Casting his friend an inebriated glance, Isma'il said, “It's eleven. What do you think about walking down Palaces Street until I sober up a little?”
Kamal agreed willingly, because he felt this would provide a good opportunity for a scheme he had been plotting. They sauntered along together, over the same ground Kamal had previously covered with A'ida. Then he had confessed his love and revealed his pains. He would never forget the sight of this street with its elegant, silent mansions. It was lined by lofty trees that viewed the evening with the calm of a peaceful soul and the awe of a celestial imagination.
“Your heart will never stop pounding with desire, ardor, and pain,” Kamal reflected, “no matter how often your feet tread on it or your imagination appeals to it. Your heart's like a tree that casts down its leaves and fruit when convulsed by a storm. Although your previous walk here was a failure, you'll always treasure the memory of a bygone dream, a disappointed hope, an illusory happiness, and a pulsing life filled with emotion. Even viewed in the most negative fashion, that was far better than the repose of nonexistence, the desolation of exile, or the extinction of emotion. What nourishment will you be able to find for your heart in the future unless it is places you observe with imagination's eye or names you listen for with passion's ears?”
He said, “I wonder what's happening upstairs now.”
Isma'il answered, in a loud voice that disturbed the reigning silence, “The orchestra's playing Western music. The bride and groom are on the dais, smiling, and around them are the Shaddad and Salim families. I've seen a lot of gatherings like that.”
“Aida in a wedding gown!” Kamal exclaimed to himself.
“What a sight! Have you seen anything like that even in a dream?”
“How long will the party last?” he inquired.
“An hour at the most, to let the couple get some sleep, since they're leaving tomorrow morning for Alexandria.”
“Words like daggers!” Kamal told himself. “Plunge any of them into your heart.”
Isma'il asked, “But who's ever slept on their wedding night?” He laughed raucously. Then he belched and emitted a puff of breath reeking of alcohol. He frowned and grumbled with complaint. Then, as his face relaxed, he said, “May our Lord not condemn you to the sleep of lovers. My dear, they don't get any sleep at all. Don't let Hasan's reserve mislead you. He'll be leaping and bouncing like a stallion until the break of day. That's predestined. There's no way to escape it.”
“Savor this new form of distilled pain,” Kamal told himself. “It's the essence of pain, the pain of pains. Your consolation is that your pain's unique. No man before you has ever experienced it. Hell will seem easy for you by comparison if you're destined to be carried there by demons who dance you over its tongues of fire. Pain! It';; not from losing your lover, because you never aspired to possessher. It's because she has descended from heaven and is wallowing in the mud, after living grandly over the clouds. It's because she's allowed her cheek to be kissed, her blood to be shed, and her body to be abused. How intense my regret and pain are….”
“Is what they say about the first night true?”
Isma'il yelled, “By God, don't you know about these things?”
“How can people consecrate something filthy?” Kamal asked himself.
“Naturally I know, but I didn't until recently. There are things] 'd like to hear about again.”
Isma'il laughed. “At times you seem an idiot or a fool.”
“Let me ask you if it would be easy for you to do that to a person you revere.”
Isma'il belched again, bringing the accursed smell of liquor to Kamal's nostrils. He replied, “No one deserves to be revered.”
“You: daughter, for example, if you had one.”
“Not my daughter or my mother. Where did we come from? It's a law of nature.”
“Us?” Kamal asked himself. “The truth's a dazzling light. So look away. Behind the curtain of sanctity, before which you've always prostrated yourself, they'll be cavorting like children. Why does everything seem so empty? Mother, Father, Ai'da, the tomb of the Prophet's grandson al-Husayn, the merchant's profession, the aristocratic airs of Shaddad Bey…. How intense my pain is!”
“How filthy the law of nature is,” he observed.
Isma'il belched for the third time. In a merry tone but without audible laughter he said, “The fact is that your heart's in pain. It's singing the same words as the new vocalist Umm Kalthoum: Td give my life for her, whether she treasures my love or abandons it.'”
Alarmed, Kamal asked, “What do you mean?”
Trying to seem more intoxicated than he was, Isma'il replied, “I mean you love A'ida.”
“My Lord!” How had his secret gotten out?
“You're drunk!”
“It's the truth, and everyone knows it.”
Staring at his friend in the darkness, Kamal yelled, “What are you saying?”
“I'm saying that it's the truth and everyone knows it.”
“Everyone? Who? Who spread this rumor about me?”
“Ai'da!”
“Ai'da?”
“Ai'da… she's the one who spilled your secret.”
“Ai'da? I don't believe it. You're drunk.”
“Yes, I'm drunk, but it's the truth too. One of the good qualities of a drunk is that he doesn't lie”. Isma'il laughed gently before continuing: “Does this make you angry? As you know, A'ida's a charming girl. For a long time she's secretly directed attention to your loving gaze, without your being aware of it not to be sarcastic but because she's flirtatious and the attention of her admirers goes to her head. Hasan was the first to realize what was happening and pointed it out to me several times. Then he broke the secret to Husayn. In fact, I know that Madame Saniya, A'ida's mother, heard about the ‘lovesick suitor,’ as they called you. It's quite possible the servants overheard what was said about you by their employers, so that everyone learned the story of the lovesick suitor.”
He felt weak. He imagined their feet were heartlessly trampling his honor. His lips were compressed with bitter grief. Were treasured secrets so easily squandered?
Isma il continued: “Don't get upset. It was all an innocent joke on the part of people who like you. Even Ai'da told your secret solely to boast of it.”
“Her imagination deceived her!”
“Denying your love's as futile as denying the sun in broad day-light.”
Surrendering sadly, Kamal fell silent. Suddenly he asked, “What did Husayn say?”
In a louder voice Isma'il responded, “Husayn? He's your loyal friend. He frequently expressed his unhappiness with his sister's innocent wiles and stressed your good qualities to her.”
Kamal sighed with relief. If his hopes had been disappointed in love, friendship still was unaffected. But how could he ever enter the Shaddad mansion again?
In an earnest voice, as though encouraging his friend to face the situation courageously, Isma'il said, “Ai'da was as good as engaged to Hasan for years before the engagement was announced. Besides, she's older than you are. You'll forget these feelings after a good sleep. Don't let it trouble or sadden you.”
”You'll forget these feelings'!” Kamal exclaimed to himself. Then he asked with unconcealed interest, “Did she make fun of me when she mentioned this alleged infatuation?”
“Certainly not! I told you she enjoyed talking about her admirers.”
“Your beloved was a cruel, mocking god,” Kamal reflected. “It amused her to make fun of her devotees. Do you remember the day she joked about your head and nose? Like the laws of nature, she's cruel and powerful. After all that, how could she hurry jubilantly to her wedding night like any other girl? Your mother's natural modesty indicates that she at least is conscious of the offense involved in marriage.”
They had gone a long way down the street. So they turned to retrace their steps silently, as though tired of their conversation and its sorrows. Soon Isma'il burst out singing poorly: “God's blessing o
n the girl who sells such treasures….”
Kamal did not break his silence, and did not even seem to notice that his friend was singing. How embarrassed he was to have been a topic of conversation…. It appeared that the family, his friends, and the servants had all been winking at each other behind his back without his noticing. That was rude of them, and he did not deserve it. Was this how love and devotion were rewarded? How cruel his beloved was and how atrocious the pain…. When Nero sang as Rome burned, perhapshe was avenging a similar wrong.
“Be an invading general handsomely mounted on a charger, a leader borne aloft by the crowd, a metal statue on a column, a wizard who can appear in any form he wishes, an angel flying over the clouds, a monk secluded in the desert, a dangerous criminal causing honest citizens to quake, a clown captivating his merry audience, or a suicide upsetting the onlookers.”
If Fuad al-Hamzawi learned the story, disguising his irony with his usual courtesy he would tell Kamal, “It's your fault, because you left us for those people. You scorned girls like Qamar and Narcissus, so enjoy being abandoned by the gods.”
“My answer's that I wanted heaven or nothing at all,” Kamal thought. “Let her marry as she pleases and go to Brussels or Paris. Let her grow old until her beauty fades. She'll never find a love like mine. Don't forget this road, for here you were intoxicated by enchanting dreams and later swallowed enough despair to make you choke. I'm no longer a resident of this planet. I'm a foreigner and must live like an exile.”
When they passed the Shaddad mansion on their way back, they found that workmen were busy removing the decorations and strings of lights from the walls and trees. The large house, stripped of its wedding finery, was enveloped in darkness, except for a few rooms that still had light streaming from their balconies and windows. The party was over, and the crowd had dispersed. The scene seemed to announce that everything has an end. Here he was, going home with a box of candy like a child bribed not to cry by a few pieces of chocolate. The two young men walked along slowly until they reached the beginning of al-Husayniya. Then they shook hands and went their separate ways.
Kamal had not gone more than a few meters down al-Husayniya Street before he stopped. Then he turned and went back to al-Abbasiya Street, which seemed deserted and sound asleep. He walked quickly toward the Shaddad mansion. When he got within sight of it, he turned right, into the desert that surrounded the house, and went far enough through it to reach a place behind the back wall of the garden where he could observe the mansion from a distance. The enveloping curtains of darkness were so thick that a spy had nothing to worry about. For the first time that night he felt cold in this exposed and desolate spot. He fastened the overcoat around his tall, slender body. The shadowy house behind its high wall looked like a huge citadel. His eyes scouted around for the precious target until they came to rest on a closed window with light peeping out between the slats of the shutters. It was at the far right on the second floor. That was the bridal chamber, the only room awake on this side of the mansion. Yesterday it had been the bedroom of Ai'da and Budur. Tonight it was decorated to host the strangest spectacle the fates provide. He stared ai: the window a long time, at first like a bird with clipped wings gazing at its nest atop a tree and then with deep sorrow, as though he could see with his own eyes the death lying in wait for him. What was going on behind that window? If only he could climb that tree in the garden and see. The rest of his life would be a small price he would willingly pay for a look through that window. Was it a trivial matter to see the beloved in the privacy of her bridal chamber? How were they situated? What happened when their eyes met? What were they chatting about? Where in the world had Aida's pride hidden itself now? He was burning with desire to see this and to record the occurrence of each word, gesture, or hint provided by a facial expression. Indeed, he would have liked to pry into every thought, imaginary notion, feeling, and instinctual urge, everything even if frightening, disgusting, or painfully sad. Afterwardshe would surrender his life without regret. He stayed put as time fled by. He did not budge, the light was not extinguished, and his imagination did not tire of its questions. WHiat would he have done if he had been in Hasan Salim's place? He was too perplexed to answer. Lacking selfish goals, devotion had no place on a night like this. He had never aspired to have Ai'da. Hasan Salim was obviously from a denomination in which devotion was not mandatory.
Kamal suffered torments in the desert while they exchanged kisses in the bridal chamber like any other human beings. There would be sweaty sighs and then swooning as blood trickled out. A nightgown would slip away to reveal a mortal body. Such was the world of human beings with its empty hopes and frivolous dreams.
“Weep to your heart's content over the abasement of the gods. Fill your soul with this tragedy. But what's to become of the astounding, dazzling feeling that's lit up your heart for the past four years? It wasn't imaginary or an echo of something imaginary, but life itself. Even if the force of circumstances can overwhelm the body, what power's capable of taking on the spirit?”
Thus the beloved would remain his. Love would be his torment and refuge, just as bewilderment would be his diversion, until he stood before the Creator and asked about these complicated matters that perplexed him. If he could only see what was behind that window and discover the secrets of his existence…. The cold stung him at times, reminding him of his situation and of the reckless passage of time. But why should he hurry home? Did he really hope sleep would visit him that night?
103
THE WHEELS of the carriage that stopped in front of Ahmad Abd al-Jawad's store were spattered with the mud of al-Nahhasin Street and with the water collected in its potholes. Mr. Muhammad Iffat, wearing a wool cloak, stepped down and went into the store. He laughingly commented, “We came in a carriage. It would have been safer to come by boat.”
It had been pouring rain for a day and a half The ground was soaked, and the alleys and cul-de-sacs were flooded. Although the rains had finally abated, the gloomy sky had not cleared yet. Qouds overshadowed the earth in a dark canopy that made the air murky enough to presage a pitch-black night.
Ahmad Abd al-Jawad welcomed his friend and invited him to sit down. Muhammad Iffat had scarcely settled himself in a chair by the corner of the desk when he disclosed the reason for this unexpected visit: “Don't be surprised that I've come in this weather even though we'll meet at our usual party in a few hours. I wanted to talk to you privately”. He laughed as though to apologize for these strange words. Al-Sayyid Ahmad laughed too, but his laughter seemed almost more like a question.
Jamil al-Hamzawi, hishead wrapped from chin to crown in a scarf, went to the door, where he called to the waiter at the Qala'un coffeehouse to bring some coffee. Then he returned to his chair, since the rain and cold had freed him from waiting on customers.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad sensed in hisheart that there was an important reason for this visit, since it came at a time when only dire necessity could justify it. He was more anxious than usual because of the psychological criseshe had suffered and the ill health he had experienced of late. All the same, he camouflaged his anxiety with a polite laugh and said, “Just before you arrived I was remembering last night and what al-Far looked like dancing. May God strike him down.”
Smiling, Muhammad Iffat said, “We're all your pupils! With regard to this, let me tell you what Ali Abd al-Rahim's been saying about you. He claims the headache you've had for the past weeks results from a lack of women in your life during this time.”
“A lack of women? Is there any cause for headaches besides women?”
The waiter appeared carrying a yellow tray with glasses of coffee and of water, placed it on the corner of the desk between the two friends, and then departed.
Muhammad Iffat drank some water and said, “It's pleasant to drink cold water in winter. What do you think? But why should I ask? You're one of winter's admirers and bathe every morning in cold water, even now in February. So tell me: Did you like the news of th
e nationalist conference held in the home of Muhammad Mahmud? We've lived to see Sa'd, Adli, and Tharwat all in a united front once more.”
“Our Lord in His wisdom welcomes repentance.”
“I don't trust those dogs.”
“I don't either. But what can be done? King Fuad's made things worse. It's sad the struggle's no longer against the English.”
They began to drink their coffee silently. This indicated, if anything, that the period for making polite conversation had ended. It was time for Muhammad Iffat to speak his mind. He sat up straight and asked al-Sayyid Ahmad earnestly, “What do you hear from Yasin?”
The anxious concern the question evoked was evident in the man's wide eyes. Hisheart began pounding at an alarming rate. He answered, “Good news! He visits from time to time. The most recent one was last Monday. Is there something new? A matter relating to Maryam? Her whereabouts are unknown. I learned recently that Bayumi the drinks vendor bought her share of her mother's house.”
Trying to smile, Muhammad Iffat said, “The matter doesn't concern Maryam. Who knows? Perhapshe's forgotten her. I won't beat around the bush. It's a new marriage.”
Hisheart was pounding again in a frightening way. He exclaimed, “A new marriage! But he's made absolutely no reference to it in his conversations with me.”
Muhammad Iffat shook hishead regretfully and said, “He's been married for a month or more. Ghunaym Hamidu told me just an hour ago. He assumed you knew all about it.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad's left hand began to fidget with his mustache nervously. Then, as though addressing himself, he said, “It's gone that far! How can I believe it? How could he have kept it from me?”
“The circumstances dictated secrecy. Listen to me. I wanted to tell you the truth before it came to you as an unpleasant surprise. But don't rail against it more than it deserves. And above all, you mustn't get angry. Anger's not something your health can withstand anymore. Remember how tired you've been and have pity onyouiself.”