If ever I’m asked about you, I will reply, “That man stopped the Devil from doing his job.”
The Rose Garden
All of it happened such a long time ago. The shaykh of our alley told me the story as we sat one day in a garden full of roses….
Hamza Qandil was found after a long disappearance, a stiffened corpse lying out in the desert. He had been stabbed in the neck with a sharp object. His robe was soaked with hardened blood, his turban strewn down the length of his body. But his watch and his money had not been touched— so clearly robbery had not been the motive. As the authorities began to look into the crime, word of what happened spread through the quarter like a fire through kindling.
Voices rang out from within Hamza’s house. The neighbor-women shared in the customary wailing, and people traded knowing looks. An air of tense drama spread out through the hara. Yet some felt a secret satisfaction, mixed with a certain sense of guilt. “Uncle” Dakrouri, the milk peddler, expressed some of this when he whispered to the prayer leader of our alley, “This murder went beyond what anyone expected—despite the man’s pig-headedness and lack of humor.”
“God does what He will,” answered the imam.
The prosecutor’s office asked about the victim’s enemies. The question exposed an atmosphere of evasion, as his widow said that she didn’t know anything of his relations with the outside world. Not a soul would testify that they had ever seen a sign of enmity between the murdered man and anyone else in the quarter. And yet, no one volunteered any helpful testimony. The detective looked at the shaykh of the hara quizzically, saying:
“The only thing I’ve been able to observe is that he had no friends!”
“He got on people’s nerves, but I never bothered to find out why,” the shaykh replied.
The investigation revealed that Qandil used to cut through the empty lot outside of our alley on his way to and from work in the square. No one would accompany him either coming or going. When the traditional question was asked—”Did the folks here complain about anyone?”—the consistent response was a curt denial. No one believed anybody else, but that’s how things were. But why didn’t Hamza Qandil have a single friend in the alley? Wasn’t it likely that the place held a grudge against him?
The shaykh of the hara said that Qandil had a bit more learning than his peers. He used to sit in the café telling people about the wonders of the world that he had read about in the newspapers, astounding his listeners, whom he held entranced. As a result, every group he sat in became his forum, in which he took a central place considered unseemly for anyone but local gang bosses or government officials. The neighbors grew annoyed with him, watching him with hearts filled with envy and resentment.
One day, tensions reached their peak when he talked about the cemetery in a way that went far beyond all bounds of reason. “Look at the graveyard,” he grumbled. “It takes up the most beautiful place in our district!”
Someone asked him what he wanted there instead.
“Imagine in the northern part houses for people, and in the south, a rose garden!”
The people become angry in a way they had never been before. They hurled reproaches at him in a hail of rebuke, reminding him of the dignity of the dead and the obligation to be faithful to them. Most agitated of all was Bayumi Zalat; he warned him not to say anything more about the cemetery, shouting, “We live in our houses only a few years—but we dwell in our tombs till the Day of Resurrection!”
“Don’t people have rights, too?” Qandil asked.
But Zalat cut him off, enraged. “Religion demands respect for the dead!”
With this, Zalat, who didn’t know the first thing about his faith, issued his very own religious ruling. But later, after the battle began to cool, the shaykh of the hara came, bearing a decree from the governor’s office. Thep order called for the removal of the cemetery by a fixed deadline—and for the people to build new tombs in the heart of the desert.
There was no connection between what Qandil had said and this decision, though some thought there was— while others believed, as the Qur’an says, that it’s wrong to suspect someone unless you have proof. Meanwhile, most people said, “Qandil certainly isn’t important enough to influence the government—but in any case, is he not like an evil omen?”
All in all, they blamed him for what happened, while, from his side, he made no effort to hide his pleasure at the decree. The people’s frustration and anger kept getting stronger and stronger. Finally, they gathered before the shaykh of the hara, the men crying out and the women lamenting, and demanded that he tell the authorities that the government’s order was void and forbidden: that it was against religion, and fidelity to the dead.
The shaykh replied that his reverence for those who have died was no less than theirs. Nonetheless, they would still be moved, in absolute compliance with the laws of God, and of decency. But the people insisted, “This means that a curse will fall upon the hara, and upon all who live there!”
Then the shaykh called out to them that the government’s decision was final, and charged them to ready themselves to carry it out. At this, Zalat pulled away from them. In a braying voice, he declared:
“We haven’t heard anything like that since the age of the infidels!”
Their anger with the government mixed with their anger at Qandil until it became a single, seething fury. Then, one night, as Bayumi Zalat was returning from an evening out, he took a shortcut through the tombs in the cemetery. There, at the little fountain, a skeleton loomed before him, wrapped in a shroud. Zalat halted, nailed where he stood, while everything that had been in his head instantly flew out of it. Then the skeleton spoke to him:
Woe unto those who forget their Dead, and who neglect the most precious of all their possessions—their graves.
Zalat stumbled back to the hara, his heart filled with death’s whisperings. And in truth, he didn’t conceal from anyone that it was he who had killed Qandil. Yet no one divulged his secret, whether out of fear, or out of loyalty. Gossip said that this fact had even reached the police commissioner himself. But he, too, had been against moving the cemetery in which his ancestors were interred. The blame was laid against a person unknown—and so Hamza Qandil’s blood was shed unavenged.
The shaykh of the hara ended his talk on a note of regret, as we sat in the rose garden that—once upon a time—had been the graveyard of our ancient quarter.
The Reception Hall
Today is my birthday. The feast of life renewed. We gather in the grand reception hall and our emotions warm it in the full force of winter. All that is delicious and delightful in food and drink and sweet song surrounds us. We come singly and in couples and in groups. Love guides us forward and good camaraderie binds us together. Differing moods and tempers blend in our hearts. We have no need to hire entertainers, for among us are excellent singers and glorious dancers—and what are these but our joy of life bursting out? Our joking evening banter is completely informal and unrestrained. The fragrance of flowers wafts through the room, which glitters with pleasure and contentment. The soirée stretches on till the coming of dawn, when we go out little by little, the same way we came in,eyelids sagging with satiety, throats hoarsened by laughter and loud talk, as dreams draw us on to happy slumber.
We are decreed from birth to be divided only by the Destroyer of Delights—but he seems quite far away. Security, it appears, is granted us. Of course, our numbers dwindle and faces disappear in the passing of days. The span of life has its dominion, and circumstances have their dominion, and what lasts forever but the One who is eternal? In the flood of pleasure and its warmth, we overlook the losses and savor what is fated for us, but with a deep sense of grief.
“That beautiful, bewitching face!”
“And her girlfriend who would never stop laughing!”
“And that self-important character who made himself the maestro at every party!”
We philosophize and say, “Well, that’s life and
we must take it as it is. It’s been that way since the age of Adam, always treating people in the same fashion…. So where’s the surprise?”
But the debate subsided as the hall was emptied of its heroes. Today, no one comes, not a man or a woman. I wait and wait in hope that maybe … but it’s no use. I am tortured by loneliness, as my loneliness is tortured by me. I am unaware of what goes on beyond my sight. Nothing remains but mummified imaginings in the sarcophagi of memory. Sometimes I believe—and sometimes I do not. There was nothing in my heart but bruises and wounds, and affection for that One who dwells within me, when he asked me, “Shall I tell you the truth?”
“Please.”
“They have all been arrested,” he said. “The Guardian executes his duty, as you are aware.”
“But they’re all so different. How can he arrest them all without distinguishing between them?”
“He is not concerned with differences.”
“Do you foresee when they will be released?” I asked, with intense distress.
“Not one of them shall be freed,” he answered, his voice frigid with finality.
Ah! He means what he says. None of them shall be spared. The period of my loneliness shall linger and lengthen. But the matter didn’t stop there. Motion is eternal and unceasing. I was watching a moth fluttering about my lamp when he breathed in my ear, “Be warned…. They are looking into you.”
Really? No matter how long your voyage, your mission keeps growing with it, an old saying goes. But anxiety did not grip me as it did of yore. I listened to him as he whispered, “There is a chance for survival.”
I heard without heed. He was goading me toward the impossible. He often teased me this way—but I felt neither fear nor a desire to protest. Nor was I without a certain strange pleasure.
“No,” I told him.
And I occupied myself with packing my bag.
I alternate between packing my bag and amusing myself by watching the comings and goings.
I wrap myself in my robe against the cold of winter. I stand behind the windowpane, the glistening earth shaded by the boughs of trees, the sky obliterated by clouds. My eyes observe closely. More than once I spot him as he crosses the road, his tall, slender figure untouched by age. But he has not yet headed toward my house. In my youth I was deceived by his friendship with my father and his praise for him, and then … what was the result? That amazing man! During the days when I was deceived with what there was between him and my father, I came upon him unexpectedly on the street near my home. In all innocence, as courtesy demands, I invited him to visit us.
“Not today—thank you, my son,” he said, smiling.
How often people are confused by his kind reputation and his sadistic acts! In an interview a woman journalist asked him about his preoccupations.
“That I execute my duty to perfection,” he explained.
She pointed out examples of iniquity that sometimes occur.
“My work is carried out with perfect justice!” he rejoined.
“Have you never once loathed your duty?”
“Never—I execute a law that is absolutely just.”
“Aren’t there incidents that deserve explanation?”
“If we get into these legalistic details, the readers will lose all patience with me!”
And so the reporter ended the interview by noting his complete self-assurance.
Such is the man whose name breathes terror into hearts, who once declared publicly, “I do not go to people to arrest them. Rather, it is they who come to me by themselves.”
He added, “Likewise I deny with vehemence all that is said about the torture practiced in prisons.”
And so, here I am, looking out from behind the window-pane, during the brief moments in which I pause from packing my bag.
A Warning from Afar
We had not thought that Hasabu, who warned us of danger, would ever amount to so much. He used to sell perfumes for a meager profit, though his wealth in human affection knew no bounds. His most prominent qualities were his soundness and reliability. In his leisure time he would dabble in song, loving to stay up late talking, though he didn’t partake of a water pipe except behind the neighborhood tombs.
One morning he came back from his late night out, his face white and his mind distracted. He told his friends in the coffeehouse that he had been summoned as he returned in the dark, finding himself surrounded by furious ghosts. He learned from their conversation that they were skeletons of the former residents of our quarter. They were agreed among themselves that what was now going on here was morally forbidden. They asked him to serve as their herald, warning the people of the hara that if they didn’t put right their affairs, and return to the straightened path, then the spirits would creep upon them as an army of walking bones, cleansing the quarter of both sin and sinners.
Some people laughed. Others cracked jokes. Yet they all fell speechless in view of his intense sadness, and his tearful, dejected looks.
“You’re serious, Hasabu!” said one.
“We’ve never known you to be a liar!” declared another.
“But what you’re saying is simply impossible!” opined a third.
So he answered in a quavering voice, “Sublime is His power…. He says of something, Be!—and it is….”
Amazingly, what Hasabu said greatly affected many souls. One group repeated what is said of the Holy Traditions, that there can be no altering them. Others clung to the word of the All Powerful, who knows no limits. The wise men, common folk, and fools alike became caught up in all this until it kindled civil strife. The shaykh of the alley finally felt compelled to intervene, calling out to them on market day, “What have you to do with these arcane affairs? Have you given up your daily concerns?”
He appealed for help from the prayer leader of the local Sufi order, but the disputation persisted and grew out of control. Insults were traded, and fistfights broke out.
During all this, they would refer to the warning of the Dead as if it were an undeniable fact. Yet this did nothing to diminish the deviations from the righteous way that took place every day, as though there was no relation between the two.
As for Hasabu, he withdrew from the life of his alley— and was drawn instead to the world of the Unseen with all its force. All connections between himself, people, and material things were cut, as he retired with his white robe, green turban, and cryptic speech. He spent most of his days at the cemetery’s edge, staring into the wasteland beyond, awaiting whatever Time would bring.
Arabic Text Sources
“The Seventh Heaven” was published as “al-Sama’ al-sabi’ a” in al-Hubb fawq hadabat al-haram, 1979.
“The Disturbing Occurrences” was published as “al-Hawadith al-muthira” in al-Hubb fawq hadabat al-haram, 1979.
“Room No. 12” was published as “al-Hujra raqm 12” in al-Jarima, 1973.
“The Garden Passage” was published as “Mamarr al-Bustan” in al-Tanzim al-sirri, 1984.
“Forgetfulness” was published as “al-Nisyan” in al-Tanzim al-sirri, 1984.
“Beyond the Clouds” was published as “Fawq al-sahab” in al-Fajr al-kadhib, 1989.
“The Haunted Wood” was published as “al-Ghaba al-maskuna” in al-Fajr al-kadhib, 1989.
“The Vapor of Darkness” was published as “Dukhan al-zalam” in al-Qarar al-akhir, 1996.
“A Man of Awesome Power” was published as “al-Rajul al-qawi” in al-Qarar al-akhir, 1996.
“The Only Man” was published as “al-Rajul al-wahid” in al-Qarar al-akhir, 1996.
“The Rose Garden” was published as “Hadiqat al-ward” in Sada al-nisyan, 1999.
“The Reception Hall” was published as “al-Bahw” in al-Qarar al-akbir, 1996.
“A Warning from Afar” was published as “Nadhir min ba‘id” in Sada al-nisyan, 1999.
FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, DECEMBER 2006
Copyright © 1973, 1979, 1984, 1989, 1996, 1999 by Naguib Mahfouz
English translation copyright © 1996, 1999, 2004, 2005 by Raymond Stock
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by The American University in Cairo Press, Cairo and New York, in 2005.
Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
“The Disturbing Occurrences” appeared in Harper’s Magazine, August 2005. “Room No. 12” appeared in Zoetrope: All-Story magazine, Fall 2005. “The Haunted Wood” appeared in Bookforum, December/January 2004/5. “The Rose Garden” appeared in nest: a quarterly of interiors in Winter 1999/2000. “The Reception Hall” appeared in Egypt Today, December 1996. “A Warning from Afar” appeared in Bookforum, December/January 2004/5.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for The Seventh Heaven is on file at the Library of Congress.
eISBN: 978-0-307-49076-6
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Naguib Mahfouz, The Seventh Heaven: Supernatural Tales
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