The Mirage by Naguib Mahfouz
Glowering, the man snorted and his face got redder than usual.
Then he said in a gruff voice, “You seem not to understand what you’re told. Nor do you mean what you say. I’ve told you that I don’t have any money. I don’t have any money. I don’t have any money!”
Losing all self-control, I balled up my fist, struck my thigh and screamed, “Is there no mercy in your heart?”
He looked at me as if to say: I’m worn out from trying to convince you.
Then he replied with terse indifference, “No.”
I gave him a hard look that must have betrayed the feelings of hatred and bitterness that had welled up in my heart, since I saw him grimace and his face clouded over in anger.
Then, in a voice that sounded like the lowing of a cow he bellowed, “Won’t people leave me alone so that I can live what’s left of my life in peace?”
I bellowed back madly, “And when have we disturbed your life? You’re the one who’s disturbed our lives! I need some of the money you spend on booze without a thought for how much it costs, and I will get what I need.”
Grasping the empty glass with twitching fingers, he screeched, “You’ve gone mad! Are you cursing me to my face? Are you threatening me? Get out of my sight, and don’t come back to this house as long as you live!”
More furious and agitated than ever now, I screamed, “This is my house! And whatever money is here is my money, and no power on earth is going to keep me from getting what I want. Do you understand? Do you understand?”
He rose to his feet with sparks flying from his eyes. Then he clapped his hands violently and roared, “Get out of my face, boy, and don’t you dare come back to this house ever again. Adam! Adam!”
The door opened and Uncle Adam came in as though he’d been waiting to be summoned.
“Yes, sir!” he said as he came up to us. “I hope everything’s all right.”
Then suddenly I felt chilled as though someone had turned a cold shower on me. My anger abated, my agitation ceased, and my heart turned on its heels and fled. Fear’s frigid hand had taken hold of my neck and I froze in place, confused, panicky, and unable to focus my gaze on anything. Gone was the Kamil that had been brought into being by rage and desperation, and all that remained was the other Kamil as he existed in his natural state.
Showing me no mercy in my weakness, the enraged man shouted at the gatekeeper, saying, “See this good-for-nothing to the door, and never let him in again! He’s threatening to kill me!”
I stared into his face in bewilderment and dismay, hardly able to believe my ears. In his wild outburst he seemed like an accursed demon.
Then he shouted in my face, “Get out of here!”
But I didn’t budge. Or rather, I couldn’t budge. I wished the floor would open up and swallow me. I was dying of fear, heartsickness, and shame. The man waited, scowling, and when he saw that I hadn’t made a move, he turned his back to me and exited into one of the house’s inner rooms while the gatekeeper withdrew to the veranda. Thus, I found myself alone. Biting my lip, I regained my composure and managed to get up in speechless indignation. Then I left the room, doing my best not to look in the gatekeeper’s direction. As I walked hurriedly through the garden, the gatekeeper followed me, mumbling an apology and making excuses for his employer, saying, “He’s always like that.”
I left the house without uttering a word.
31
I spent the first half of the day loitering in the streets, so full of despair, rancor, grief, and shame that I could hardly breathe. I went home at the usual time so that my mother wouldn’t wonder what had brought me home early. After lunch I felt drowsy and fell into a deep slumber that lasted until early evening. Then I left the house, my soul so heavy it was as if I were carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wondered where I should go, and I could find only one reply. The pub beckoned to me in the most tempting way, and my heart urged me to obey its summons. However, I hadn’t forgotten the current reality, namely, that if I went on the much-desired drinking spree, my budget that month was sure to be broken, and I wouldn’t have enough spending money to last me until my next salary. At the same time, the summons was impassioned and irresistible. It seemed to me at that wretched moment that an hour’s bliss was better than a life devoid of good. I ran my hand over my gold watch, and suddenly it occurred to me that I could sell it if I needed money. The thought brought me a sense of relief, and I smiled for the first time that day. The following moment had me wondering what I’d say to my mother if she happened to miss my watch—and she was bound to miss it sooner or later. I groaned irritably at the thought. My mother! My mother! Always my mother! I said to myself angrily. I’ll do what I want. I boarded the tram without hesitation, and on the way, my mind was drawn back for no obvious reason to a memory of my grandfather. I thought back to the days of ease and luxury that I’d lost when he passed away, and I found myself wishing that, rather than being so generous toward me, he had raised me instead on parsimony and the bare minimum. If he had, I wondered, might I not be better at coping with my present circumstances? I recited the Fatiha over his beloved spirit, then got off the tram at Ataba and headed for the vegetable market where my humble pub was located.
No sooner had I taken off my coat and sat down at an empty table than the Greek waiter brought the carafe. My pub was a plebeian sort of place, of that there was no doubt. However, it was rather respectable, too. For alongside the carriage drivers and working class folk, you’d find a gathering of middle-aged government employees whose life circumstances and family obligations didn’t permit them to frequent expensive pubs. Among the latter was an elderly man who was fond of singing and merrymaking. The minute he got tipsy he’d wax eloquent, repeating old tunes like “Over Love How I Used to Weep” and “How I Miss You!” His voice wasn’t without a touch of sweetness, and his performances always put a smile on everyone’s face. In fact, a group of those present would always volunteer to sing the refrain in a sweet harmony.
I started drinking, and as usual I was filled with a feeling of contentment and joy—the feeling I found nowhere but among fellow drinkers at the pub. The pub was the only place where I experienced relief from the ponderous burden of timidity, halting speech, anxiety, and fear. While there I enjoyed such happiness and peace of mind, it was as though I’d just returned to my kith and kin after a long, burdensome sojourn among strangers, and I wished I never had to leave them. It wasn’t long before I was flooded with that magical bliss and my being was filled with rapture. The employee entertainer hadn’t begun his singing yet, and he was talking to his friends in a loud voice that was audible to everyone sitting around him. After all, why shouldn’t they all share in the conversation just the way they shared in the singing?
“Just imagine, folks,” he said. “The doctor advises me to give up drinking!”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“He’s found that I’ve got high blood pressure and hardening of the arteries.”
“Drink fenugreek tea first thing in the morning and you’ll be healthy all your life.”
“He told me if I kept on drinking, I was sure to die.”
“How long one lives is in God’s hands!”
“And I said, ‘Even if I stop drinking, I’m sure to die some day too!’ ”
“For an answer like that, you deserve a carafe of cognac, provided it’s on you!”
“Would you believe I saw that same doctor one evening sitting and drinking whiskey at the St. James?”
“They’re all like that! They snatch your money and tell you, ‘Stay away from the booze,’ then they take it to the St. James and buy themselves a couple of bottles.”
The aging employee straightened up in his seat slightly, then began tapping on the table and shaking his head. Then he broke into song: “Treat the one you love right, good-lookin’!” People looked his way and the chorus made ready to repeat the refrain. As for me, I was drinking, talking to whoever engaged me in conversati
Then, responding to a playful urge, I said to the driver with feigned circumspection, “A woman is waiting for me on the street, and I’m going to take her with me.”
“I’m at your service, bey,” he replied.
Meanwhile I thought to myself sardonically: Everything’s just fine! A comfortable carriage, an amenable driver, and the cover of darkness. All we need now is the woman!
Then, capitulating again to an urge to mislead, I said, “She’s a high-class lady, so let’s find ourselves a safe street.”
He rejoined with a laugh, “I think Garden City is the safest place nearby!”
“You’re wrong!” I exclaimed, “Her villa is in Garden City!”
“We’ve also got Roda Island coming up,” he replied with interest, “though the weather is chilly and I’m an old man who can’t stand the cold.”
“Not to worry,” I said reassuringly. “I’ll pay you a whole pound!”
The man thanked me enthusiastically, thinking he’d fallen on an unanticipated treasure. I laughed to myself as I ran my fingers over the one riyal that was all I had left till the end of the month. Some time passed, then I saw the beloved apartment building—my sweetheart’s building—approaching. A strange sort of wakefulness stirred in my heart, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the place. I wasn’t free to look at her anymore—though looking at her had been my sole consolation in life—since what had transpired between me and her would-be suitor. I could no longer look up at the balcony or the window. Do you suppose His Eminence the director of operations had spoken to her father yet? Had my beloved really become engaged? Didn’t she remember her other devotee—silent and pathetic though he’d been—as she moved into her new world? Didn’t she feel the slightest bit of sorrow over him? Wanting to get even with the whole world, I was gripped with dismay and dejection, and I sat motionless until the carriage reached our street. I instructed the driver to stop, got out and paid him eight piasters.
He took them from me in astonishment. “And what about the other trip?” he mumbled questioningly.
I chuckled softly in spite of myself, then went my way. I ascended the staircase wearily, then opened the door with a key that I had in my pocket and closed it carelessly behind me. I proceeded to the bedroom and turned on the light, and my eyes fell on my mother as she slept. The depth of the slumber to which she’d succumbed was clear evidence of the effort she’d been expending in her long, arduous days. I stood there for a moment looking searchingly into her face.
“Mama!” I called out to her.
“Who is it? Kamil?” she murmured as she opened her eyes.
Then, calmly and nonchalantly I said, “I’m drunk.”
She stared uneasily into my face, then sat up in bed, distraught, and said, “You scare me to death with that kind of joke.”
“It’s no joke,” I said indifferently. “I drank two carafes of cognac.”
She slipped out of bed and came up to me in alarm, not taking her eyes off mine for a second, until I could feel her breath on my face. Then she went pale and said with a trembling voice, “Why have you done this to yourself? How can you obey Satan after having repented to God?”
I didn’t utter a word, and fell even deeper into my stupor.
“Take off your clothes,” she said. “Let me help you.”
As she proceeded to undress me, I was silent and perplexed. Why had I exposed myself in this odd way? I wasn’t so drunk that I wouldn’t have been able to control myself. On the contrary, I knew I’d come home on previous nights in a far more drunken state, and in spite of this, I hadn’t done anything untoward. In fact, I’d taken the greatest of care not to waken her. So what had come over me on this particular night? The strangest thing of all was that my mind had been clear even after I’d entered the flat, and it hadn’t occurred to me to waken her until I’d caught a glimpse of her. When she answered my summons, I’d said what I said without hesitation and, perhaps, without realizing what I was doing. Yet I’d been moved by an irresistible force! At the time I hadn’t felt any remorse. I’d just stood there inert as a stone, scrutinizing her face with its pained expression as she took of my clothes. Then I moved away from her toward the clothes rack, got my pajamas, and put them on without saying a word. I got into my bed and slipped under the covers. She came up to me and put her hand on my forehead.
Her voice still trembling, she asked me, “Are you all right? Shall I make you some coffee to clear your head?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t want anything at all.”
32
It was a week—or maybe more, I don’t recall exactly—after that event and the grief it had left in its wake. I’d finished my daily duties at the ministry and sat waiting, bored and weary, for our work hours to end. Then, a little before two in the afternoon, I was called to the telephone. I answered the summons in astonishment, since no one had ever called me on the telephone before, and since I wasn’t expecting a call from anyone. It was my brother Medhat, who said curtly, “Our father has died. Come to Hilmiya.”
My tongue tied with disbelief, all I said was, “I’ll be there right away.”
I hung up the receiver and stood motionless for a few moments. People began looking my way, and my colleagues asked me what was going on.
“My father died,” I replied in a stupor.
I received the usual condolences, and before I knew it, my astonishment and disbelief had turned to fear, since death always frightens me. I left the ministry and headed for the tram stop. So, my father had died. It was an indubitable fact. As I began to get over the initial shock, I felt waves of deep relief wash over my soul. At the same time, his image appeared to me clearly with the rounded bald spot on his head and the absent look in his eyes, and for a moment I imagined myself hearing his gruff voice and his sarcastic guffaw. When had he died? I wondered. And how? What a strange thing, death. It doesn’t lose its tragic character even in the case of someone like my father, who’d lived most of his life as though he were dead, cut off from people and the world. After all, to live as though one were dead is one thing; death itself is another. I wondered to myself: Who might grieve over my father’s death? Medhat? Radiya? He seemed to have left the world without anyone who would grieve his loss, and this, to me, was a tragedy more terrible than that of death itself. Isn’t it a strange thing for someone to live in this world for more than seventy years, then die without leaving a single person to mourn his departure? The thought stirred a feeling of pity and sorrow in me. It was a strange emotion that had never stirred in me before. Perhaps it was born of relief rather than regret, since in a case like mine, the soul might pretend to be grief-stricken in order to conceal its delight, or in order to express this delight in a twisted sort of way. Or it might have been a sincere sentiment that expressed itself after the hindrances that once kept it in check had been removed by death. I betook myself to Hilmiya, and as I arrived at the old house, I saw a number of family members sitting on a row of wicker chairs. In the center was a man I was seeing for the first time, and whom I learned later was my paternal uncle. Medhat was seated to his right, and next to Medhat sat my sister’s husband. I greeted them feeling despondent and flustered. Then my brother got up and took me into the garden.
“It’s been an exhausting, difficult day,” he said, “but everything’s over no
“Why didn’t you call me earlier?” I asked.
Sighing, he said, “We were too busy even to think. And if it weren’t for the fact that Radiya went herself to see our mother and came back here with her, she still wouldn’t have heard the news herself. Don’t you know what happened? I received a telegram in the early morning from Uncle Adam, asking me to come right away because my father hadn’t returned home since last night. So all of us came. Uncle Adam informed us that our father had left the house before sundown yesterday and that, unlike usual, he hadn’t come back. The man had waited for him anxiously until a little before dawn. He sent us the telegram in the early morning. Our father used to like to go out from time to time in the late afternoon—drunk, of course, as you know. He would set out on foot for a little while, after which he’d board a carriage that would take him around here and there. Then he would come back to the house an hour or two later. But he would never spend the entire night out. Consequently, his absence worried Uncle Adam, and threw us into a terrible confusion. We didn’t know of a single friend of his that we could contact and had no idea which direction he might have taken. It occurred to us that he might have gone to Radiya’s house, so we went to see her, but she hadn’t seen him since she’d left home. Not wanting to lose time, we agreed that she would go see our mother as a way of gathering more information, and we—your uncle and I—would inquire about him at the Khalifa police station. When we got there, the master sergeant informed us that yesterday, a carriage driver had brought in a man who had passed away and who fit our father’s description. The driver said that the man had boarded his carriage at Bab al-Khalq Square and that he’d taken him at his request in the direction of Imam. When the driver turned around to inquire of him exactly where he wanted to go, he found him apparently asleep. He called to the man to wake him up, but got no response, so he stopped the carriage, got out and shook the man gently. It was then that he realized that the man had passed away. He’d had no choice but to bring him to the station. They arrested the driver as a precautionary measure, and our father was taken to Qasr al-Aini Hospital, where it was confirmed that he’d died a natural death from a heart attack. We went then to Qasr al-Aini, where they allowed us into the morgue.”