The Mirage

  Memories like these threatened to rob life of all value whatsoever. And wouldn’t death deliver me from all this? Indeed, it would, I thought. So let me die! Such thoughts became my sole preoccupation, and I made up my mind to throw myself into the Nile. That evening I spent a long time in prayer. Then I went to sleep with my mother’s hand in mine, considering myself ready to be numbered among the dead. The next morning I began stealing worried, mournful glances at my mother’s face. Moved by her tranquility and beauty, I had the urge to cry, and it distressed me not to be able to say goodbye to her. How will she handle the shock? I wondered fearfully. Will she be able to bear it? I’ll be responsible for bringing grief to those serene eyes, causing wrinkles to appear in that smooth, youthful-looking face, and destroying her tranquility forever. Suddenly I feared that I might weaken in my resolve, but despair endowed me with new strength and prompted me to flee. I finished my morning tea without taking my eyes off her face. Then I bade her farewell and left the room, my chest tight and my soul full of bitterness, and got into the carriage. Casting a glance back at the house, I muttered, “Goodbye, Mama. Goodbye, dear house.” Then the carriage took off. Before long I caught sight of al-Malik al-Salih Bridge, and my heart started pounding so hard I could hardly breathe. Everything would have to end now. Just a few more minutes, then eternal rest. At that time I knew nothing about the torment in the afterlife that awaits those who take their own lives, so I was sure I was about to commence a life of pure serenity. Little by little the bridge drew nearer and the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves began pounding on my heart. I glanced down at the Nile and saw pearls scattered over its dark façade. I imagined myself striking the surface of the water as its peaceful, soundless waves cast me indifferently to and fro, confident of the struggle’s outcome. Then, readying myself for the act of madness that I’d determined to commit, everything else faded from consciousness and I cried out to the aged driver as he turned onto the bridge, “Stop!”

  The man pulled in the reins and the carriage came to a halt. I got out hurriedly and said to him, “Go on ahead to the end of the bridge, and I’ll catch up with you on foot.”

  I waited until he’d gotten several yards ahead of me, then I turned toward the railing. I looked out over the river with my towering height, saying to myself, “They say I’m not good at anything in life. But now I’m going to do something that nobody else would dare to!” I cast a stony glance at the water, and in a flash, what I was about to do appeared in my mind’s eye. Everything has to happen within a matter of seconds, I thought. Otherwise, passersby are sure to intervene and prevent me from doing what I intend to. I’ll climb over the railing, then throw myself down. As long as I’ve taken matters firmly in hand, that won’t take more than a few moments. My heart shrank as I looked down at the flowing water. When viewed from above, it looked swift and turbulent, and my head began to spin. One … two … a chill went through my body. What do you suppose it feels like to fall from a height? How does your body collide with the water? How is it when you plunge beneath its watery depths? And how long does it take for the ordeal of drowning to be over? My grip on the railing grew tighter and I said aloud, “Everything has to be over right away.” In reality, however, I was retreating, and my resolve was giving out. I’d been defeated by the thoughts and images that I’d allowed to thwart my purpose. Someone who intends to commit suicide mustn’t think or imagine. I’d begun thinking and imagining, and I’d been defeated. My heart beating wildly, my hold on the railing went limp. Then I moved away from it with a dazed sigh. My wobbly legs carried me to the end of the bridge where the carriage was waiting for me, and I got back in. Dog-tired, I sprawled out on the seat until I was overcome with sleep.

  For years I wondered what it was that delivered me from death on that morning. My heart would say: It was fear! While my tongue would say: It was God, the Most Forgiving and Merciful!

  No doubt I’d overstated my reasons for committing suicide, since I graduated from primary school at the end of that year.

  12

  It was around this time that our little family lost one of its loveliest trappings when my grandfather sold the Victoria and the two horses that drew it, and dispensed with the elderly driver’s services. I learned through what I picked up from the family’s conversation that one night at the casino my grandfather lost more than the usual amount of money, and had thus been obliged to borrow an amount of cash equal to his monthly pension. Given the fact that he was a man with a penchant for order, he preferred to sell the carriage and the two horses rather than upset his budget. It grieved us sorely to sell the carriage, lose the horses and have to part with Uncle Karim, the driver who’d spent his lifetime in my grandfather’s service and who was so advanced in years he’d lost his teeth. I wept bitter tears over all of them, though without saying a word. My grandfather spent more time at the casino than he did at home. It was his only solace and entertainment, especially since he’d left the military. However, what with his innate candor and jovial nature, he never made any attempt to conceal his comings and goings. In fact, he would often tell my mother anecdotes about the things that happened to him during his evenings out.

  With a shake of his grizzled head he’d say, “I had bad luck all last night until, just before closing time, I recouped my whole loss with two lucky strokes!”

  Or he’d say, “Talk about greed! A single gamble at the end of the night lost me twenty pounds that I’d earned by the sweat of my brow!”

  For the most part, though, he was a sensible gambler, if I might call him that, who was captivated by the mad delight of laying a bet without its causing him to forget the limits of what his budget would allow or his responsibilities as our family’s provider. I’m sure the matter of my future preoccupied him quite a bit, not for my sake alone—though he constantly showered me with his love and affection—but, in addition, because my mother’s fate was tied to mine. Then there was the fact that my schooling had faltered so badly that by the time I finished primary school, I was seventeen years old and he was nearing seventy. Consequently, he began feeling increasingly concerned, knowing well, as he did, that the “fortune” he’d amassed was hardly worth mentioning. He would always overcome his anxiety thanks to his natural propensity for optimism, an optimism that was due for the most part to the God-given good health that, despite his advancing years, had never left him. Nevertheless, his most recent loss had reminded him of his anxiety and fears, and as such, it had impelled him to deal with them with prudence and caution.

  One day, as he and my mother were discussing my future, he said to her after no little hesitation, “It seems to me that Kamil shouldn’t be so utterly ignorant of his father.”

  Her face suddenly pale, my mother stared at him in horror and said, “What do you mean, Baba?”

  “I mean,” he replied nonchalantly, “that he should get to know him. This is necessary, since otherwise it will look to people as though he has no father.”

  Her voice quavering, my mother said, “His is a father of whom it’s better to be ignorant.”

  Looking annoyed, my grandfather said firmly, “It’s as though you’re afraid that if he saw the boy, he’d try to take him back. But this is an illusion that exists only in your head. As a matter of fact, I’m quite confident that he was thoroughly pleased when fate provided someone to raise his son in his stead. Even so, I think Kamil should get acquainted with his father now. I’ve decided to take him to see him. Who knows when Kamil might need him? Can you guarantee that I’ll be there for him forever? And don’t forget that Kamil is about to enroll in secondary school, and that I might persuade his father to help me pay for his education.”

  My mother had, no doubt, been about to raise some objection. However, when she heard the last part of what he said, her fervor abated. A look of sadness flickered in her eyes, and she didn’t say a word. As we left the room, her eyes welled up with tears.

  Moved and saddened to see her this way, I came up to her and dried her tears,
saying, “There’s nothing to cry about, Mama.”

  With a tepid smile, she said unhappily, “There really isn’t. I’m just crying over the past, Kamil. I’m crying over the peace of mind I enjoyed for so long. Life was comfortable and pleasant, and there was nothing to disturb us. Now your grandfather is talking about the future, and whenever he does that, he fills me with fear and worry. Let’s ask God together not to let us be separated, to grant your grandfather a long life, and to protect us from having to depend on others.”

  She sat thinking for some time. Then she looked at me strangely and said, “If you do meet with him, be polite to him. He is your father, after all. But in your heart of hearts, never forget that he’s the one who’s caused us all to suffer.”

  A faint smile crossed my lips at this veiled warning—a warning of which I had no need. It wouldn’t have been possible for me to love someone whom his own father had hated. Then I thought about the anticipated first encounter between us as father and son. I tried to conjure an image of him, or to remember what he’d looked like long before in the picture I’d torn to pieces, but to no avail. I felt entirely unenthusiastic about the visit, and I wished my grandfather would change his mind about it.

  However, he decided that we’d make the visit the very next morning.

  Hurrying me to get ready, he said, “We’ve got to go see him early in the day, before drunkenness makes him oblivious to everything around him.”

  We left together and walked to the tram stop. We took the tram to Ataba, and from there to Hilmiya. Then we went to Mubarak Street. As we approached our destination, he began instructing me to be polite and friendly while in my father’s presence.

  He said to me, “You’re very shy and introverted, and I’m afraid he’ll mistake your shyness for dislike and respond to you in kind, especially in view of the fact that he’s never cared whether anyone loved him or not. So, look alive, and be friendly, gracious, and warm.”

  We stopped in front of a large two-story house. All that could be seen of the first story was its uppermost part, given the height of the surrounding wall. We knocked on a massive door that opened with a loud creak. From behind the door there emerged an elderly Nubian gatekeeper who welcomed my grandfather in a tone of respect, then stepped aside to let us pass, saying, “Ru’ba Bey is in the men’s reception room.”

  The name roared in my ears. In spite of myself, I could feel the tie that bound me to this house, and I was seized by a sudden urge to retreat. However, it was an urge impossible of fulfillment. I looked ahead of me and saw a large garden, and before long my nostrils were filled with the sweet fragrance of lemons. The garden was striking for the enormity of its date palms, lemon trees, and mulberry trees, and it was congested with boughs and branches that blanketed its floor with dry leaves. Both the garden and the atmosphere that surrounded it exuded an air of gloom and melancholy that made their way instantly into my soul. At the garden’s end lay the house, the foremost part of which was taken up by the men’s reception room, and atop the wall a wooden barrier had been erected to prevent those in the garden from seeing inside. The gatekeeper went inside ahead of us to request permission for us to enter. Shortly thereafter he returned, inviting us respectfully to follow him. He proceeded before us down a mosaic walkway, and I walked behind my grandfather, gripped by an angst that only grew worse as we made our way farther into the garden. As I began ascending the steps, my throat went dry with anxiety. My father stood waiting for us, and I cast him a quick glance from behind my grandfather.

  At that time my father was sixty years old. He was medium height and overweight, though in his white, loose-fitting robe he looked far more portly than he was in reality. He had a fair complexion, with a ruddy face and neck, his jugular veins protruded and his face was congested with blood. As for his facial features, they were large and pronounced, but well-proportioned. Bald, he had black, protruding eyes landscaped by a network of fine red lines that looked like tiny hairs. In his eyes there was a distracted, languid look that served to dispel whatever awe his huge frame might otherwise have inspired. I was possessed by a feeling of alienation, disapproval, and aversion, and I felt angry and resentful toward my grandfather for making me visit him. My indignation intensified when I saw that the only sign of welcome the man had shown was this lethargic stance at the door. The two men shook hands and I heard a deep voice that reminded me of my brother Medhat saying, “Welcome. How are you, Abdulla Bey?”

  “Fine,” replied my grandfather. “How are you?”

  My grandfather stood aside slightly to make me visible and gestured toward me with a smile, saying, “Your son, Kamil.”

  I came forward, visibly tense, with my eyes fixed on him. As he scrutinized me with intense interest, a faint light glinted in his eyes, and I extended my hand. At that point—as if to forestall some faux pas that he considered me likely to commit—my grandfather said, “Now put away that shyness of yours and kiss your father’s hand.”

  Getting the message, I grasped the hand extended in my direction and kissed the back of it. I looked up at him and found him to be smiling.

  Then I heard him say, “Welcome to the son who hasn’t known his father! And what a fine boy you are.”

  Then, addressing my grandfather, he continued, “He’s become a man. In fact, he’s taller than his father!”

  Laughing his grand laugh, my grandfather said, “Yes, indeed, he is a man. But it’s no fault of his if he hasn’t known his father.”

  My father examined me from head to toe, then invited us to sit down. We sat down on two chairs that had been placed near one another, while my father sat on a couch in the front of the room. Before him there was a black wooden coffee table inlaid with shells on which a long-necked red bottle, a glass, and a Chinese decanter filled with ice had been placed.

  The bottle was nearly full, and the glass was nearly empty. I’d never seen liquor before, but I realized immediately that I was looking at the vile drink that had put my family through so much, and I was filled with loathing and disgust.

  “As I was saying,” my grandfather continued, “what fault is it of his, poor boy? He’s never known his father, and there’s nothing he could have done about it. Nor is there any need to bring up memories of things done and gone. However, I saw that he’d grown up, as you say. He finished grade school this year, and before long he’ll be enrolling in secondary school, so I hated for him to go on being ignorant of his father. I suggested that I introduce him to you, and he welcomed the idea. And now, here we are, praise be to God.”

  My father didn’t take his eyes off me, as a result of which I couldn’t shake off my discomfort and timidity. When my grandfather had finished speaking, a look of skepticism flashed across his distracted eyes.

  “Were you really happy about the idea of being introduced to me?” my father asked me.

  “Yes,” I replied in a voice that was barely audible.

  “So,” he went on with a crafty look, “would you like to come live with me?”

  My heart shrank, and my eyes betrayed a look of indecision. What was I supposed to say? My grandfather’s instructions were still ringing in my ears. Yet, supposing I replied in the affirmative and he invited me to stay with him, what would my fate be then? No, I couldn’t possibly do that. I looked down, my mouth pressed shut, and didn’t utter a word. My father laughed out loud in a voice that caused my grandfather to tremble.

  “Go easy on him, Ru’ba Bey,” he said, looking at me indignantly. “He’s never been separated from his mother, and there’s nothing more difficult for someone than to change a habit. However, I assure you that he was very happy to know that he’d be meeting you. Don’t hold it against him that he’s quiet and flustered, since he’s as shy as a virgin.”

  My father shook his round bald head, his lips still parted following his laugh.

  Then, as though he wanted to challenge me, he asked me, “What do you say you come stay with me for part of your vacation? A month, say, or two weeks?”


  “Something like that,” interjected my grandfather, “could easily be arranged!”

  Picking up on the hint that my grandfather’s words seemed to convey, I found myself like a mouse in a trap, and I was overcome by such anguish, I thought my chest would split open. I cursed the loathsome resolve that had led my grandfather to herd me into this wretched abode, and despair and obstinacy kept my tongue tied until my father said cynically, “That’s what you say, Abdulla Bey. But I wonder what Kamil Bey has to say about it?”

  His cynicism pained me. By now I was so miserable I neither spoke nor looked up. I longed for my mother the way a drowning man longs for dry land, as I always did when I found myself in distress.

  Guffawing sarcastically, my father said, “He may be happy to see me, but only from a distance!”

  Then, changing his sarcastic tone, he said forcefully, “Don’t you know that if I wanted to keep you here, nothing could stand in my way?”

  He paused for a moment to allow his pronouncement to have its desired effect.

  Then he continued with a laugh, saying, “Don’t worry. I have absolutely no need to do that.”

  A dreadful silence ensued. My grandfather may have realized that through what he had just said, my father had brought a certain hostility out into the open, and I sensed instinctively that each of us harbored an aversion to the other that there was no way to hide. I was dismayed at the bitter disappointment my grandfather had been met with, and I expected him to give me a thorough tongue-lashing.