The Mirage by Naguib Mahfouz
Then she pretended to make light of the matter. In fact, she let out a long laugh as though nothing had happened, while I nursed my wounds in the privacy of my own heart. Her words had a profound impact on me. Indeed, they shook me violently, and I felt a grief the likes of which I’d never felt before. I wondered how on earth she could have allowed her agitation to get the better of her to the point of hurling such cruel accusations in my face. I wasn’t without a feeling of bitterness toward her, not because she’d accused me falsely—after all, anyone could do such a thing in a moment of passing anger—but rather because she’d met my unspoken desires with an outburst that had gone beyond the limits of reason. Giving free rein to my bitterness, I thought: She remembered herself more than she should have, and she forgot me more than she should have. As was my wont, I let my own selfishness have its say by accusing her of the very same fault.
Two days after our bizarre conversation, my mother succumbed to an ailment that left her bedridden, and I stayed by her side throughout her illness except for the times I was at work. Although it wasn’t serious, her face looked haggard and gaunt given her natural thinness, and it pained me no end. I couldn’t bear to see her deprived of her beauty and health. Her appearance and her self-neglect pained me. She would bind her head in a scarf from beneath which strands of her unkempt, neglected, graying hair would peek out, all of which distressed me greatly and caused the whole world to look dismal to me. Then one day, as I was sitting next to her, strange thoughts—prompted possibly by fear and pity—began running through my mind in a kind of stream of consciousness. I put to myself the following dangerous question: What would life be like if this tenderhearted mother weren’t a part of it? A chill went through me as the question presented itself, but my imagination refused to abandon its raving. The scenes kept passing before my eyes in succession and I surrendered to them in a heavy, wordless grief. I saw an abandoned house, and I saw myself wandering aimlessly like someone who’s lost his way in a vast desert expanse. My grandfather, disgruntled and bitter, was venting his wrath on the elderly servant and the cook. As for me, I sensed my inability to carry on with this forlorn existence, so I proposed to my grandfather that I marry so that we would have someone to take care of us. I saw my beloved with her lithe physique and her endearing poise as she came to take over the household and its residents with perfect compassion and boundless love. Then I saw all of us—my grandfather, my wife, and myself—standing over the grave of someone dear and watering it with our tears. When I came to myself in a fright, I felt tears in my eyes ready to fall. Remorse stung my heart and I was filled with resentment and rage. “Forgive me, God,” I mumbled to myself, “and grant her a long life.” Then I bent over and kissed her face tenderly. The memory of those fantasies haunted me frequently thereafter, leaving deep, painful scars. Even after she’d recovered and her vigor and beauty had returned, worry was my constant companion, and I nearly returned to that unwholesome way of thinking that sees life only in terms of what lies at the start and the finish—birth and death—while viewing everything in between as sheer vanity. This was the kind of thinking that had once led me to make an attempt on my own life and, if God hadn’t intervened, would have been the death of me.
22
Summer had arrived, which meant—as far as my heart was concerned—that my beloved would stop going to the institute, as a result of which I’d only be able to see her on the balcony or in the window. She knew me well by now, as did everyone in her household—the young man who was constantly on the lookout for her, who gazed at her with eyes full of admiration and love, and who had persevered in doing so with astounding patience for nearly a year, yet without making a single move. And what was even more astounding was that I would catch her looking back at me from time to time, and I would go mad with delight. I could almost hear her wondering what I wanted. In fact, I could hear all of them asking themselves this same question, which made me happy and miserable at the same time. The fact is that I love you, sweetheart, with everything in me, and if you should ask why I don’t make a move in your direction, the answer is that never in my life have I known how to make a move in anybody’s direction.
I have a mother standing behind me, as it were, and limited good fortune. So how am I to overcome these obstacles? Tell me, my love, and I’ll come flying to you without wings!
It was a strange day in my life.
I began the morning with my usual ardor-filled pause and impassioned gazes outside her window, after which I went to the ministry, with bliss and desolation doing battle in my heart as they did every morning. As the employees began the day with their usual chatter, the one sitting next to me said, “I got so plastered yesterday, I didn’t know which way was up!”
My interest suddenly piqued, I thought of my father. What the man had said left an impression on me that was lost on those sitting around me. And it was no wonder, since alcohol had written the history of my family and determined its destiny.
Hardly aware of what I was doing, I turned to the employee who’d spoken and asked him in a whisper, “Why do you drink?”
Realizing immediately the error I’d committed in my haste, I was flustered and embarrassed. Never in the entire time I’d worked there had I spoken to anyone in the department about anything that wasn’t work-related. In fact, I was so quiet that they’d nicknamed me “Gandhi,” because he’d been known for his custom of vowing himself to silence one day a week.
Delighted with my nosiness, the man pointed at me and said in a loud voice, “He finally spoke!”
“Who?” one of them asked as they all peered in my direction.
“Gandhi.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said, ‘Why do you drink?’ ” replied the man with a laugh.
The other said, “He keeps his mouth shut for an eternity, then when he opens it, he blasphemes!”
They all guffawed as I melted into my seat without a word. Most of them then started talking to me about alcohol and the euphoria, pleasure, and oblivion it brings, and I regretted having asked a question that had made me the butt of their jokes and sarcasm. I thought about the matter for a long time. Then, to my amazement, I woke from my reverie to find myself dying to try it myself! In the days that followed, I continued to be amazed at the uncharacteristic yearning that had come over me after twenty-six years of life on this planet, years that I’d spent in a near-ascetic existence (with the exception, of course, of the secret pleasure in which I indulged, and which subjected me to the bitterness of guilt and remorse). Had this desire really sprung up overnight? On the surface, it appeared that it was the conversation which had taken place among the employees that day that had brought it on. On the other hand, I thought, would it make sense for a scrupulous person like me to fall into temptation in response to such a passing, trivial event? Ridden by a mad impulse, I hoped the day would be over quickly so that I could knock at last on pleasure’s closed door and break the chains to which I’d submitted all my life. As though it were a stranger speaking, I said to myself: Tonight I’m going to try women and wine! My resolution brought me a sense of relief, since it was certainly better than anxiety and indecision, and since I held out the hope that in this way I might find release from the terrible pressure that weighed me down. Not once all day was I plagued by hesitation—that odious companion. But when late afternoon rolled around and the tram took me to Ataba, I stood in the square feeling lost, not knowing where the pubs were. Then I saw a carriage, so I hailed its driver and got in.
In a low, diffident voice I said to him, “A pub … any pub, please.”
The man shot me a strange stare. Then, as he stung the horses’ backs with his whip, he said, “I’ll take to you Alfi Bey Street, and there you can choose whichever one you like.”
As the carriage set out, it reminded me of our old Victoria and its bygone glory days. In my wallet I had twenty pounds and some loose change; although my salary was modest in and of itself, I could keep the entire thing f
Waving his whip, the driver said, “The bars are on both sides of this street.”
After paying the driver, I got out and found myself in front of a small tavern that was no larger than a good-sized room, and whose waiters were standing at the door since it hadn’t received any customers yet. I had my first twinge of hesitation and thought of going back home. I stood there ambivalently, and there came over me the feeling I’d had on the day I’d run out to the railing of al-Malik al-Salih Bridge to throw myself into the Nile. But I went in anyway. Once inside, I saw a door leading out into a small garden that took up the space outside, and in the center of which there was a fountain. It was shaded by a grape arbor, and there were tables along either side. It seemed like a safe place for someone coming there in stealth, so I went out into the garden area and sat at a table a good distance away from the entrance. My nerves were tense, but I’d stopped thinking of running away. A Nubian waiter clad in black trousers and a white jacket came up to me, smiled politely, and stood waiting for my order.
With the blood rising to my face, I said in a whisper, “Liquor!”
Not appearing to have understood, he asked in a brassy-sounding voice, “Whiskey? Cognac? Beer? Wine?”
Afflicted with the perplexity of the ignorant, I said disconcertedly, “I want liquor.”
The man smiled in a way that pained me and asked, “What kind of liquor do you want? Whiskey? Cognac? Beer? Wine?”
More disconcerted than ever, I asked him, “Which kind is best?”
“That depends on what you’re looking for. But the weather is hot, so beer is preferable.”
Released at last from my indecision, I ordered beer. The waiter disappeared for a few minutes, then brought me a glass of something frothy and set it down in front of me.
Before he’d gone, I asked him, “How many of these does it take to make you drunk?”
After giving me the same sort of look I’d gotten earlier from the carriage driver, he said, “It differs from one person to the next. However, if you’re a beginner, it’s best that you not go over three.”
I took hold of the glass, which was pleasingly cool. I put my nose up to it and sniffed it, and found that it had a pungent smell I didn’t like. However, it was too late to hesitate now. I drew my face near, dipped my tongue into it, then took a wary lick of the foam. My nerves tenser than ever by now, I lifted the glass to my lips, then downed its contents in a single gulp, contorting my face in disgust as though I were taking a dose of castor oil. Its coldness refreshed me, and I could feel it churning in my gut and giving forth a strange sort of warmth. As I sat waiting for the magical effect I’d heard so much about, a group of foreigners walked in, laughing and prattling away in some unintelligible language, and sat around a large table. I was distressed, but they didn’t look my way at all, so I calmed down and went back to feeling the pleasant warmth that was spreading through my insides. The blood that was rising to my head brought a burst of this warmth to my brain, which stretched like someone receiving the sun’s first morning rays as it shook off its anxiety and caution. A delicious sense of relief came over me and my features relaxed. Before long I ordered another glass with a boldness I’d never seen in myself before, and no sooner had the Nubian placed it in front of me than I lifted it to my mouth and gulped it down in two swigs. I waited again, now in a state of perfect repose and with my attention focused inside me, and a wondrous thrill surged through my body and caused me to close my eyes in surrender. It was a thrill that circulated with my blood and danced in my brain, triggering a happiness that was madness itself, and I imagined myself an ethereal creature freed from the trials of its mind, its heart, and its life. With a sense of confidence and importance I’d never experienced before, I lifted my head high in a regal gesture, astounded at this magical bliss that I’d never imagined even to exist. I raised my hand merrily and sprawled out my legs, indifferent to where they happened to land. Then all of a sudden, the image of my beloved materialized before my eyes with her willowy frame and her unswerving, demure gaze, and my heart was flooded with tender affection and longing.
Now I was shaken by an intoxication that went beyond that produced by the alcohol. How enchanting you are, darling! Now I know the secret of wine’s intoxication: it’s love! Love and wine’s intoxication are from a single nectar that flows from deep within the spirit. After all, is a love that flourishes anything more than a prolonged intoxication? So even if I miss out on being loved by you, I won’t miss out on the love that wine has to give. Why am I always afraid? Fears are nothing but illusions. If they weren’t, how could they have disappeared from my horizon in the twinkling of an eye? Wisdom has been revealed to me, and never will I hesitate again. When I see my beloved I’ll gesture or wave to her. She’ll blush and be speechless with surprise. Then it will be her turn to be shy: a heartbeat for a heartbeat, “and whoever starts is most to blame.” She’ll wonder in amazement: Has he finally made a move? Indeed, my love, he has, and nothing can stop him now!
I noticed the waiter hovering around me, so I ordered a third glass and sent it down to join the first and the second. Then I went back to the image of my beloved, my body nothing but hearts and no brain.
As though I were preaching to an unseen companion, I whispered, “If you love someone, declare your affection to her, then let the chips fall where they may!” I remembered my mother, but without fear this time. I was certain that she’d love my sweetheart if she saw her, and that my old fears would be gone forever. As for my grandfather, he was sure to laugh out loud for joy when he heard the happy news. At this point I laughed out loud myself, which caused people to look my way. I cast a glance around me and noticed that the garden was packed with newcomers. Those near me laughed, but I didn’t get flustered. On the contrary, I smiled at them and said with a strange sort of audacity, “Laugh!”
So they laughed, and one of them asked with a smile, “Anything else?”
Thoroughly inebriated by this time, I replied with a slur, “Bring me my sweetheart!”
“Where is she?” the young man asked. “Tell me, and I’ll bring her!”
“In the house in front of the tram stop,” I replied.
“Which tram stop?” he asked with a grin.
I pondered the matter for a little while until I’d thought of a landmark, then said, “The tram stop in front of the public lavatory!”
They all hooted again, then barraged me with jokes and wisecracks, and I laughed with them nonchalantly. Then I thought it best to take my leave, so I called the waiter, paid him, and bade farewell to my drinking companions. As I left, they were still teasing me mercilessly. Staggering, I headed for a carriage in the parking lot. Then, sitting down self-importantly in the middle of the seat, I said to the driver in a loud slur, “To the seat of corruption!”
The carriage took off, and before long I was enjoying its sluggish movement. I began looking at the street in such merriment and delight, I wished the ride would never end. I realized I was embarking on a new experience that was no less dangerous than the one before it, and I was beset by anxiety. However, enthusiasm got the better of me again. The carriage stopped on a noisy street and the driver gestured with his whip, saying with a laugh, “Here’s the original seat of corruption!”
After some hesitation I asked him, “Do you have any idea about the prices?”
“The most expensive time would be a riyal!” he said with a chuckle.
Pained by the expression despite my drunkenness, I got out of the carriage and found myself in a world ablaze with bright lights and swarming with drunks and revelers. The sounds of laughter mingled with curses and shouts, and I could hear th
Then suddenly there appeared before me a man wearing a striped, brightly colored tunic whose features bespoke malice and depravity. He invited me to have a seat, but I retreated from him and, as I did so, collided with someone behind me. As I turned to get away from the man, I saw a woman who was undoubtedly of the same type as the dancer, and who blocked the door with her arm. She had an offensive smile on her face and was chewing a bit of hashish, which she popped with her teeth. My limbs went cold and my heart shrank in alarm. Seeing the uncertainty and fear in my face, she let out a shrill laugh. Then in a flash, she reached out and snatched my fez, placed it on her head, and headed with swift steps toward a nearby door.
Still standing in his place, the man said to me, “Follow her and don’t be afraid. This is Merry Zouzou, and there’s no one like her!”
Not willing to stand there a second longer, I left the place without looking back and without giving a second thought to my lost fez. Getting in the first carriage I came to, I said to the driver, “To Manyal.”