisheart told him it was Zanuba. He followed her at a distance, not knowing how the evening would end. Whether it was his former mistress or not, what did he have in mind? … Yet he continued on, concentrating his attention on the figure. When she neared the bridge and got in range of the lights, his hunch was confirmed. He was now certain that it was Zanuba. But she was cloaked in the traditional black wrap, which she had not worn during their affair. He was surprised by that and wondered what it implied. His suspicion was and how many he had that there was an incriminating reason for it. He saw her approach the stop for the Giza streetcar and wait there. He walked beside the fields until he passed the point opposite her and then crossed to her side, where he stood out of sight. When the streetcar came, she boarded it. He raced over and clambered up, taking a seat at the end of the bench nearest the steps, so that he could watch people get off. At every stop he looked out, no longer apprehensive about being discovered. Even if he were caught, she would have no way of knowing that he had been waiting for her in front of the houseboat and spying on her. She got off at al-Ataba al-Khadra. Climbing down, he saw her walk towa
When they reached the Husayn district, afraid of losing her in the crowd of women wearing wraps, he watched her even more closely. The point of this covert pursuit escaped him, but he was driven fDrward by a painful, futile, and even violent curiosity, impossible to oppose. She walked past the front of the mosque and made her way to Watawit Alley, where the pedestrians were fewer and the beggars more persistent. She continued on as far as al-Gamaliya and turned into Palace of Desire Alley. Although afraid Yasin would run into him or see him from a window, al-Sayyid Ahmad trailed after her. If he met his son he could claim he was going to visit Ghunaym Hamidu, a neighbor of Yasin's in Palace of Desire Alley and the owner of an oil-pressing establishment. Before he knew what was happening she had entered the first cul-de-sac, which had only one house - Yasin's. Hisheart pounded and his feet felt heavy. He knew the residents of the first two floors. The families that lived there could have no conceivable link to Z anuba. He was so anxious and uneasy that his eyes looked every which way. But he found himself going into the cul-de-sac without worrying about the consequences. He went close enough to the front door to hear her footsteps as she climbed the stairs. Entering the stairwell, he raised hishead to listen. He heard her pass the first door and then the second. Then she was knocking on Yasin's door. Breathing heavily, he remained nailed to his spot. He turned hishead, feeling weak and on the verge of collapse. He sighed deeply, pulled himself away, and retraced his steps. He could not see the street, his mind was so crowded with jumbled thoughts and ideas.
Yasin was the man! Did Zanuba know he was Yasin's father? He tried to force peace into hisheart as though pounding a thick stopper into a narrow opening. He reminded himself that he had never mentioned any of his children in her presence. Besides, it was incredible that Yasin should know about this secret. He remembered how Yasin had come a few days before to tell him of the divorce from Maryam with the troubled look of a person who knew he was at fault. But his expression had also been innocent and sincere, untainted by any suspicion directed against his father. Of all the hypothetical conjectureshe might entertain, the one he could never accept was the thought that Yasin would knowingly steal his mistress. Indeed, how would Yasin know his father was having or had had an affair with any woman? There was nothing for him to worry about in this regard. Even if Zanuba knew he was related to Yasin or learned it one day, she would never tell Yasin for fear of ending their relationship. He continued walking along, postponing his visit with his friends. First he needed to catch his breath and to restore calm to his soul. Although tired and exhausted, he walked in the direction of al-Ataba.
“You wanted to know and now you do. Shouldn't you have forgotten the whole matter and been patient? Praise God that circumstances didn't bring you face to face with Yasin in a scandalous way. Yasin's the man. When did she meet him? Where? How many times did she betray you with your son, without your being aware of it? These are questions for which you'll never attempt to find the answers. Assume the worst to allow your aching head to get some rest. Yasin's the man! He said he divorced Maryam because she was impolite. It would have made sense for him to offer an explanation like that when he divorced his first wife, Zaynab if you hadn't learned the true cause when it all happened. You'll know the truth one day. But what do you care about truth? Are you still eager to chase after it? Your mind's devastated, and your heart's tormented. Is it possible you're jealous of Yasin? No, this isn't jealousy. To the contrary, it's almost a consolation. If it's inevitable that you're to be slain, then let your son be the assassin. Yasin's an extension of you. So part of you was defeated and part of you won. You're both the victim and the victor. Yasin has reversed the outcome of the battle. You were drinking a mixture of pain and defeat. Now triumph and solace have been added to the blend. You won't grieve about losing Zanuba anymore. You've been too confident. Promise not to omit time from your calculations in the future. If only you could pass this advice on to Yasin so he isn't caught off guard when his turn comes. You should be happy. There's no cause for remorse. You'll need to approach life with a new strategy, a new heart, and a new mind. Let Yasin carry the banner. You'll recover from your dizziness, and everything will proceed as though nothing had happened. But you won't be able to transform the events of the last few days into the usual series of anecdotes to be shared over drinks with your friends. These frightening times have taught you that many things need to be hidden away in your chest. Oh… how I long for a drink.”
In the following days, al-Sayyid Ahmad proved that he was stronger than his misfortunes. His feet firmly on the ground, he looked to the future. The facts of Yasin's divorce reached him by way of Mr. Ali Abd al-Rahim, who had it from Ghunaym Hamidu and others, but these narrators did not know the identity of the woman whose escapade had provoked Maryam's divorce.
Al-Saa/yid Ahmad smiled. He laughed a long time over everything. Then, on his way to Muhammad Iffat's house one evening, he felt such a horrible heaviness in his upper back and head that he gasped for breath. It was not an entirely new sensation. Of late he had frequently been afflicted by headaches, but none had been as severe as this. When he complained about his condition to Muhammad Iffat, the latter man ordered some iced lemonade for him. Al-Sayyid Ahmad stayed at the party to the end but awoke the next day in worse shape than before. He was worried enough to consider consulting a physician. The fact was that he never thought of seeing a doctor except in the most dire circumstances.
102
OBJECTS, LIKE words, take on new meanings as circumstances change. The mansion of the Shaddad family was hardly lacking in grandeur for Kamal, but on that evening in December it appeared in a splendid new form suitable for a rite of passage. Lights had been strung over the structure until every segment was brightly illuminated. Each corner and wall wore a necklace of brilliant pearls. Electric lights of different colors sparkled over the surface from rooftop to ground and along the garden wall with its massive entrance. The flowers and fruit of the trees seemed transformed into red, green, and white lamps, and light flowed from all the windows of the house. Everything jubilantly proclaimed a wedding.
When Kamal first saw this as he approached, he felt transported to the kingdom of light. The sidewalk opposite the house was jammed with boys, and the entryway was strewn with golden sand. The gate was wide open, as was the door of the men's reception room, which had been prepared to receive the guests, its big chandelier aglow. The large upper balcony was filled with a resplendent group of young ladies in magnificent evening gowns. Shaddad Bey and men of the family stood at the entrance to the reception hall welcoming the arrivals. The porch was graced by a marvelous orchestra, and the music could be heard as far away as the desert.
Kamal quickly cast an all-inclusive glance around him, wondering whether A'ida was on the upper balcony with the girls who were looking down. Had she seen him enter with the other guests, his large head and celebrated nose introducing his lanky frame, formal attire, and the overcoat on his arm? He felt ill at ease and, unlike the others, did not go to the reception hall. Instead, he took “his” path, which he had followed to the rear garden so often in the past. Husayn Shaddad had suggested this idea to allow their group as much time together as possible in the beloved gazebo. Kamal seemed to be wading into a sea of light, for he found the door of the rear reception room open too. It was all lit up and crowded with guests, and the upper balcony was swarming with beautiful ladies. The gazebo was deserted except for Isma'il Latif, who wore an elegant black suit that lent his pugnacious appearance a charm Kamal had never observed before.
Isma'il Latif glanced at him and said, “Superb! But why did you bring an overcoat?… Husayn only stayed a quarter hour with me, but he'll return when he's finished with the receiving line. Hasan spent a few minutes with me. I doubt he'll
“There's more important news than that,” Kamal told himself. “ It will amaze me for a long time that I accepted this invitation. Why did you accept? To make it seem you didn't care? Or because you've fallen in love with terrifying adventures?”
“That's fine,” Kamal said. “But why don't we go for at least a moment to the great hall to see the guests?”
Isma'il Latif replied scornfully, “You won't see what you want, even if we do. The pashas and beys have been given the front room for their exclusive use. If you go, you'll find yourself in the back room with young men from the family and their friends, and that's not what you want. I wish I could sneak us upstairs where the most glorious paragons of beauty are surging back and forth.”
“Only one paragon interests me,” Kamal thought. “The paragon for all others. I haven't laid eyes on her since I confessed my love. She discovered my secret and disappeared.”
“I won't try to conceal my interest in seeing the important people. Husayn told me his father had invited many of the men I read about in the papers.”
Isma'il laughed out loud and said, “Do you imagine you'll find some of them have four eyes or six feet? They're men like you and me., although older and not particularly good-looking. But I understand the secret behind your desire to see them. It's part and parcel of your excessive interest in politics.”
“I really ought to drop all interests in the world,” Kamal told himself. 'She's no longer mine and I'm not hers. But my curiosity about famous people is derived from my love for greatness. You'd like to be great. Don't deny it. You have a promising aptitude for looking like Socrates and suffering like Beethoven, but you owe this aspiration to the woman who deprived you of light when she departed. By tomorrow you'll find no trace of her in Egypt. Delirium of pain, there's something intoxicating about you.”