The Mirage

  Then, in a voice that was just barely audible I said, “Good morning.”

  She smiled without looking at me and murmured no less shyly, “Good morning.”

  Her response to my greeting overwhelmed me with delight, and as we walked along side by side I thought fervently: O Lady Umm Hashim, look down upon us! I was truly afraid, and intensely flustered and inhibited. I tried to remember the things I’d rehearsed the day before, but I was feeling so muddled that my mind went blank and I couldn’t find my tongue. We walked quite some distance without my saying a word. How was I supposed to begin the conversation? What could I say? A terrible anguish came over me since I realized, of course, that I was supposed to speak and that it wasn’t fitting for me to be so quiet. Nevertheless, God didn’t inspire me with a single word, and it seemed as though speech were an art I’d never practiced. Then, as if she realized how ill at ease I was, she looked at me with a gentle smile on her lips, and I smiled shyly back.

  The only thing I could think of to say was another, “Good morning!”

  “Good morning!” she replied, her smile broader this time.

  Lord! Had my vocabulary gone bankrupt? And I fell back into the same torment once again. I felt as though a couple of iron hands were squeezing my neck and that I couldn’t bear this miserable situation a single moment longer. Hopelessness and timidity had such a hold on me that I cried out to her for help, saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. This is the first time I’ve talked to a girl!”

  She let a short laugh escape in spite of herself and, as though my very shyness had emboldened her, she said playfully, “Actually, it’s the second.”

  Ah! She was referring to my pursuit of her three days earlier. I remembered it in astonishment, as though I weren’t really her courageous hero. Be that as it may, her playfulness emboldened me and alleviated my awkwardness and shyness. It also enabled me to say, “Please don’t think badly of me. I swear to God, if my tongue weren’t tied, I’d have a whole world of things to say.”

  She laughed, looking up and aiming her glance more fully at me.

  Then she said, “Do you realize we haven’t introduced ourselves yet?”

  Here was a question I could answer. If only the conversation could have been questions on her part, and answers on mine.

  Feeling relieved, I said, “Kamil Ru’ba Laz, employee at the Ministry of War.”

  I wished I could tell her about my monthly income and my anticipated fortune.

  As for her, she said, “Rabab Gabr, teacher at the Abbasiya Kindergarten.”

  I loved the name just as I’d loved the person to whom it belonged.

  “Rabab!” I said, as though I wanted to hear the way it sounded one more time.

  Feeling heartened and more familiar with her now, I said simply, “Imagine! I’ve been stealing glances at your face for two years now, and I still didn’t even know your name!”

  “Two years!” she exclaimed as a look of astonishment came over her pretty face.

  Pleased by the fact that she was so surprised, I said enthusiastically, “Yes, it’s been nearly two years. Hadn’t you noticed?”

  I listened intently so as to drink in the voice that I’d longed to hear for so long.

  “I only noticed a few months ago!” she said with a laugh. “How patient you are!”

  There was a barb in her words, of that I was certain. It was as if she were saying, “What kept you quiet for so long that you nearly missed your chance?” Taking advantage of the opportunity to declare what I wished I could have declared long before, I said, “I was prevented from saying anything by difficult circumstances. I couldn’t propose to you when I wasn’t qualified to do so. Then the circumstances changed and my situation improved. It wasn’t long after that that I approached you on the tram, though I was so crazy, I acted in a way that was out of character for me. The fact is that once I was able to come forward, I only waited a matter of days, even though I.…” I nearly said, “even though I’d loved you for two years,” but the words wouldn’t come out.… “Even though what you know to be the case had been so for two years.”

  She looked straight ahead with a faint smile on her face, saying, “And what is it that I know to be the case?”

  I fell silent for a few moments as I gathered my strength. Then I said, “You know that I.…”

  My lips formed the words, “I love you” without uttering them aloud. However, she saw and understood without a doubt. As my heart nearly beat out of my chest, I lowered my gaze bashfully and went into a passing stupor that absented me from everything around me as though I’d momentarily exited the universe. I looked over at her furtively and found her blushing, with a pensive, serious look on her face. This was a sacred moment. Indeed, time labors under the burden of the weighty moments that have been witnessed by humanity in the course of its history. However, this kind of moment remains among the most glorious of all that time has known. Nor is its weightiness diminished by the fact that it takes place thousands of times every day all over the world. It’s the only thing that’s repeated time and time again without ever becoming wearisome. After all, how could it—love—become wearisome when it contains the very secret of existence? I couldn’t take her into my arms—not because of the orange-laden caravan of camels that happened to be passing by, but rather because I wasn’t allowed to touch her at all. We walked some distance without saying a word, my timidity preventing me from elaborating on this particular point. Rethinking the matter from its other angles, I said with a smile, “What happened with Muhammad Gawdat?”

  Staring at me incredulously, she asked, “How did you know about him?”

  She listened with rapt attention as I told her the story of the meeting that had taken place between the two of us.

  Then she said, “He’s a virtuous, respectable man and a high-ranking employee, and my father welcomed him. As for my mother, she wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about his proposal since he’s so much older than I am. Besides, he’s been married before and he has a fifteen-year-old daughter. I told my mother about our meeting on the street three days ago, and she stipulated that they need to know everything about you before she says what she thinks.”

  My heart fluttered with a combination of trepidation and joy.

  Though there was no need to inquire, I asked her, “And does she know about this meeting of ours?”

  She smiled without making any reply. I remembered my job uneasily and with embarrassment. However, it didn’t even occur to me to lie or change the facts.

  I said, “As I’ve told you, I’m an employee at the Ministry of War. However, I have a monthly income of sixteen pounds from family endowments. In addition, I own more than a thousand pounds. I have nothing to be ashamed of in my past, and if they should inquire about me, you’ll see that I’ve told nothing but the truth.”

  She smiled and said earnestly, “Of that there’s absolutely no doubt.”

  I gazed over at her with profound gratitude. At that moment I thought back on the longing and misery I’d endured on her account, and I was flooded with a joy that defies words. At the same time I wondered fearfully: Will I come up to her mother’s standards? Won’t she despise my lowly position, or not find me worthy of this lovable teacher? My heart shrank in terror, and I thought of telling her what was troubling me, but timidity got the better of me.

  Then a new thought occurred to me and I asked her without hesitation, “Will you continue in your job if things turn out the way I hope?”

  “Why not?” she replied. “I adore my work, and lots of my colleagues.…”

  Realizing what she’d been about to say, my heart fluttered joyously and I cast her a timid look filled with hopefulness and affection.

  “That’s good,” I said approvingly.

  Silence reigned briefly, and the sound of our footsteps on the sunlight-strewn boulevard seemed to grow louder. I glanced over at the Nile and saw its dark surface rippling beneath the scattered pearls of light. I began peering n
ervously and warily into the faces of the few passersby. The sun had tempered the chill in the air, causing a joyous energy to flow through our beings. I could feel life’s goodness in a way I’d never felt it before, and I was filled with such gratitude I wished I could kneel down and kiss the earth in thanksgiving. However, I hadn’t forgotten the serious matters that were preoccupying me, or what appeared to me to be serious matters.

  So I asked her, “Tell me now what I’m supposed to do.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked in bewilderment.

  “I’m supposed to ask for your hand,” I said uncertainly.

  She looked straight ahead, puzzled, and said nothing.

  At a loss, I asked her, “How … how do people usually get engaged?”

  She giggled and said gently, “Through matchmakers, or through personal contact. Don’t you know about these things?”

  Her mention of matchmakers reminded me of my mother, and my heart shrank in terror. Then I wondered to myself: Do I have the tact and courage it takes to make the needed personal contact?

  It was then that I realized I didn’t know a thing about her father, so I said, “Could you tell me something about your father?”

  Eyeing me doubtfully, she murmured, “Don’t you know anything about him?”

  Simply and honestly I replied, “Unfortunately, I don’t.”

  I realized then that she thought I’d been busily finding out everything I needed to know about the family I aspired to marry into, and she was wondering why on earth I hadn’t lifted a finger throughout the entire time I’d loved her, content with nothing but gazes, longing, and despair.

  In a tone not without a touch of pride, she said, “Gabr Bey Sayyid, irrigation inspector for the Ministry of Labor.”

  “I’d be honored to make his acquaintance,” I said reverently.

  I was aware of the weight of responsibility that now lay on my shoulders. However, I had no choice but to say, “I’ll meet with him myself. When would be a convenient time?”

  “Sometime next week, since he’ll be going away after that on a routine inspection tour. But after he comes home from the ministry he rarely goes out.”

  We’d walked quite a long way by this time, so I suggested that we turn back. So we turned around and started heading back. We exchanged only a few words during our return. I was so happy, I thought I must be dreaming. However, not for a moment did I lose sight of the seriousness of the step I was about to take.

  36

  I was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety, and once again I experienced that stifling feeling that had come over me on the day when my professor at the Faculty of Law called me up to the podium. Would my feet be able to carry me to Gabr Bey’s house? Would I be able to speak to the man about what was on my mind? O God, grant me Your mercy, for love is afflicting me with torments that are more than I can bear! When I tasted the frightening reality and consoled myself with dreams, I found myself on a deserted island where the only other living being was my beloved. In a place like that, love doesn’t require the lover to deliver a speech, or even to say a word or communicate with anyone. So in the midst of my ordeal, my soul would go flying away to that deserted island.

  I spent Saturday and Sunday in a violent inner torment. Hence, I decided to seek refuge from the torment of my thoughts by meeting the danger head-on. That afternoon I spruced myself up and left the house. Reciting the Throne Verse, I crossed the street with a quaking heart. When I crossed the bridge and the building appeared in the distance, my feet grew heavy and I nearly returned home. However, my resolve was marvelous, and the fear that my sweetheart would think me slow in coming left no room for vacillation. I began encouraging myself by saying that if there were no hope, she wouldn’t have agreed to meet me on Friday, and she wouldn’t have prepared the way for me to meet with her father. Pushing my heavy feet forward one after the other, I began approaching the building little by little. There was no one either in the window or on the balcony, which was a relief to me since I feel awkward walking when people’s eyes are on me. Then I found myself coming up to the doorman.

  The man rose and looked at me questioningly.

  “Gabr Bey Sayyid,” I said.

  “Second floor,” he replied.

  I ascended the stairs in fear and trepidation, stopping at every landing to catch my breath. When I found myself outside the flat’s closed door, I grew weak in the knees and was tempted to turn and flee, to postpone the critical visit until another day. However, I heatedly rejected the idea. It occurred to me to go back down and calm my tense nerves by walking around for a while and reorganizing my thoughts, and again, I nearly retreated. However, the next moment I began wondering: Might not the gatekeeper be suspicious of me if he saw me coming down right after I’d spoken to him, then saw me come back to the building just a few minutes later? Thus I thought better of going back down the stairs. Even so, I stood there without moving a muscle. I gazed steadily at the door until I imagined its keyhole to be an eye staring mockingly into my face. I shifted my gaze to the doorbell, and my eyes fixed themselves on it in fear and panic. What would happen to me if the door opened suddenly and I saw someone I recognized and who would recognize me? I wished at that moment that my life had maintained its usual, unhurried pace rather than crashing headlong into this love that had turned it upside down. Then suddenly from inside the house I heard a shrill voice shout, “Turn on the radio, Sabah!” Trembling all over, I listened intently, feeling more frightened than ever. Shame on you, Mama! I thought. Wouldn’t it have been better for you to be in my place now? Then I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and although I was more agitated than ever by now, I had no choice but to keep on going. I approached the door and brought my hand up to the doorbell. I hesitated for a moment, feeling myself in an uproar. Then I pressed the button and heard a loud, obnoxious ring. Having worked myself into a pathetic state, I stood aside and waited.

  The door opened to reveal a coal-black face belonging to a servant woman who looked to be around fifty years old.

  “Yes?” she said, peering at me with sparkling eyes.

  Hoping the bey would be out for some reason, I asked, “Is Gabr Bey home?”

  “Yes, he is,” she replied. “Who wishes to see him?”

  Taking a card out of my wallet, I presented it to her and said, “I’d be obliged if the bey could grant me a brief interview.”

  The servant took the card and disappeared while I waited, my heart aflutter and my soul in turmoil. I imagined the bey reading the card aloud while everyone around him exchanged smiling glances, then rushed to hide in some safe place whence they could observe me when I came in. My face flushed with embarrassment at the thought and I became more distraught. Then the servant’s head popped out of the door again as she said, “Come in.”

  I went in with my head bowed, and she led me to a door immediately to the right of the entrance. I entered the parlor, which was an elegant room with navy blue furniture, then betook myself to a chair between two sofas some distance from the door and sat down. I could hardly believe I was actually sitting in their house, and I began listening intently, feeling fearful, apprehensive, and restless. At first I hoped the bey would be delayed so that I could have time to compose myself. Then, given the torment of waiting, I started to hope he’d arrive quickly so as to put an end to my suffering. I don’t know how long I waited before I heard footsteps approaching. The bey entered and I rose to my feet. He welcomed me politely and gestured toward the chair, saying, “Make yourself comfortable.”

  He sat down on the sofa not far away. Around fifty years old, he was tall and slender, with a physique and eyes similar to my sweetheart’s, and I liked him right away. He was wearing a loose, reddish woolen wrap, and his hands were redolent with a fragrant cologne.

  He smiled at me warmly and said, “Welcome, Kamil. We’re honored to have you here.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said appreciatively.

  Did he know the purpose of my visit?
Had he heard previously of the name he’d read on the card?

  Whatever the case may be, I thought, I had no choice but to broach the subject with him as though he knew nothing about it. I’d written down an outline of what I thought I ought to say, and I’d read it over and over again until I’d memorized it before leaving the house.

  In a low voice I said, “I’m sorry to inconvenience you with this visit from someone you haven’t met before.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Kamil,” he said, the gracious smile never leaving his fine lips. “Are you from around here?”