The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail

  She buried her face against the wall. “If only I had some place to go.”

  He turned off the light and lay down, closing his eyes. Soon, the first movements of the morning would be heard, and tears would be shed next to him, while betrayal gnawed beneath like an insect. Only a few moments remained before this existence would die. She’s cut off from the tree and no longer has anyone but you. It’s strange that you should be filled with such determination. Tonight’s ecstasy is as erratic as a bolt of lightning. How can it fill the emptiness of life?

  On Friday he sought out Buthayna on the balcony while she was watering the flowerpots. He smiled somewhat bashfully, but she welcomed him by racing over and presenting her cheek to be kissed. In spite of her happy glow, he detected in her evasive glance a faint reprimand.

  “I’ve missed you very much,” she said.

  He bit the inside of his lip and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m determined to get well, and just need a bit of forbearance.”

  She turned back to the flowerpots, and he asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, then added after a pause, “But Mama’s not.”

  “That’s understandable. But things will change. Just be patient.”

  She pointed out a jasmine bud, still barely visible, and exclaimed happily, “The first jasmine. It’s very small but the scent is strong. Shall I pick it for you?”

  NINE

  How strange it seems, going to work every day in an office which had become so alien and meaningless. When would he have the courage to close it down?

  The head clerk remarked, “Every day we lose another case. I’ve become almost inactive.”

  In fact, he’d left the burden of work almost entirely to others and did very little supervising or reviewing anymore. Gloomy eyes stared at him from the walls in the stagnant, musty air. His creative energies were spent outside now in setting up the flat in Soliman Pasha Square.

  “I’m glad we’re setting up our own place,” he said to Warda. “We can’t go to the pyramids in winter.”

  She asked, swinging her shoulders to a jazz beat under the trellis of the Capri, “When winter comes, will you still be interested in our affair?”

  He raised his glass of champagne. “To a permanent affair.” Yazbeck was standing in the distance, the grand master of ceremonies. Omar returned his smile and said, taking Warda’s hand, “I owe a lot to him.”

  “He’s nice and better than most of his sort, but greedy, as you’d expect.”

  “But I’m a champagne customer.”

  She frowned slightly. “It’s extravagant to come here every night.”

  He beamed, murmuring, “Your concern is encouraging.”

  She embraced him with her eyes, and said, “Haven’t the pyramids already witnessed that?”

  “Yes, love, and for me it’s not just an affair as I said, but…”

  She urged silence with a press of her hand. “Don’t name it. Isn’t it better that it names itself?”

  “You’re so lovely, it drives me mad.”

  “I have no confidence in words, since I was originally an actress.”

  “And a lady through and through.”

  “Thank you, but you know most people have a low opinion of the art. For that reason I left my family. It’s just as well I have no brother or father.”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “Certainly acting would be better than dancing at the Capri.”

  “I didn’t have the proper devotion to it, and they said I had no talent. Dancing was my real love all along, so it was the Capri, and the rest followed, inevitably….”

  He said with warmth, “But you have a heart of gold.”

  “That I’ve never heard before.”

  —

  He commissioned a couple of men to work on the new flat—the furniture, the bar, the objets d’art and decor. And soon the place was quite beautifully set up. Apart from the bedroom, dining room, and entrance hall, there was an Oriental room which recaptured the fantasies of A Thousand and One Nights. He spent without limit, as though ridding himself of a painful financial tumor. He followed Mustapha’s amazed eyes as he toured the place, and when they finally met his glance, said, “Instead of reprimanding me, talk to me about the meaning of life.”

  “Life!”

  “I’ll knock the deaf walls at every spot until the voice inside betrays the hidden treasure.”

  Mustapha shrugged resignedly and said, “There is a certain beauty in the madness.”

  “The last few days have given me a taste for life I’ve never had before. Nothing else matters.”

  Mustapha said, smiling, “Yazbeck’s uneasiness proves the girl’s loyalty.”

  “She’s loyal and honest or else the greatest of actresses.”

  “But she’s a failure as an actress.”

  The apartment overwhelmed her when she entered it the first time. She exclaimed in admiration, “You really do have champagne taste, but you’ve been too extravagant.”

  He gave her a light kiss and said, “This is our little nest.”

  “I don’t want to burden you or give you any false impressions about me.”

  “If I didn’t know the real Warda, I wouldn’t have made any effort.”

  She laughed coquettishly. “You’re alone responsible for your understanding.”

  “And the pyramids?”

  “Just because we shriek when fire burns us doesn’t mean shrieking is in our nature.”

  He stretched out on the divan, saying, “Mustapha tells me Yazbeck is upset.”

  “I refused to go out with anyone else. He can jump in the lake.”

  “And stay there indefinitely.”

  “I’ll restrict my work at the Capri to dancing.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  “It’s hot today. I’m going to take a shower in the new bathroom.”

  He changed from his street clothes into a gallabiyya, for that, he decided, was more in keeping with the Oriental room than pajamas. Looking contentedly around the elegant place, he reflected that happiness was enough to cure him; he could let up on the regime. A sudden lightheartedness prompted him to ask in a booming voice, “What’s the shower water up to?”

  Her voice responded behind the bathroom door, “Something very impolite!” The door opened, she darted past him, wrapped in a towel, and shot into the bedroom. He closed his eyes in contentment. May this nest repeat the ecstasies of the pyramids, and what he now holds in his hands, may it satisfy her longings. For its sake he has tread on other hearts and learned recklessness and cruelty. May she not vanish as Margaret did. Your colleague, the great lawyer, said to you in your office, “You look too dapper these days for a successful, hardworking lawyer.”

  You laughed. “Less so for a happy lawyer.”

  He glanced at him with misgiving, the brazen lover, then quickly changed the conversation to politics, his favorite subject. “So, what are people doing these days?” he asked.

  Uninterested in politics, you answered, “Searching madly for ecstasy.”

  He didn’t understand. He’s a womanizer, but you’re not. You’re neither brazen nor frivolous, but who distinguishes between the slayer and the worshipper, or believes you’re building a temple from the wreckage?

  The bedroom door opened halfway, and her head appeared. “Making up is tedious. I’m dying for a kiss.”

  He rushed over to her and held her cheeks between his hands, pressing her mouth closed, and as he kissed her, he savored the fragrance of her soap, the scent of her skin. “Shall I come in?” he whispered.

  Laughing, she pushed him away and said, “Don’t be primitive.”

  He reclined again on the divan, and looked at the radio-television console in front of him. In a playful mood, he got up and turned both of them on at once and was assaulted by a discussion of juvenile crimes running simultaneously with “Listener’s Request.” He turned them off, but still feeling playful, went to the bedroom door and knocked. “Hi,” the voi
ce called.

  “I love you.”

  “With all my heart.”

  “What do you want most in life?”

  “Love.”

  He continued in a playful tone. “Have you ever thought of the meaning of life?”

  “It has no meaning apart from love.”

  “Have you finished making yourself up?”

  “Just a minute more.”

  He persisted. “Doesn’t it bother you, love, that we play while the world around us is serious?”

  She laughed exuberantly. “Don’t you see that it’s we who are serious while the world around us plays?”

  “Where do you get such eloquence?”

  “After a while you’ll learn the secret.”

  When the night is spent and the relentless dawn overtakes us, you’ll return inevitably to the dreary room where there is no music, no ecstasy, where sad eyes and a wall of stone will close upon you. Then the chords of somber wisdom will ring out with reproaches as harsh as the dust of a sandstorm. Make your reply as resolute and final as your aversion.

  “Don’t disturb me.” Deafen your ears to all words. “I said, don’t disturb me. This is the way I am, today, tomorrow, and every day….Accept matters as they are, and leave our daughter out of the quarrel.” “There is no point in arguing, I’ll do as I please.” And don’t back down if Buthayna asks why you’ve changed. “Think what you want, I’m too bored by it all to make excuses.”

  The door opened and Warda emerged in all her splendor. “What do you think of me, sweetheart?”

  He looked at her dazzled, and murmured, “Let me be a sentence never uttered by a tongue before.”

  TEN

  She sat facing him on the balcony that Friday, their holiday, and he reflected uneasily that he’d hardly seen her the past week. The rays of the sun crossed her lap and her legs and sparkled on the Nile beneath them. It was strange that he couldn’t remember her as a child, whether she was a devil like Jamila. Now she’s a beautiful girl, intelligent, studious, refined, poetic. Her resemblance to her mother as a girl he preferred to forget.

  “You’re too serious for a poet!”

  Jamila, who’d been standing at the entrance to the balcony, shouted defiantly, “A poet!”

  He shook his finger at her, then turned to Buthayna, whose serious expression showed signs of displeasure. “You’re too thin, and your sister’s too fat. What do the two of you eat?”

  Jamila shouted, “She eats.”

  Umm Mohammed, the maid, carried off the protesting Jamila.

  “Mama’s unwell,” Buthayna said.

  “Mama’s all right. Tell me about you.”

  “There’s nothing much to say, but Mama’s not all right.”

  The chase never stops in this house. And you, Buthayna, does nothing concern you but poetry, math, and chemistry? Is God alone your lover?

  “You don’t like to talk about Mama?”

  “She no longer understands my illness.”

  Their eyes met for a moment; then, defeated, he turned to look at the Nile.

  “But the doctor, Papa.”

  He interrupted her gently, trying to hide his exasperation. “I’m the doctor, no one else.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve taught me to be open with you.”

  “Of course.”

  Suddenly a shrill little voice shouted, “Course!” He held the little girl’s arm until Umm Mohammed took her away again.

  “Have we caused you irritation?”

  “God forbid. But we tend to escape when we’re disturbed within ourselves.”

  “She cries a lot and that’s very painful.”

  “You must convince her that she’s mistaken.”

  She said, playing with the bracelet of her gold watch, “But you treat her differently now. You told her very harshly you’d do as you pleased.”

  “She told you that, too?”

  “I’m the only one she can complain to.”

  Depressed, he muttered, “It was just anger, as you know.”

  “Anyway, she’s willing to help you as much as she can.”

  “There’s nothing she can do.”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “Mightn’t she think…”

  “Isn’t it better for us to go over your latest poems?”

  “There’s nothing new.”

  “But your lover still inspires you.”

  “Maybe she thinks…well, you know.”

  “She even lets you in on her ridiculous fears.”

  “It makes me very sad.”

  Lighting a cigarette, he said, “Ridiculous illusions.”

  She said anxiously, “I’ll believe you. You’ve always been a model of truth. Are they merely illusions?”

  You’re backed into a corner. “Your mother has upset you too much.”

  “Say that they’re just illusions.”

  He glanced at her reproachfully, but she avoided his eyes. Looking at the Nile, she asked, “There’s no other woman?”

  “A woman!” the shrill little voice returned.

  This time he pulled her onto his lap as though seeking her protection and started roughhousing with her, the only way to deal with the little imp. But Buthayna continued her worrying. “I want an answer, Papa.”

  “What do you think of your father?”

  “I believe you, so speak. Please, for my sake, speak.”

  In bitter despair, he said, “There’s nothing.”

  Her face brightened while his heart sank. Her eyes shone with victorious relief but the world scowled. Autumn was in the air, a tinge of yellow had spread over the treetops, and flocks of white clouds were reflected in the gray water. The emptiness was filled with silent tunes, sad and delicate, and weary questions with hard answers. His lie expanded until it threatened him with annihilation.

  In the depths of despair, he went to visit Mustapha at his office. After a futile discussion, Mustapha concluded, “I’ve gone along with you and helped, hoping that you’d realize the futility of this venture, but you’re drowned.”

  He sighed. “You don’t realize I’m living the art I always longed to create.”

  Mustapha finished the page he was writing, then sent it down to the press. “I’ve often thought the crisis you’re suffering resulted from suppressed art.”

  He rejected the idea with a shake of his head, then said, “No, it’s not art, but it may be what we turn to art in search of.”

  Mustapha paused a minute, then said, “If we were scientists, spending twenty years of our lives searching for an equation, perhaps we’d be invulnerable to despair.”

  Shaking his head sorrowfully, he said, “My misfortune may be that I’m searching for an equation without scientific qualifications.”

  Mustapha laughed. “And since there’s no revelation in our age, people like you can only go begging.”

  Begging, day and night in aimless reading, in futile poetry, in pagan prayers in the nightclub halls, in stirring the deaf heart through infernal adventures.

  Mustapha spoke about Zeinab and said that she was suffering, both from his desertion and from the effects of her pregnancy. She must be in a bad way. You’ve become so hard-hearted, yet you’re prepared to be magnanimous if she’d only free you from the shackles of this dead love.

  “Yes, Zeinab, there is another woman, since you insist on knowing.”

  Disgust has sprouted in a fetid swamp choked with traditional platitudes and household management. What wealth and success you’ve attained offer no comfort, for all is consumed by decay. Your soul is sealed in a putrid jar like an aborted fetus, your heart suffocated by apathy and by grimy ashes. The flowers of life, withered and fallen, will come to rest on the garbage heap.

  “Weep all you like, you’ll have to accept things as they are.”

  Disaffection has killed everything. A few questions have tumbled the very foundations of life. I said to him, “Suppose you win the case today and the government confiscates your land tomorrow?” to which he
replied, “Don’t we live our lives knowing that our fate rests with God?”

  He was in his office, dawdling over a memorandum, when the office boy announced Mr. Yazbeck. The man walked in, his paunch bulging in front of him, greeted Omar with a bow, and sat down.

  “Since I was passing through Al-Azhar Square, I thought I’d drop by for a visit.”

  Omar said with a sarcastic smile, “You’d come from the far ends of the earth for Warda’s sake, wouldn’t you?”

  “My dear counselor, you know that my garden is full of roses.”

  “Fine, so don’t talk about Warda.”

  He smiled broadly and said, “It would be foolish to think I could get around you, but let’s try to bridge the distance between us as directly as possible.”

  “Yes?”

  His eyelids lowered and he said seriously, “Warda’s been neglecting her duties.”

  “She has duties other than dancing?”

  “You didn’t honor us with your presence that night, sir, just to watch Warda dance.”

  “So?”

  “So I said I’d complain to the great man himself.”

  Omar frowned but remained silent. Yazbeck continued. “Business is business, sir, and I don’t like…”

  He interrupted curtly. “Do whatever you think is in your interest.”

  “I don’t want to anger you…”

  “But I’m excusing you in advance.”

  The man bowed his head gratefully. “And I promise I’ll take her back to work if you tire of her in the future.”

  “That day will never come, Mr. Yazbeck.”

  “I wish you happiness, mon chéri.”

  Yazbeck was about to get up, but Omar, overcome by a sudden absurd impulse, detained him. “Tell me, Mr. Yazbeck, what meaning does life hold for you?”

  The man raised his eyebrows in surprise, then, reading the seriousness of Omar’s expression, answered, “Life is life….”

  “Are you happy?”

  “Praise the Lord….Sometimes business is slow, sometimes the club is disturbed by a love affair like Warda’s, but the carnival goes on….”

  “So you live knowing your fate rests with God?”

  “That’s undeniable, of course. But I have a beautiful house, a good wife, a son studying chemistry in Switzerland who’s going to settle there.”