“How can you convince His Excellency of your usefulness? That’s the question,” he said to himself with determination.
How and when would he have the opportunity to render services without immorality or shame: not as a debtor but as a creditor, in the same way as he treated Hamza al-Suwayfi, and within the limits of dignity and pride, yet according to the dictates of official decorum and its usual obsequious language? “My struggle is noble,” he thought to himself. “As for my feelings and thoughts, these belong to God alone.”
He believed that God made man for power and glory. Life was power. Survival was power. Perseverance was power. And God’s heaven could only be attained through power and struggle.
His chance came when His Excellency Bahjat Noor, the Director General, was awarded the Order of the Nile. He composed a congratulatory column and published it in a newspaper he usually supplied with his translations. He hailed the man’s firmness, propriety, good character, administrative talent, and idealism, and declared him a model Egyptian director, a species once thought incapable of replacing the English one.
When he entered the grand room with the mail, His Excellency smiled at him for the first time and said, “Thank you, Mr. Bayyumi.”
“Thanks are only due to God, Your Excellency,” he said as he bowed.
“Your style is really enviable.”
He admitted that it was not only vile wine that made man drunk. But drunkenness did not last and was often followed by a hangover. And he thought the chariot of time was going ever faster. He only remembered that in the distant past, time did not exist: al-Husayni Alley was simply space. Grade five was nothing great for a middle-aged man, a man who constantly lifted up his eyes toward the polestar, who confined himself to his tiny room packed with books, whose best food was ox cheek and kebab on feast days, and whose only pleasures in life were vile wine and the Negress Qadriyya in the bare room.
He needed real human warmth. A bride and a family. He could no longer bear to be consumed in the fire of life on his own.
How he needed a companion in this universe crammed with millions of universes.
Seventeen
He invited Omm Husni to visit him. He made her a cup of coffee on his little stove. She must have felt he was preparing to say something in a mixture of agitation and pleasant anticipation. She said expectantly, “My heart tells me you’ve called me in for a serious purpose. God be my witness, last night I dreamed…”
“Forget about dreams Omm Husni,” he broke in. “I want a wife.”
Her face beamed with joy and she shouted, “Hurrah! What a happy day!”
“A suitable wife.”
“You can pick and choose.”
“I’ve got certain conditions, Omm Husni. Try to understand me!”
“I’ve got virgin girls, divorcées, and widows both rich and poor.”
“Take your mind off our alley and the whole area,” he said in a voice of decision.
“What do you mean, my son?” she asked, puzzled.
“I want a wife from a good family.”
“What about the daughter of Mr. Hassuna, the owner of the bakery?”
“Forget about our area! A good family, I said!” he interrupted her impatiently.
“You mean…”
“Distinguished people…senior officials…people in power…”
The woman was dumbfounded, as if he were talking about the inhabitants of a different planet.
“It seems you’re no good in this field.”
“You’ve got strange ideas, my son,” she said desperately.
“So?”
“I’m no good, as you said, but I know Omm Zaynab, a matchmaker who lives in al-Hilmiyya.”
“Try her, and if she succeeds, I will reward you as if you had done everything.”
“You’re mean, Mr. Bayyumi,” she said laughingly.
“That’s unjustly said, woman. I give you my word.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I don’t care if she has been married before. Let her be a widow…a divorcée…a spinster. Good looks don’t matter as long as she is acceptable; and she doesn’t have to be young or wealthy either.”
The woman shook her head in bewilderment as he went on: “As for my origins, you can say that my father was a merchant, for example. Do they look into these things to check up?”
“Yes, they do. God bless your parents’ souls!”
“Anyway, my person may intercede for me. Just let’s try!”
Days went by tiresomely as he waited. And every time he went to Omm Husni, she told him to be patient. His imagination brooded on the reasons for the delay and his spirits were plunged in gloom. He began to frequent the shrine of al-Husayn.
During that period it happened that the Director of Administration, Hamza al-Suwayfi, was confined to bed for some time with high blood pressure. The general situation was critical because the administration was about to start drawing up the new budget. Othman visited the man on his bed of sickness and sat by him for long hours. He showed such sorrow and sympathy that the man sang his praises and prayed that God might protect him against the days of evil. As he sat there, Othman remembered how he had not visited Sa‘fan Basyuni and had heard nothing about him as if he had been dead. He said to Hamza al-Suwayfi, “You must rest completely and stay in bed until you’re fully recovered. Have no worries about work. My colleagues and I are at your service.”
The man thanked him and mumbled anxiously, “The budget draft!”
“It will be done,” he answered him confidently. “They’re all your pupils and their work under your direction has taught them how to go about it.”
At the ministry, there was gossip about the sick man and his illness. It was said that high blood pressure was a grave indication and an incurable disease. It was also said that Mr. al-Suwayfi might have to retire or at least give up his chief responsibilities. Othman listened to these surmises with interest and his heart pounded with secret delight. He deplored and resented this feeling, as usual; but it also roused his dreams and ambitions. Suddenly the Director General set up a special committee, of which he made him president, for the preparation of the draft budget. The implications of his choice were clear to all. True, nobody questioned his competence, or the propriety of the decision from that point of view. But, it was said, would it not have been more appropriate if the Deputy Director of Administration had presided over the committee to satisfy formalities? Nevertheless, he dedicated all his strength to drawing up the draft so that it might emerge perfect and without a single flaw. He demonstrated his skill in the assignment and coordination of duties as well as in gathering the data required from other departments of the ministry. He personally undertook to do the final balance and write up the preamble to the budget. The work required direct contact with His Excellency the Director General in the form of daily meetings which lasted for an hour and sometimes two, until familiarity replaced formality between them. One day the meeting went on for four hours and the man ordered coffee for him and offered him a cigarette, which he refused politely, as he was not a smoker. Days which filled his heart to the brim with happiness, pride, and hope went by. The man was pleased with his work and he felt that God was pleased with him and that fortune smiled on him. He drew up a model preamble to the draft, which the Director particularly liked, and he felt that he was standing on the very pinnacle of glory.
Hamza al-Suwayfi regained his health and returned to work on the last day of the committee’s work. Othman showed his delight by embracing him and wishing him long life.
“We were lost without you. The Lord be thanked for your recovery!” he said to him.
“What about the draft?” the man inquired.
“It’s been done and the preamble has been written and both are now with His Excellency for consideration. You will see them tomorrow or the day after. But how are you?”
“I’m all right, thank God. They cupped me and prescribed a strict diet. It’s all in God’s hands.?
??
“Don’t worry. The whole thing is only a passing cloud.”
During the course of his long service he got used to his own split personality and the moral conflicts it had to go through. He also got used to disappointments, both those which can be expected and those which cannot—like this one, for example. A feeling of lassitude, almost of despair, oppressed his innermost soul. Thus when a grade four position in the Legal Department became vacant, his anxiety prompted him to speak out. He had never done so before: in the past his habit had been to let his deeds and services speak for him. Thanks to the general atmosphere which his work with His Excellency the Director General created he was able to say to him, “If Your Excellency would be so kind, you might agree to my using my knowledge of the law in the Legal Department.”
“No! The Legal Department is a monopoly of people with certain privileges and will be better left alone,” the man answered decisively.
Alas, it was the same story as the wife for whom he had been waiting for so long. He was annoyed, but he answered deferentially, “As you wish, Your Excellency!”
He was walking toward the door when he was stopped by the man’s voice: “I’ve proposed in the new budget that the Head of Archives post be raised to grade four.”
He turned, took one long step, and bowed until his head nearly touched the edge of the desk.
Eighteen
This was assuredly a gratifying leap forward. If fortune continued to smile on him, he might achieve his ambition in twelve or fifteen years and still have a few years ahead of him in which to exercise high administrative responsibilities like His Excellency. But, as for Omm Zaynab’s mission, it was certain she had failed. That could no longer be doubted. A Head of Archives (he thought) was simply not acceptable. A Director of Administration might be accepted, but a Director General would never be rejected, not even if he was a senile dotard.
The reasons for marrying were countless. Marriage was a consolation to the lonely heart and the agonies of solitude. Marriage would also satisfy that religious aspect of his soul which regarded his celibacy as a sin. The tensions in his life were alleviated by the role Qadriyya played in it, but she did not provide him with those feelings of loving-kindness, tenderness, and human understanding which marriage offered, not to mention that she intensified his sense of guilt. The only comfort he had was his work, knowledge, and the exercise of thrift. And whenever he was tired of frugality, he told himself, “That’s how the Orthodox Caliphs lived!”
One day, as he was working in the Archives, he was taken aback to find Sa‘fan Basyuni standing in front of him, decrepit and emaciated like a ghost bidding life farewell. He stood up to welcome the man, ashamed of how grossly he had been neglecting him. He sat Basyuni down, saying with affected geniality, “How nice to see you again!”
The old man pulled himself together with great effort and mumbled, “How I missed you, man!”
“To hell with work!” cried Othman in a burst of repentance. “To hell with home and everyone there! I’m so sorry, dear friend.”
“I’m ill, Othman,” the man said plaintively.
“Don’t worry! You’ll be all right…Shall I order a coffee for you?”
“Nothing at all. Everything is forbidden.”
“God give you back your health and strength.”
He was extremely vexed and embarrassed and could see no way in which this unfortunate meeting could be brought to an end. Sa‘fan was quiet for a short while and then murmured in tones of humiliation, “I’m in bad need of three pounds.” He choked as he spoke and then went on: “For treatment, you see.”
Othman trembled. He saw danger about to engulf him, no mercy shown; and he cried out passionately, like a man being chased, “How horrible! I would never have…I would never have imagined myself turning down a request from you. Particularly this request. I’d sooner steal than say no to you…”
The man swallowed hard and said despondently, “Not even one pound?”
“Don’t you believe me, dearest of men? Oh, God! If only I could tell you! If only I…”
The man despaired completely and was lost in unknown thoughts. He got to his feet with difficulty, saying, “I believe you. God help you! God help us all!”
Othman’s eyes brimmed with tears as he shook hands with him—genuine, unaffected tears, condensed out of the vapors rising from the tortuous conflict raging deep down inside him. He nearly went after him, but let him go and walked back to his desk muttering to himself, “Oh, God!”
“We should have been hewn out of stone or iron to be able to stand up to life,” he said to himself.
“The path is very long,” he also said. “My only consolation is that I hold life, the gift of God, as sacred and do not make light of it.”
During the same week he heard the news of Sa‘fan Basyuni’s death. It was not unexpected, but he was deeply shocked. From the sheer intensity of his pain, he screamed inwardly, “Stop suffering! You’ve got more than your share of pain.”
And he said, “People envy me, but am I happy?”
And he asked, “What’s happiness?”
“Our real happiness,” he told himself, “is that God exists,” and he then added with determination, “Either we live or we die!”
Nineteen
Time cuts like a sword. If you don’t kill it, it kills you. He had become an authority on getting the better of time, but had he really escaped its sharp edge? The previous day a new young employee had spoken to him privately, asking his advice on a personal matter.
“I really feel embarrassed about this, sir,” the young man had begun, “but I come to you as a father or an elder brother!”
The words sounded so strange he thought the man was being sarcastic. As a father! True, he could have had a son of his age. And why not? Yet he never failed to attend to techniques of mastering time.
One day Omm Husni said to him, “This time it’s a headmistress.”
He shook with unconcealed pleasure. But although a headmistress could perhaps make a suitable wife, yet what he really desired was someone to lift him to a higher plane. So what was to be done?
Unable to resist his curiosity, he asked the old woman, “Old?”
“In the prime of womanhood. Thirty-five years at most.”
“A widow or divorced?”
“A virgin, as God made her. Headmistresses were not allowed to marry in the old days, as you know.”
He did not think he would be any the worse for seeing her, and see her he did, in al-Sayyida. He liked her appearance and she had a good figure. (His instincts had been aroused by Saniyya before.) So he saw her and learned that she too had seen him.
Later on Omm Husni said to him, “She won’t cost you a penny.”
He realized the woman had approved of him. For here she was, offering to furnish a house and provide the wedding requirements. All he would have to attend to were minor matters.
The old woman went on: “Only the ring and a wedding present and some sundries. So, can I congratulate you?”
“Let’s be patient a little!”
“Her only condition is the promise of a hundred and fifty pounds in case of divorce.”
Everything was fine and in perfect harmony with his cautious nature. Had he wished only to satisfy his religious faith by getting married, nothing would have been more suitable. But what about his worldly ambitions? He sank in a whirlpool of thoughts, perhaps because of his feeling that he was growing old. Because of the secret revelations which enveloped him from the world of the unknown. Because of the irony and cruelty and treachery of appearances. Because of the roses he never smelled and the songs echoing beyond the range of his hearing. Because of life’s harshness and deprivations. In spite of all this he said to himself, “What’s all this brooding and hesitation for? Rubbish! All is rubbish! I will not do something crazy after all that waiting.”
He wished he could establish a relationship with her: an unholy relationship! But he was only likely to be reje
cted, even more flatly than he had been by Saniyya. Even if she agreed, it would not be an occasion for happiness, as one might think, for that would require him to rent and furnish a flat somewhere else. His heart was full of apprehensions and in the end he simply said to Omm Husni, “No.”
“You can’t be serious!” the old woman shouted.
“I said no.”
“You’re a riddle, my boy.”
He laughed mirthlessly.
“What do you want? Do you not like the female sex?”
He laughed again.
“God forgive you!”
“I’m sad, my son,” she said.
“In sadness,” he said to himself, “man is hallowed and made ready for divine joy.”
Twenty
Onsiyya Ramadan arrived at a time when Othman had fallen victim to feelings of melancholy and depression which he had not experienced with such force before. He told himself that he was lost in an arid and blazing desert, that he had gained nothing of value, that ambition needed time, and life was short and the past despicable. For all his intimate personal emotions, he was despicable. His true emblem was a charity grave and the prison. The one martyr in his family had died on the side of oppression and injustice. He was friendless. Relations between him and the companions of his boyhood had ceased altogether. At work he had colleagues who respected and envied him but he had no friends. The only man with whom he could sit and talk was a servant at al-Husayn Mosque, and the only touch of romance in his arid life was a bare room and a whore who was half Negro. “What’s the meaning of this life?”
True, he had dedicated himself to the glorious path of God, but he was wading in sin and suffering pollution hour by hour. And it seemed he did not resist death with sufficient fortitude. “It looks like a losing game!”
As he burned in the furnace of his mental hell, a soft breeze with a new fragrance was wafted into Archives. It was new not only to Archives but to the whole administration, and new in the full sense of the word. It was the first girl to join the administration and, specifically, the Archives Section. A handsome dark-skinned girl of delicate features and simple dress. Her appearance as she stood in front of his desk to introduce herself left him at once confused and astonished and moved. As he asked her to sit down, he glimpsed the clerks’ heads beginning to protrude from between the lines of filing cabinets. They were amazed and unable to believe what they saw.