The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail

  Samir laughed so hard that his teeth flashed. “It isn’t difficult to do both at once,” he replied. “That’s what Almad Pasha Zahran used to do. Now you see me combining mysticism with commerce. It doesn’t stifle your energies, but gets rid of flaws.”

  “It’s better than suicide, at any rate,” said Isa sadly.

  The sun shone for a few seconds, then disappeared again. Samir asked him what he intended to do.

  “Are we really finished?” Isa asked him in turn.

  “Most probably,” Samir replied, shaking his head in despair. “Things aren’t as they were in previous revolutions.”

  Isa said nothing for a while, as though he were listening to the all-pervading silence. “We’re just like the Alexandria beach in autumn,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m saying you should get a job.”

  “We won’t be working, whatever job we take,” Isa replied, “because we’ve no role to play. That’s why we feel excised and rejected like a removed appendix.” He gave a smile, then continued. “I must confess that I have my own mystical beliefs. They keep me busy when I’m alone.”

  Samir looked concerned.

  “I’m thinking of taking up crime,” Isa said blandly.

  Samir let out a long laugh. “That’s a novel form of mysticism!” he said, still chuckling.

  “But you don’t kill your own body with it. Just other people’s.”

  “I suppose you’ll choose some kind of sex crime.”

  They both laughed.

  “Thank God, there’s still a world that can laugh,” Samir said.

  “We’ll laugh a lot more every time we take a look at what’s going on. It’ll all be worked out for us. But we won’t be participating in it. We’ll be like eunuchs.”

  A gentle breeze blew. The pashas looked as though they were asleep. For no particular reason, Isa remembered the first speech he’d made in Parliament, when he was still a student at the university. “Our very history is threatened with extinction,” he said sadly.

  “History is very long-suffering. It’ll defend itself when all the other combatants have disappeared.”

  The Greek proprietor walked over to them, smiled at Isa, and asked him how he was and how things were going. Isa recognized the political import of his question immediately. “Just as you see,” he replied with a smile.

  When he returned to his tall building near the tram stop, he was feeling depressed at saying farewell to Samir. As he walked through the high, dark entrance, he cursed Salwa, and as he entered the elevator, he told himself how much he needed a “tranquilizer.”

  FOURTEEN

  He stood alone with his glass in the dimly lit corridor connecting the candy counter outside and the ballroom inside at the Petit Trianon. A big band was playing dance tunes, and couples clung to each other as they danced with light and elegant movements; in that way they could shrug off the discomforts of the sunlight. All these beautiful women belonged to houses now, not to the streets, as had been the case before and during the war. He’d begun to appreciate what was happening during his adolescence and early manhood. They’d made a lot of money during the war years and wouldn’t stoop now to displaying themselves on the cheap any longer. They’ve disappeared from the square, leaving it vacant, Isa told himself, for people who wanted the job of making a quick profit from political outcasts! One tune made him sway and he longed to dance—something he did fairly well—but where was the beautiful partner? He took a drink of cognac, which he liked in moderation. He felt sheltered and that made him more relaxed. His little cache of money from the umdas would provide him with funds to indulge in some delightful escapades, he told himself. If it weren’t for our morbid feelings about the future, nothing would ever bother us!

  He did not enjoy his shelter alone for long. A voice caught him by surprise. “What do you think of the world?” it asked.

  The shock made him shudder. He looked along the bending corridor but could not see anyone. The voice belonged to an old drunk, obviously spouting his quota of drivel. But where was he? The voice spoke again. “Do you want to know where I am?” it asked with a laugh. “Fine! I’m behind the tree.”

  At the bottom of the bend in the corridor that led to the candy counter was a half-grown tree—natural or artificial—in a huge pot; everything beyond the tree was total darkness, the candy counter having closed at eight in the evening. Isa deduced that the man had been sitting in the corridor and that for some reason he’d decided to move his seat into the dark to play his stupid game. He cursed the man under his breath and ignored him, but the latter began asking questions again without coming out into the dim light. “Have you ever tried drinking in the dark?” he inquired.

  Isa said nothing, hoping he’d shut up.

  “Drinking in the dark allows you to concentrate,” the man went on. “That’s why I’m thinking about the state of the world. Is it really going to ruin?”

  Isa watched the dancing, half attentive, and took pleasure in the faces, breasts, and rosy complexions.

  The drunk would not let go. “The question’s really important to me,” he said. “If it’s moving to destruction, then I’ll drink cognac. If there’s any hope, I’d prefer whiskey. And therefore if I find myself in both situations, I’ll destroy myself, because I’ll be struck by three momentous diseases at once—low blood pressure, cirrhosis, and hemorrhoids!”

  Isa smiled in spite of himself. It was nice to be drunk, at any rate. The trials that have descended upon us are enough to break our hearts, he thought; enough to kill us. It’s as if all the debris from the collapsed old world were piling on top of your head. And the worst thing of all is the knowledge that, even though you loathe the new era, you still cannot reject it in your mind. Neither you nor your cache of umdas’ money!

  “Destruction’s nothing new in the world. If it’s written on your forehead, then it’s better for it to be quick.”

  “Why do you want it, provided it’s quick?” Isa asked the man almost without realizing it.

  “As the proverb goes,” the man replied with a boisterous laugh, “the best charity comes quickest!”

  Isa pitied the victims of history with a sigh in his heart, drained his glass, and left. He walked along Saad Zaghlul Street, his favorite street in Alexandria, particularly after the revolution; his own private street, in a way, and he liked walking along it, if only once a day in each direction, so that he could be alone with his flooding memories.

  It was getting close to midnight and the air had become refreshingly cool. The whole area looked deserted. He glanced at the back of the statue gazing out to sea and tossed his head back like the pasha whom he had loved to imitate in times past.

  He took the tram to Al-Ibrahimiyya and then went to the Corniche for a gentle walk along the seawall to calm his nerves. The salty air rose up around his head, which was reeling from the alcohol he had drunk. The stars were shining in the wide gaps between the clouds, and the sea was calm, like someone asleep in the dark. In the distance, the rows of lights attached to the fishing boats stretched out in a line. There was no one to be seen on the road. The sense of total abandonment came back again and he sat down on a stone bench to savor this feeling of silence and sympathy. He would not go back to his empty home till drowsiness persuaded him: since coming to Alexandria, he’d been living his own life, not following anyone’s orders or conforming with any customs, satisfying his own whims in absolute freedom, going to sleep when he could not stay awake any longer, waking up when he got tired of sleeping, eating when he was hungry, and going out when he was bored. He’d never enjoyed freedom like this before.

  Something to his left attracted his attention, as though some hidden temptation were trying to contact one or more of his senses—a figure coming toward him from a distance. When it came closer under the streetlight and the features became clear, he saw that it was a girl. The cheap cotton flannel dress, the defiant look untinged by reserve or haughtiness, and the very fact that she was walking alone
at night, all these things showed that she was a Corniche girl. He examined her as she walked past him through the narrow space between his bench and the seawall. He could see she was young and had quite nice features, but her appearance was very common, and she had an air of ready response to some gesture that would take her in, like a stray dog looking for any passerby to follow. She walked past till she reached the next bench and sat down on it, eyes fixed in his direction. What a bunch of scavengers these whores are, Isa thought. But what else is there once the summer season is over and Alexandria folds up totally, looking as though its doors were locked in the face of strangers? Deep down inside he felt disgusted. But his pulse was throbbing insanely with desire. The director of the minister’s office with designs on the minister’s chair was dead and buried. That much was quite clear. All that was left of him at the moment was a drunkard alone in the dark whose desires were crawling all over like nocturnal insects. It was as though an irresistible impulse to wallow in the dust were blowing through his brain.

  He signaled to her with as flirtatious a gesture as he could muster, and then repeated it. She got up and moved toward him till she stood at arm’s length. He gestured to her to sit down, and she did so with a laugh as soft as the whisper of the waves that lapped below, at the foot of the seawall. He looked at her face and was shocked by its youth. “How old are you?” he asked.

  She laughed without answering. He repeated the question anxiously.

  “Guess!” she said.

  “Maybe you’re fifteen,” he said.

  “No,” she replied proudly. “I’m not a minor, in any case, so relax.”

  A pale matte complexion, round face, full cheeks, small, full body, and short hair like a boy. She kept playing with her nails; the varnish on them had flaked away.

  “Where did you come from at this hour of the night?”

  “From the café,” she replied, pointing back down the road behind her to a lighted door wrapped in darkness and silence.

  “I didn’t notice it as I was walking,” he said.

  “People heading there usually see it.” She laughed. “Cigarette?”

  They both lit cigarettes. He couldn’t think of anything to say. “Let’s go,” he whispered.

  They walked side by side along one of the roads leading off the Corniche. She took his arm and he winced, scowling, in the darkness, remembering Salwa. If they’re sincere, he told himself, they should let free elections decide!

  FIFTEEN

  He woke up about noon and looked with curiosity at the naked girl sleeping next to him. Recollections of the previous night came back and he told himself that as long as oblivion and habit still existed, everything remained possible. As she lay there, almost completely uncovered, he examined her, coldly and calmly, contemptuous of everything. Her full lips were parted, revealing a neat set of teeth, but after a night’s sleep her hair looked as it really was, dry, coarse, and unkempt. There was an odd physical inconsistency about her; her eyelashes were long and voluptuous, but her breasts looked chapped and flaky, like a pair of toads.

  He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. When he came back, he found her sitting up in bed yawning. She lifted two beautiful, heavy eyes in his direction. He decided to get rid of her as soon as possible. “I’ve an appointment,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”

  She looked at him, hesitated, and then left the room. He opened the balcony door and a strong breeze blew in. It felt quite pleasant, full of the smell of the sea and the warmth of the sun, which was shining in the middle of the sky. As he dressed, he looked out to sea. There was an impetuous motion to it today; the whole surface was flecked with foam and the waves looked like mouths laughing. She was a long time in the bathroom, he thought, until he went into the lounge to turn on the radio and found her there, cleaning and putting things straight with great industriousness. “Thank you,” he said, “but leave that for the bawwab.4 It’s time for me to go.”

  “Go ahead,” she replied, without stopping what she was doing.

  “But when are you going to get dressed?”

  She sat on a big chair in the lounge and smiled.

  “You may be able to dawdle,” he said, “but I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Do you live alone?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes…but come on!!”

  She started combing her hair. “I told myself you might need someone as a companion and servant,” she said, showing a genuine shyness for the first time.

  “Thank you,” he replied in astonishment, “but I don’t need anything like that. Haven’t you got a home?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “Sometimes with the woman who owns the café,” she replied shamefully, “and other times I spend the night in the café! We don’t find any work in the winter, and last summer was just like winter, in any case!”

  “Whatever your problem is,” he snapped, “you’ll find the solution outside.”

  She stood up. “I didn’t save anything for this winter,” she said quietly, “and you need someone to serve you.”

  Her insistence only made him more obdurate. “Why don’t you go to Cairo for the winter?” he said.

  She looked at him in amazement, as though the idea would never have occurred to her. “But I’m from here,” she answered simply.

  “Haven’t you got any family?”

  “Of course, but I can’t go back to them!”

  “Aren’t you afraid one of them might see you?”

  “They’re in Tanta.41 That’s where I come from.”

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, annoyed at having let the conversation go this far, “I’m in a hurry.”

  As she went into the other room to put her clothes on, he remarked to himself that they were very much alike—both disgraced outcasts. When the girl came back she seemed to have despaired of arousing his sympathy and tried being playful. “Is that your family?” she asked coyly, looking at the picture of the Greek family on the wall.

  He laughed in spite of himself. “What a devil you are!”

  Her laugh was unexpectedly merry. Then, more seriously, she asked him, “Are you from Alexandria?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re here as a civil servant?”

  “Almost.”

  “Almost?”

  “You’re like a district attorney!” he barked. “Come on!”

  She asked to be paid and he gave it to her—much less than he’d expected. He felt sorry for her for the first time since he had woken up. They left the flat together and separated at the entrance to the building. He headed straight for a restaurant to satisfy his hunger, then killed the hours between three and six at the first cinema he came to. Afterwards, he sat in the Grand Trianon drinking coffee and reading the evening paper. Around nine o’clock he went to his dark seat in the Petit Trianon corridor and listened to the music, amusing himself by watching the dancers and swilling cognac. At one point he wished that the man who’d been behind the tree the night before would raise his voice again and pour abuses on the world.

  “I’m a student of Sufism39 as well,” he said aloud, as though he were talking to Samir Abd al-Baqi. “You’re not the only one.” He smiled regretfully to himself. Don’t think about the future, he told himself. That’s right. You’re still only at the honeymoon stage. What you need is a long unbroken vacation. Don’t be upset by your own insignificance. It’s a historical phenomenon.

  He left the place a little before midnight. As he approached the entrance to his building, he was surprised to see the girl sitting in the Greek café on the chair nearest the doorway, her face smiling in welcome. She sprang up and ran to meet him in front of the entrance. He stopped in bewilderment.

  “You weren’t late for your appointment?” she said.

  She went in first. He hesitated a moment and then followed her. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I was waiting for you,” she replied, taking him by the arm. “If he comes
back alone, I told myself, I’ll be in luck.”

  He was pleased by her flattery, even though he was painfully aware of the situation. “What’s your name?” he asked her in the elevator.

  “Riri,” she replied.

  “That’s obviously a genuine Tanta name!” he retorted with a laugh.

  “It’s the one I use in Alexandria.”

  There was a short pause.

  “My heart tells me,” she continued, “that you’ll offer me your hospitality.”

  SIXTEEN

  He allowed her to stay in the flat as she wished. He made it clear to her from the very beginning that he was a free man, and that she had to keep within her bounds even if he brought a woman home every night; to all of which she agreed without question. Afterwards he could not deny that she gave the flat a friendly feeling and cleanliness that had been absent before and introduced a breath of warm air into its cold atmosphere. When she wore the new clothes he bought for her, she looked really presentable, and she always took particular care of her appearance. She played her role adroitly, something above that of a servant and yet below that of mistress of the house. She avoided getting on his nerves in any way whatsoever. She shared his food, cigarettes, and drink, but did not ask for a penny apart from that. He gave her no encouragement to get emotionally involved with him or use endearing words. “I’m a man who distrusts everything,” he told her. “That’s the way I am, so make sure you don’t lead me to suspect you’re lying.”

  When winter took over, the weather seemed to be as unsettled as the invisible world itself. He was forced to spend long nights in the flat with her. They would listen to the radio or else he would spend a few hours by himself reading or give his exhausted feelings some relief by listening to her silly chatter. The worst thing that would happen while he was living with her was that sometimes she would suddenly strike him as a symbol of the utter humiliation into which he had sunk. When that happened, he would keep out of her way and start insulting her at the first opportunity. Her full, round face would show a frown. He would be aware of the effort she was making to keep her temper under control and suppress a desire to give vent to her aggressive instincts, instincts that she had acquired through her life on the streets. All this involved an inner struggle, traces of which were clearly visible on her cheeks and lips and in her expression and the way her features altered. Even though she was illiterate, she was well educated in the cinema and radio. She could remember the names and pictures of the various stars as well as the films, songs, and programs, and she could never have enough of talking about them. “Don’t you think,” she asked him, “that I’m good enough for the cinema?”