“They’re too weak to organize anything at all!” the Pasha replied, both corners of his mouth curving down as a sign of contempt.
“Who then?” asked Isa with a clear look of doubt in his eyes.
“Things are not as obvious as you imagine,” the Pasha replied. “It is possible that prearranged signals filtered through from the Palace; it is also possible that English spies are in high spirits over the havoc they have caused. But it seems to me that this deluge began quite naturally and then certain people took advantage of the situation.”
Suddenly deep-seated anxieties stirred inside Isa’s mind and his heart jumped. “But what about the battle?” he asked.
The Pasha slowly twisted his mustache and looked up at the ceiling, where lights hidden behind golden wings were gleaming in the four corners. Then he looked at the young man again, his eyes showing all the signs of his own uncertainty and depression without needing to say a word.
“Damn anyone who lets himself get talked into trifling with our struggle!” said Isa, trying to fend off his own apprehension.
No signs of cheerful optimism appeared on the Pasha’s face. He simply made do with replying, “Today will have grave consequences.”
“For the second time today,” said Isa, suddenly feeling listless and defeated, “I’m reminded of what Shaikh Abd at-Tawwab as-Salhubi said after the annulment of the treaty: ‘It’s the end for us. Now it’s in God’s hands.’ ”
The Pasha smiled. “It’ll never be the end for us,” he said. “We may fall but we’ll come back even more powerful than before.”
The telephone rang. It was the Pasha’s wife calling from the top floor. He looked upset as he put the receiver back in its cradle.
“Martial law’s been declared,” he said.
They both sat for a while astonished, then Isa broke the silence. “Perhaps it’s necessary,” he muttered, “so that they can arrest the culprits.” But then he noticed that the Pasha was lost in his own morose thoughts, and tried to make amends. “Martial law in our times!” he said. “What a terrible thing to happen!”
“It was not declared because of our times,” the Pasha replied, frowning.
THREE
“A decree’s been issued transferring me from my position in the minister’s office to the archives.”
His mother raised her head and looked at him. Her thin face was much like his own, especially in its triangular shape, but heavily wrinkled, with signs of age in her eyes, mouth, and jaw.
“It’s not the first time,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your old job back. Or maybe something even better. Our Lord will put things right.”
The sitting room overlooked Sharia Halim in Dokki. The wide window of the balcony was closed as a protection against the cold and behind it willow branches rose and fell limply. Beyond them clouds stretched away into the distance, bunched together, foreboding. Like the political situation. The ministry had been dismissed, and the new minister had removed him from his job, along with many other people, especially anyone who had been connected with the battle at the Canal. But these things had happened so often that his mother had come to regard them as almost normal. She had become quite used to seeing the most disastrous floods followed by a smooth ebb, which always turned out to be in the best interests of her beloved son. Though old and illiterate, she still followed current events closely and kept up with whatever was going on in politics, especially with matters that affected Isa’s life.
She was very proud of him and believed everything he said. His success amazed her—it was so far beyond anything she had ever imagined—it had been beyond the hopes of either her or his late father, who had spent his entire life as an obscure minor civil servant. In spite of the pitfalls and storms of politics, Isa had forged ahead, floundering at times to such an extent that people gave him up for lost, but then always rising again to achieve some new level of seniority. This gorgeous house in Dokki was a sign of his successful ambition, and its furniture was a delight to behold. Pashas and ministers would frequently favor him with visits.
His mother held a rosary from the Hijaz21 in her gnarled hands and used the beads in litanies to God. Would there be an end to this situation, she asked herself, and would everything turn out for the best? Were there complicated factors involved which were difficult to comprehend or was it just that the evil eye had struck?
“It’s incredible,” said Isa listlessly, “that we have hardly settled into the business of running the government for a year before we’re thrown out again for four. We’re the legitimate rulers of this country and there are no others besides us.”
“Health and well-being are the important things,” the old lady said with firm conviction.
He smiled bitterly, but concealed his real feelings. “I think it’s important,” he said, “that I take advantage of this period of retirement to attend to my personal affairs.”
Her dim eyes flickered with interest and for the first time she spoke joyfully: “Oh, I’m delighted. It’s about time you got married. The girl is waiting for you and her father has not withheld his consent.”
“Wouldn’t it be better,” he asked with a laugh, “to get married when I’m enjoying a prestigious position in authority?”
She smiled and her teeth gleamed, like some forgotten sprig of jasmine in a garden where all the trees have been uprooted. “You’ve got a prestigious position now,” she said. “People realize that you’ve been nominated for senior posts. Ali Bey5 Sulaiman understands these things very well. And besides, he’s your relative. He loved your late father more than anything else in the world.”
All this was true. Ali Bey Sulaiman was his father’s cousin, on a side of a family tree that was otherwise bare. Rich and from a rich background, he was also an influential justice, quite apart from the fact that he was a Palace man. Once Isa strengthened his position by becoming the Bey’s son-in-law, he would be able to depend upon his father-in-law for a convenient harbor to shelter in whenever his boat was rocked by political storms—an important consideration since the losses he would suffer from remaining with the party seemed likely to outlast any possible gains. And besides, Salwa was really a marvelous girl. There was no comparison between her and his other cousin, whose family had been trying for ages to get him to marry her. Salwa’s mother was a fine woman too; she tended to a conservatism rare among people of her class. Fortunately for Isa, she thought very well of his future prospects, to such an extent that she could envisage him as a minister even before he himself could: when he had broached the subject of asking for her daughter’s hand, she had told him quite frankly that she was not interested in money but in status. And wasn’t the second grade34 a real sign of distinction for a young man in his thirties? She had a particular admiration for young men who had studied abroad, and even though he had not done so himself, he had still served for a year in the London embassy and traveled as an attaché with the secretariat of the delegation to the treaty negotiations. He liked to visualize Salwa’s enticing beauty, her crème-Chantilly complexion. It was just as well for him that she was not a socialite, one of those girls who went to clubs or had taken up modern ideas.
“Do you realize,” he asked his mother, “that I hadn’t seen her since we were children?”
“That’s your fault!” his mother retorted. “The fact that you were so involved in your work is no excuse either. Anyone with a relative like Ali Bey Sulaiman should have kept in as close contact as possible.”
“I used to meet him abroad, but I wasn’t thinking of marriage at that time.”
When he’d asked her father for her hand he’d had only the vaguest picture in his mind of what she actually looked like. But he’d found her to be a real gem and had fallen in love with her with all his heart. He was in the process of choosing the appropriate words to express his new feelings to his mother when Umm Shalabi came in to announce that his cousin Hasan had come to pay him a visit. Still nursing defeat, Isa felt unready for this particular caller, and so it
was annoyance that predominated over his other feelings.
Hasan Ali ad-Dabbagh came in beaming. Of medium height, well built, with a square face and deep-lined features, he had a broad chin, and his clear intelligent eyes and sharp-pointed nose were very distinctive. He kissed his aunt’s hand, shook Isa’s warmly without managing to lessen the latter’s feelings of annoyance, then sat down beside him and asked for some tea. He was almost the same age as Isa but was still in the fifth grade, whereas politics had managed to push Isa up to the second. Though he had a bachelor’s degree in commerce, the only work he’d been able to find was with the draft board.
“How are you?” Isa’s mother asked.
“I’m fine,” Hasan replied, “and my mother and sister are well too.”
Isa felt even more uncomfortable at the mention of his sister; not because he disliked her but because she was the sister of this old rival of his. They’d been competitors, in close contact, and had once harbored harsh and painful sentiments against each other. It was only politics that had put an end to the causes of this contentiousness between the two of them: politics had raised Isa to his important position, while merely nudging Hasan on in slow stages down a long, arduous road. Their relationship had flagged somewhat, but feelings ran very deep, and Hasan had never cut himself off from his cousin completely. Hasan even wanted Isa to marry his sister and, amazingly enough, had let it be known that he seriously contemplated going to see Ali Bey Sulaiman to ask for his daughter’s hand only a few days after Isa had done so himself. Isa had laughed in scorn when he’d heard the news and told himself that God should have some mercy on a man who knows his own worth. Nevertheless, even though he disliked Hasan, Isa still reserved a certain admiration for him on account of his strong personality and considerable intelligence.
“I heard you’ve been transferred to the archives,” Hasan said. “Don’t worry,” he continued generously, “you’re someone who was made to stand up to hardships.”
Isa’s mother entered the conversation. “There’s nothing to be worried about,” she said enthusiastically, “that’s what I always say. Why do these people abandon their leaders and then take vengeance on their sons?”
Isa was a little nonplussed by Hasan’s sympathy. “We’re quite used to being imprisoned and beaten,” he said proudly. “Today’s afflictions are nothing…”
Hasan smiled and went on sipping his tea. “That’s right,” he said with traces of aggression in his voice, “you’re imprisoned and beaten while the other people do a little bargaining.”
Isa realized full well whom he meant by “other people” and got ready for battle, while his mother left the room to perform the sunset prayer. “You know very well what I think of the others personally,” he said by way of warning, “so be careful!”
“Everything’s collapsing so fast,” said Hasan with a provocative grin. “It’s best to let it happen. The old way of doing things must be torn up by the roots!”
“And what about the problems our nation faces?” Isa retorted. “Who’ll be left to deal with them?”
“Do you think that those corrupt idiots in Parliament are the ones to solve them?”
“You don’t see them as they really are.”
“The truth is that I do see them as they really are.”
“You keep on repeating exactly the things that the opposition press is saying!”
“I only believe in the truth,” Hasan replied with a confidence that was exasperating. “Young people have to rely on themselves.”
Isa stifled his own irritation. “A call for total destruction is very dangerous,” he said. “If it weren’t for this treachery, we could have kept the King within his constitutional limits and got our independence.”
Hasan finished his glass and smiled, trying to clear the atmosphere. “You’re a loyal man,” he said amiably, “and that leads you to respect certain people who don’t deserve it. There’s widespread corruption, believe me. Nobody in a position of authority today thinks about anything but the rotten game of getting rich quick. We inhale corruption in the very air we breathe! How can any of our genuine hopes emerge from the quagmire?”
They could both hear the sound of Isa’s mother praying. For the sake of hospitality, Isa controlled his temper. Nothing could make him admit that what his rival was saying was right: sheer obstinacy would hold him back. But he felt extremely depressed: the world was changing and his gods were crumbling before his very eyes. For his part, Hasan changed the subject and began talking about the property lost in the fire, the estimates of compensation, the position of the British, and the continual arrests. Before long, however, he came back to the point: “Just show me a single sector that doesn’t ooze with corruption!”
What appalling notions! How impudent and thoroughly irritating he was! Just then, Isa remembered a totally unconnected event that had happened a long time ago. He had gone to visit Ali Bey Sulaiman’s house with his father and found himself alone in the dining room, where he’d noticed a piece of chocolate in a half-opened drawer. He had slipped in his hand and taken it. That had happened almost a quarter of a century ago. What a memory! As always, Hasan kept up his attack—damn him!
“What is it you want?” Isa asked listlessly.
“Fresh clean blood.”
“Where from?”
Hasan’s pearly teeth gleamed as he laughed with health and well-being. “The country’s not dead yet,” he said.
“Show me a group of people apart from our party that deserves any confidence!” Isa demanded angrily.
Hasan glared back at him without saying a word. Outside, the old lady’s voice could be heard in a flow of prayers.
“What’s to be done then?” Isa resumed.
“We’ll support the devil himself if he volunteers to save the ship.”
“But the devil won’t volunteer to save anything.” Isa glared away, looking unconcernedly up at the pitch-black sky, trying to avoid Hasan’s gaze for a while.
“The English, the King, and the parties, they’ll all have to go,” Hasan said. “Then we must start afresh.”
Isa laughed bitterly. “The burning of Cairo has made it clear that treason is more powerful than the government and the people put together,” he said.
His mother came back into the room. “Isn’t there something else you can talk about?” she asked. Her cheeks looked flushed and puffy as she sat down in her old seat. “When are you going to get married?” she asked Hasan.
At that point Isa was reminded of Hasan’s bold attempt to get engaged to Salwa and that made him even more annoyed. Hasan was poor but brash. It was obvious he was after her money, as a final way of getting himself out of his difficulties.
“Momentous events are happening so suddenly,” Hasan replied with a laugh, “and without the slightest warning.”
“When will you be seeing your mother to give her our greetings?”
“Your house is a long way from Rod al-Farag, but she’ll definitely be coming to visit you.” Hasan was on the point of standing up to leave. “Where are you going this evening?” he asked Isa.
“To the club,” Isa replied defiantly but calmly.
Hasan got up. “Goodbye,” he said, “till we meet again!”
FOUR
The day the engagement was announced at Ali Bey Sulaiman’s mansion was one to remember. Men and women were not really separated from each other; they occupied two drawing rooms connected by a common entrance which was considered a beautiful work of art in its own right. Isa’s mother and her sister-in-law, Hasan’s mother, were sitting among the female guests in the red room, while Isa’s close friends, Samir Abd al-Baqi, Abbas Sadiq, Ibrahim Khairat, and his cousin Hasan, were all sitting in the green room among the family guests and relatives. The important guests were being welcomed in the large room adjoining the entrance. These included Ali Bey Sulaiman’s friends, all of them Palace men or people connected with the law, and party men who were acquaintances of Isa. Isa’s mother and her sister-in
-law withdrew into themselves as they sat there in the glare of the brilliant lights which were shining down on them. Neither of them seemed to have any connection with the world around her. Isa’s mother was wearing an expensive dress and her age gave her a certain dignity. Her senses were weak—especially her sight and hearing—and this made her less receptive to the festive atmosphere. She withdrew into herself and made no effort to give any kind of impression that might be considered appropriate for the future groom’s mother.
Susan Hanem,20 Ali Bey Sulaiman’s wife, made a special effort to be nice to her so as to make her feel more at home. She had been fond of Isa’s mother for a long time—at least since she had become Ali Bey Sulaiman’s wife—and her affection for the old lady had been one of the reasons that had led her to agree to accept Isa as a future son-in-law. A chronic liver disease and a bad kidney condition had left Susan Hanem in her mid-fifties with only her height, proportions, and immutable grace to mark what had once been great beauty. “Don’t forget you’re in your own home,” she told Isa’s mother very kindly.
Hasan started a fierce argument about politics with Isa’s friends even though he did not know them well. Isa listened to him for a while from a distance. He had thought that Hasan would not come to the reception and his behavior astonished him. Hasan could defy time itself if he wanted, Isa was convinced of that.
But Isa did not stay in one place for long, giving particular attention to his guests from the party. The atmosphere in the room was a little tense. The party men were all facing the Palace men, but even though they were bound together by old ties of friendship, the majority of each group was pretending not to know the other. In all this, Ali Bey Sulaiman was playing his role with unerring skill. He was greeting everyone on equal terms even though he was a Palace man himself. He had been an ordinary lawyer until the Palace had nominated him for the post of justice in one of the judicial reshuffles. Not recognized as having any particular political coloring, he had become a kind of political rainbow, then, just at the right moment, had joined the Unity Party, becoming attached to the King’s retinue, from which he had risen to occupy the highest position in the judiciary. Though he was nearly sixty, he still enjoyed extraordinary good health and vigor. He was tall and had a marvelous athletic posture and his black eyes, which gleamed beneath bushy eyebrows, made him irresistibly attractive. Very early in his life he had given himself the valuable support of marrying into the Himmat family—Susan Hanem’s family—and had then laid out his patch of earth and planted the aristocracy in his progeny.