Khan Al-Khalili

  “No doubt about it,” said Abbas Shifa. “Youth, beauty, morals, they’re all missing!”

  Needless to say, that particular description was not to Ahmad Akif’s liking at all. In more than one aspect, he felt, it described him as well: youth, beauty, and morals, all lacking, to which he could add in his own case, no money either. For a moment he fell back into the fit of utter depression that the conversation had thus far managed to dispel. Worried that the mood might take over again, he plunged into the argument once again.

  “What is it,” he asked, “that makes Ata Bey give in to these hankerings?”

  Now Ahmad Rashid looked directly at him. “What’s so surprising about that?” he asked with uncharacteristic modesty. “Along with youth and beauty isn’t money one of the primary motivations that endear a man to a woman? In fact, money may be the one that endures longer than the others!”

  But he soon put his sarcasm to one side and adopted a more serious tone. “Look,” he said, “An old man of Ata Bey’s age isn’t interested in the kind of love that gets young people so worked up. Whenever he manages to acquire a precious bride, he is actually gratifying both his dwindling libido and, far more important, his more dominant possessive instinct.”

  “Youth gets transferred by contact,” commented Abbas Shifa. “From his new bride our old friend expects to regain some of the sparkle of youth. With things the way they are, it’s not out of the question that our friend the Bey will change fairly soon from an ape to a donkey!”

  “So, are we to understand,” Boss Zifta asked, “that he’s descended from apes?”

  Naturally enough Boss Nunu was not entirely happy about the way they were poking fun at old people. “What counts when you’re old,” he commented, “is how healthy you are, not how old. My father got married when he was sixty, and had children. Just look at Sayyid Arif for example (and here he let out a guffaw), what’s his youth done to him?”

  Everyone laughed, including Akif.

  “Don’t be so quick to laugh, Boss Nunu!” Sayyid Arif was forced to respond. “Pretty soon things are going to change. I’ve heard about some brand new pills. You’ll see!”

  That was as far as Ahmad could go in keeping up with their chatter. He felt like a swimmer whose strength is flagging and whose resistance is growing weaker by the minute. He had no idea how he managed to change the subject to war news nor how it came about that Sayyid Arif started counting off the German victories in Russia, proudly rattling off the way Vyazma, Bryansk, Orel, Odessa, and Kharkov had all fallen and the Crimea had been overrun. At that point Boss Nunu stood up to leave and perform the Friday prayer. Ahmad got up too, excused himself, and left to go home.

  When he got there, he stood in the hallway for a while wondering whether Rushdi was still in his room. He walked along the hallway and stood by the door of his brother’s room. He could smell cigarette smoke wafting its way through the gaps in the door, so he turned round and went back to his own room. For the first time ever, Rushdi was spending his weekly day off (or rather their weekly day off) at home! More likely than not, he would not be going out either, and she too would be staying close by the window. God knows how many times they had already exchanged waves and smiled at each other, and how many hopes had arisen.

  Taking off his suit, he put on a gallabiya and skullcap, then sat down on the settee next to the bookshelf. He was feeling utterly miserable, and yet there was no jealousy, or, at least, nothing that showed. He managed to convince himself that whatever went on in the other part of the apartment was simply child’s play and of no interest to him. Was this just a temporary feeling on his part? How could he know? Even so, he felt badly done by. How could it all have happened so quickly, he asked himself. Was the emotion that he had convinced himself was real love truly this superficial?

  He let his feelings calm down a bit, then went to the bookshelf and took down Imam al-Ghazali’s book, Goals of the Philosophers. Now, here was something far more deserving of his attention, one of those treasures about which Ahmad Rashid knew absolutely nothing. He opened the book up to the chapter on theology and tried reading the preface to the division of the sciences. Before long he realized that he was devoting so much energy to concentrating on what he was doing that it was impossible to enjoy the actual process of reading. He closed the book and put it back on the shelf. He decided that his mind had used up a good deal of energy that day on the process of forgetting—no matter what kind of effort was involved—so he could afford to give it a day’s rest.

  It had all been a silly piece of emotionalism. How could that girl have possibly made him happy when he was so intelligent and learned while she was totally naive and uncultured? Truth to tell, his younger brother had just saved him from making a mistake that might have been the end of him. From now on, he needed to keep his eyes wide open and abandon forever any thought of getting married. How absurd to even think that he could ever find a suitable woman! Even so, she had betrayed him in a way that was both mean and reprehensible. Hadn’t she flirted with him? Hadn’t she been happy enough to have him as an admirer? How could she have changed her mind so unbelievably quickly? He asked himself whether God had ever created a more repulsive sight than a two-faced girl. Telling himself to “get over it and move on” was all very well, but what a paltry world it was where feelings could be turned upside down at the drop of a hat!

  “God damn the world!” The loud voice interrupted his feverish ruminations, and he realized that Boss Nunu had just come back to his store from the Friday prayers. He was delighted to be distracted from all his woes in this abrupt fashion. Moving over to the window on the side that was still new to him, he looked out over the neighborhood that he had come to know and already found tedious. If only the family had never left al-Sakakini! Not only that, but he also found himself secretly wishing that his younger brother had never come back to Cairo from Asyut. If he hadn’t come back, his peace of mind would not have been shattered so completely. But no sooner did the thought cross his mind than he felt a deep sense of pain. He dearly loved his brother; there was no doubting that. It would be impossible to fake the real affection he felt for his brother who was almost his son and foster child. What was really odd and wrong was that he loved him and hated him at the same time. Had Rushdi not come back to Cairo, Ahmad would now be engaged.

  Before realizing it, his whole inner self started gushing sentimental about married life, completely ignoring all previous misgivings. The number two was sanctified, he decided. Pythagoras may have said that the number one was sanctified, but he was wrong—it was two. Humanity can lose itself in groups, but drowns in misery when left alone. A life companion can provide succor. Mutual revelation, profound love, shared companionship, delight of one heart in another, and infinite serenity, all of them are the deep delights that only happen between two people. Ahmad was utterly fed up with his own misery, exasperated by his loneliness, and resentful of the void in his life. Now his inner self was contradicting him, by expressing a great longing for love, sympathy, company, and affection. Where are those lips to give him a smile of affection? Where is the heart to share its beats with another? Where is the bosom from which to nurse some droplets of repose and to which to entrust his innermost thoughts?

  His exasperation reached its peak. He went back and sat on the bed, shaking his head in anger. It was almost as if he were trying to block out these sad feelings so that he could recover his anger and severity, not to mention his insane belief in the virtues of loneliness, arrogance, and contempt for human emotions. His jealous feelings might cool in the long run, and his emotions might flag as well, but, when it came to his sense of his own importance, it was an entirely different story. That was an ulcer that could not be lanced. How on earth could that be? Whenever it repaired itself, his blind conceit would remove the scab.

  “That girl has got to realize,” he said between grinding teeth, “that from now on I have decided to give her up without so much as a second thought!”

  2
6

  On Saturday morning he woke up exhausted. He had not slept at all well, and he was now paying the price for the joyful interlude of love, however short it may have been. What was past was past. True enough, but, as long as the possibility of forgetting it all still lurked behind all his sorrowful memories, then consolation in some form or other was still something to be devoutly desired. Where was that lovely Jewish girl from al-Sakakini now with her ideal kind of love? By now time had done its work, drawing a veil of forgetfulness over the past and swallowing up all such memories. Still he clearly understood that from now on he needed to remain unaffected, or at least to make a show of doing so. He had to show Nawal that he was barely even aware of the fact that he had been jilted by a young girl.

  When he went to the bathroom, he noticed that his brother’s door was ajar. He could see him getting dressed, which was amazing in itself because his brother always got up later than he himself did. He also noticed his brother looking up at the window opposite. That gave him a jolt, as though someone had stuck a needle into him. He let the cold water flow over his head for some time as a way of calming his shattered nerves. Back in his room he put on his suit, then went to the table to drink his cup of morning coffee, smoke a cigarette, and eat something light. He had decided to greet his younger brother in a perfectly normal way, not least because he was anxious to keep his real feelings hidden. Rushdi came in wearing a suit and fez, and gave him his usual smile.

  “Good morning!” he said.

  “Good morning to you too!”

  Ahmad was surprised to see his brother wearing a fez, since he would usually appear for breakfast bareheaded. “Why the hurry to put on the fez?” he asked.

  “I’m going to eat breakfast elsewhere,” his brother replied, still smiling. “I’ve some urgent business to attend to.”

  “What can be that urgent?”

  “I have to finish some things for work.”

  Rushdi bade him farewell, as he did to his mother who was making breakfast, then, with his graceful appearance and his radiant smile, he left. Not for a single second did Ahmad believe this story about “urgent business.” He was pretty sure that Rushdi had got up so unusually early and rushed out of the house because he was going to meet Nawal somewhere on her way to school. That at least is what his gloomy heart told him was going to happen. Had the two of them really made such an arrangement? He recalled angrily how, for the duration of their relationship—such as it was—he had procrastinated and had been unable to make up his mind what to do. However, where his brash younger brother was concerned, it was just the blink of an eye between by his boldness as he was by the way he had managed to strut his youthful appearance and slender figure in front of him just a couple of minutes earlier. However, mixed in with the admiration he felt was a strong dose of self-contempt and defiance, with a bit of malice and anger thrown in as well. It was as though he were swimming in the eternity of the Creator but all the while lamenting the ephemerality of the created world itself.

  After a while he put on his own fez and left the apartment. He decided to walk along al-Azhar Street as a way of calming his nerves. He kept to the sidewalk on the left-hand side and walked fast.

  “Just forget about the root causes of this profound sorrow you’re feeling,” he muttered to himself sagely. “There’s no need to keep it all stored in your consciousness. Simply heave it into the bottomless abyss of oblivion. If reading has not as yet guided you to wisdom, then learn a lesson from someone like Boss Nunu who’s happy.”

  At which point Ahmad visualized Boss Nunu, with all his good health and merriment. Why, he asked himself with a deep sigh, was he trying to bear the burden of so much misery, like the bull that, as legend has it, carried the globe on its horn? How could he possibly be so abjectly incapable of finding any kind of happiness in life? Why didn’t he go looking for people who are always laughing and consult them about the best ways to laugh and be happy? There was no point in going through life feeling this miserable and woebegone. Somehow he had to find a way to bring a little bit of joy into his broken heart.

  He kept repeating these thoughts to himself until he reached Queen Farida Square. He got on a trolley that was packed, so he had to stand squashed between all the other standing passengers. He was naturally averse to crowds, so once again his anger mounted; it had only had the briefest of respites in any case. A strange and terrifying idea occurred to him: how would it be if the world could be devoid of human beings. He was not sure whether the idea came to him because he was on a packed trolley or whether there might be other reasons. It was not the first time, or so he imagined, that he had thought to himself how nice it might be if Cairo could be emptied as the result of a bombing raid. But then he felt ashamed to be contemplating such apocalyptic thoughts of terrible destruction, all because he had been adversely affected by a truly lovely young girl. Even so, he repeated to himself in disgust, “Isn’t betrayal as vile as destruction?”

  27

  Rushdi Akif left the apartment unusually early without eating any breakfast; but, in any case, he was quite used to changing his habits and eating breakfast late. When he reached the New Road, he spotted the girl just in front of him; she was walking toward al-Darrasa on the way to the desert road leading to Abbasiya. He slowed down a bit so that there was a greater distance between them, then followed her. She was already aware that he would be following her—he had signaled as much to her via the window. That seemed to please her, although she managed for the most part to conceal most of her emotions behind a veil of coquetry and bashfulness. At times, however, her real feelings emerged in the form of a smile or attempts at suppressing a smile; and that was enough for him. In fact, Rushdi had very little time at his disposal, but, where he was concerned, time was like gold and diamonds. Ever since their first encounter on the roof—in fact, ever since he had first set eyes on her—he had been watching her closely, then following and flirting with her. This pursuit had involved a use of all his natural gifts—his youth, handsome appearance, sense of fun, and patience; so much so that she had come to regard him as a fixed part of the window.

  From the outset he had had no doubts concerning his eventual triumph, nor for that matter had she. If that were not the case, then why did she keep appearing at the window as though on cue, submitting to his eager looks and responding so willingly to his smiles and gestures? If he had any lingering doubts on the matter, then the last smile she had given him had removed them completely and put an end to such concerns. However, she was not prepared simply to surrender without some pause for thought; she was a bit scared about the direction her heart was leading her. The image of the elder brother—Ahmad—kept coming back to her, and that made her feel rather ashamed and awkward. But then the fresh new face that had come into her life had made her all too aware of the faults in the elder brother. Why did Ahmad always look so scared, she wondered. Why did he behave like a mouse, scurrying back to its hole as soon as it hears the slightest noise? Why was he always so stiff and formal, never moving or doing anything? Actually, she was just as shy as he was, and that was why she needed someone brash and forward to appear on the scene and tackle her shyness straight on. He would never have been able to answer her needs, or perhaps she had only come to realize that when someone else had appeared who could really respond to them. And then there was the palpable difference between a young man full of vigor and someone already middle-aged and gradually wilting; handsome on the one hand, and tense and inscrutable on the other, the difference between a joyful happiness and a lonely misery. The truth is that she had fallen for Ahmad because he was a man and he was around, but it was Rushdi who had managed to find a place in her heart and stir her emotions. For that reason she had rewarded his patience with a radiant smile, a gesture that was to mark the beginning of a whole new story.

  They both went up the road toward al-Darrasa, then turned off on the desert road. She was in front and he followed behind. It was a crisp, damp morning, a little chilly. A gentle
breeze was blowing, bringing with it intimations of November, which mourns for the flower blossoms of lovers. The sky was full of bright clouds. Sometimes they were clustered together, but then they would break up and turn into frozen lakes that refracted the early morning rays of the sun from the horizon. The way their fringes sparkled in the sunlight was eye-catching. It was a scene to soothe the human heart, and yet there were two hearts that were completely lost in each other.

  After the turn-off he quickened his pace and caught up with her. The girl could hear the sound of his footsteps as he drew closer, but did not look round. Even so, his steady approach did have its effect: she started blushing and, without even realizing it, her lovely, clear eyes formed themselves into a smile. Finally he was walking alongside her and almost touching her.

  “Good morning,” he said gently.

  She tilted her head in his direction and glanced hesitantly at him. “Good morning,” she replied in a soft voice.

  As usual she was carrying her school bag under her arm.

  “Would you let me carry that bag for you?” he asked with a smile.

  “Oh no,” she replied. “There’s no need for that. It looks big, but it’s not heavy. It’s no problem for me to carry it myself.”

  “But, for two lovely delicate hands like yours,” he said, “it must be a bit heavy!”

  “No, it’s not,” she replied. “I can handle it quite well. Please don’t spoil me!”

  That made him laugh. “But surely it’s wrong for me to have my hands empty while you’re carrying that big bag.”

  She began to feel a bit flustered, but she decided to humor him. “What’s wrong about it?” she asked. “I carry it myself every morning and evening.”

  “You’re obviously scared I’m going to steal it.”