Miramar

  “Some comfort.”

  “There’s nothing left for me otherwise. Except madness or death.”

  She sighed as if it hurt. “I betrayed him in my mind a long time ago.”

  “No. You were a classic example of false loyalty.”

  “Another way of putting it.”

  “We suffer for no real cause.” I explained angrily, “That’s the tragedy.” We watched the Nile, its lead-colored wavelets almost still. Behind the table my hand stole to hers and held it tenderly. I pressed it a little, ignoring her feeble attempts at resistance. I whispered, “We mustn’t let morbid thoughts overcome us.”

  “We’re falling,” she said sadly. “Faster than I could have imagined.”

  “Never mind. We’ll come out of it as pure as gold.”

  But I wanted to fall all the way, wanted to hit the bottom, as if to bear witness by my very self that the end-all of mankind’s greed for happiness is hell.

  At the station in Cairo I ran into an old friend, a journalist who was sympathetic to progressive causes, but was careful never to dabble in politics. We sat together in the station café. I was waiting for my train and he was waiting for someone arriving from the Canal Zone.

  “I must say I’m glad I ran into you like this. I really wanted to see you.” Marvelous. What did he want? I hadn’t seen him since I’d gone to Alexandria. “What brings you to Cairo?” I stared at him. He knew, of course, that I’d be startled at the question. “Excuse my being so frank,” he went on, “but I must plead our old friendship. It’s rumored that you come here for Mrs. Fawzi.”

  I wasn’t as upset as he expected. Doreya and I had guessed that there’d be talk.

  I said coldly, “She needs a friend, you know.”

  “I also know—”

  “That I was in love with her once.” I made the interruption as if I didn’t care.

  “What about Fawzi?”

  “He’s greater than they think.”

  He was obviously troubled. “As a friend of yours, I’m not very happy at what I hear people say.”

  “Tell me what you’ve heard.” He was silent and I added nervously, “That I’m a spy, that I ran away at the right moment, and that now I’m sneaking back to my old friend’s house?”

  “I only meant to…”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “No, no. If you think that for a moment, I won’t forgive you.”

  On my way back to Alexandria I wondered if I deserved to live. What other solution was there, after all, to so many contradictions? Why shouldn’t death provide the answer— a final word? I wanted to sit for a while in the Trianon, but when I saw Hosny Allam and Sarhan al-Beheiry inside talking, I decided against it. Colored clouds driven by fresh gusts of wind raced over my head as I turned away. Along the Corniche, when the waves were rising high and cold spray was flying over the road, I walked defiantly, wishing I had something valuable in my hands, so I could smash it to bits. I said to myself that only a disaster, huge in scale, something on the order of a colossal earthquake, could bring back harmony.

  —

  Zohra brought in my tea. “My people came to take me back,” she said, “but I refused to go.” She spoke proudly, sure of my interest in her. And I was interested, in spite of my low spirits at the time.

  “Well done!”

  “Even good old Amer Bey advised me to go back home.”

  “He’s afraid you’ll be in trouble, that’s all.”

  “But you’re not smiling the way you always do.” She said that after she had looked at me for a while and I tried to grin at her in reply. “I understand,” she said.

  “You understand?”

  “Yes. Your going away every week and your brooding.” At that I couldn’t help smiling. “I hope I’ll be able to offer you congratulations and best wishes very soon!”

  “May God give ear to what you say, Zohra.” We exchanged glances and she made a movement with her hands as if to lift me into happiness. “But someone keeps spoiling things for me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Someone who betrayed his faith.”

  She threw up her hands in horror.

  “And betrayed his friend and master.”

  “Oh!”

  “But he’s in love. Do you suppose that could help him earn a pardon for his crime?”

  She was still horrified. “It’s wicked to have no faith. A treacherous man’s love is as rotten and unhealthy as he is.”

  —

  I buried myself in my work, but when I could no longer bear the stress of my shattered nerves, I would make the trip to Cairo, where I found a kind of happiness. But what kind was it? When she stopped resisting and finally surrendered herself, it’s true, I was overjoyed. But afterward I was torn by anxiety, obsessed with the morbid idea that love was the road to death and that my own excesses would destroy me.

  “I’d loved you for a long time,” I said to her once. “You remember that, don’t you? Then came the shock of hearing about your engagement.”

  “You’ve always been so diffident,” she said, with a regret that seemed to apply to both past and present. “And that’s why you’re sometimes misunderstood. It was because of his strength of character that I accepted Fawzi. You know. He’s an admirable man.”

  The place was full of lovers.

  “Are we happy?”

  She looked up in surprise. “Mansour, what a question!”

  “I mean, perhaps you don’t like becoming the talk of the town.”

  “I don’t care. As for Fawzi…” She was going to repeat to me what I’d often told her about his tolerance, his great heart and so on, but she stopped short. I hated hearing the old story. I changed the subject.

  “Doreya, did you ever suspect me the way they did?” She frowned. She had often warned me not to bring up the subject, but I couldn’t help myself. “After all, it would only have been natural…”

  “For God’s sake, why do you torture yourself?”

  I said with a smile, “I often wonder why you should have thought differently.”

  “The fact is, it’s not in you to betray anyone.” She was annoyed.

  “What’s a traitor like? Certainly I’m weak or I wouldn’t have given in to my brother. And it’s the weak who are most likely to betray.”

  She took my hand in hers. “Please, don’t torment yourself. Think of us.”

  She had no idea that her love itself had now become one of my torments.

  —

  Madame came into my room and I knew I was in for some news. She flitted around with her gossip like a butterfly. “Haven’t you heard, Monsieur Mansour? Mahmoud Abu al-Abbas has proposed to Zohra but she’s refused him. It’s madness, monsieur!”

  “She doesn’t love him,” I said simply.

  “She’s set her heart in the wrong direction.” She gave me a wink. I was possessed by a strange idea about Sarhan al-Beheiry. I found myself wishing that in fact he’d really desert her so that I could punish him as I’d been longing to.

  “Please speak to her,” whispered the old lady. “She’ll listen to you. She’s fond of you.”

  She’s fond of me! I could hardly keep my temper in hand. The old cow! (“She comes from a good family, but she’s no saint. Her business has its demands. If I hadn’t helped her, her flat and her money would have been confiscated long ago.”)

  —

  A wild wind was driving rain against the windows and the roar of the waves was shaking me to the heart. I didn’t hear Zohra come in. She set the cup of tea before me on the table. I was glad to see her. I thought she might be able to rouse me out of my dark melancholy. We smiled at one another and I gave her her biscuit.

  “There. You’ve refused another offer.” I laughed, but she just looked at me cautiously. “To tell you the truth, Zohra, I’d recommend Mahmoud rather than Sarhan.”

  She frowned. “That’s because you don’t know him.”

  “Do you really know the other fellow as well as yo
u should?”

  “You all think it would be beneath him to marry me.”

  “But we’re your friends. You shouldn’t say that.”

  “That Mahmoud thinks a woman is like an old shoe.”

  I laughed when she told me an anecdote about Mahmoud. “You can stand up to him all right.” But she was in love with Sarhan. She’d go on until he married her or ditched her. “Zohra, I respect your philosophy and the way you act. Let me look forward to wishing you every happiness soon.”

  —

  A rush of urgent work held me up one week, I couldn’t go to Cairo, and Doreya telephoned, complaining of her loneliness. When we met the following week she said anxiously, “Now it’s my turn to chase you.”

  I kissed her hand as we entered a private room at the Florida. I explained my week’s absence and gave her my news. Her nerves were on edge, and she smoked all the time. I was in no better shape.

  “I’ve tried to drown myself in work, but I always come back to the surface in spite of myself, with a strange voice telling me that I’ve forgotten something important. And from time to time I really have forgotten things. In my room or in the office.”

  “But I’m all by myself,” she pleaded. “I can’t stand it anymore.”

  “We’re in a cleft stick. And we don’t lift a finger to help ourselves.”

  “What can we do?”

  I pondered a little. The alternatives were very logical. But built on what kind of premises? I felt completely distraught. “It just stands to simple reason: we should either separate or try to get you your divorce.” I said it challengingly, as if I were looking for even more trouble than I already had.

  Her gray eyes widened in fascination as well as fear, quite possibly because she was not as repelled by this idea as she was actually allured by its brutality.

  “Divorce!”

  “Yes.” I said quietly, “Then we could start all over again.”

  “That would be mad.”

  “But natural. And ethical, if you like.”

  She leaned her forehead on her hand and fell quiet, defeated.

  “You see, you won’t do a thing! Tell me,” I said after a pause, “what would Fawzi do if he were in my place?”

  “You know he loves me,” she said weakly.

  “But he wouldn’t hold you, if he knew you loved me.”

  “Don’t you think this is all just theoretical?”

  “But I know Fawzi and what I’ve said is a fact.”

  “Think. Imagine what he’d say.”

  “That you deserted him when he went to prison? Is that it? That’s not so important. You’re leaving Fawzi himself, not what he stands for.” I could see him lying back on the studio sofa, watching me with his almond-shaped black eyes, smoking his pipe, discussing all kinds of problems, but never once doubting the security of his own marriage.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Life gives nothing except to those who are strong enough to take.” I took her hand in mine. “How about a drink? We’ve had enough thinking.”

  —

  I was almost stunned with anger. I’d heard of Hosny Allam’s attack on Zohra and was seething with rage. Sitting in the drawing room with Amer Wagdi and Madame, I couldn’t hear any of their talk except as a sort of incessant buzzing. I’d also heard about a fight between Hosny and Sarhan and I sat there wishing they’d fought to the death, the two of them. I longed to teach Hosny a lesson, though I knew I stood no chance against him, which made me hate him to the point of madness.

  As Madame left the room, I awoke at once from my dreams of fighting and death. Amer Wagdi was watching me, and I suddenly had the odd notion that this old man could have been a good friend of my father or my grandfather.

  “What are you dreaming of?”

  All I could say was “I think I have no future.”

  He smiled gently. He knew all about it; he’d been through it all. “Youth doesn’t favor contentment,” he said. “That’s all. Really.”

  “I’ve been so engulfed in the past that I’ve come to feel and believe that there is no future.”

  His smile vanished and he spoke in earnest. “Perhaps there was some shock, some lapse, or some bad luck in your case. But you’re someone who undoubtedly deserves to live.”

  It was repugnant to me to discuss my troubles with him, even the real ones. I changed the tack. “And what about your own dreams, sir?”

  He chuckled. “Literal or figurative? If you mean literal, I must tell you that old men sleep so lightly that they can hardly dream. Figuratively, my dream is a gentle death.”

  “Is there more than one kind?”

  “The happiest death for a man is after a pleasant evening to go to sleep and simply never wake up.”

  I was charmed by the old man’s conversation. “Do you believe there’ll be life for you after death?”

  “Yes.” He laughed. “If you publish the material of your program in a book.”

  —

  I liked the weather in Alexandria. It suited me. Not just the days of clear blue and golden sun; I also liked the occasional spells of storm, when the clouds thickened, making dark mountains in the sky, the face of morning glooming into dusk. The roads of the sky would be suddenly hushed into ominous silence. A gust of wind would circulate, like a warning cry or an orator clearing his throat; a branch would start dancing, a skirt would lift—and then it would pounce wildly, thundering as far as the horizon. The sea would rage high, foam breaking on the very curbs of the streets. Thunder would bellow its ecstasies out of an unknown world; lightning would coruscate, dazzling eyesight, electrifying the heart. The rain pouring down would hug earth and sky in a wet embrace, elements mixing their warring natures to grapple and heave as if a new world were about to be born.

  Only after that would sweet peace fall on the city. The darkness would lift and Alexandria would show a face made serene by her ablutions—sparkling roads, spots of fresh dark green, a clean breeze, warm sunshine—in a tranquil awakening.

  I watched the storm from behind the glass of my windowpanes until it finally cleared. This drama of the elements touched a sympathetic cord in my inmost heart. I had a premonition that forecast, in terms still incomprehensible to me, my personal destiny.

  When the clock had moved around to strike the hour I stopped my ears against any further sense of time.

  But strange sounds invaded the quiet of the room. An argument? A fight? (There’s enough going on in this pension to keep a whole continent amused.) Something told me that as usual it concerned Zohra. A door opened noisily and the voices were now clear: Zohra and Sarhan. I leaped to my door. Face to face, with Madame in the middle, they were standing in the hall.

  “That’s none of your business,” Sarhan was shouting. “I’ll marry as I like. I’ll marry Aleya.”

  Zohra was fuming with anger, furious at the way she’d been used, at the collapse of her hopes. So the bastard had had what he’d been after and wanted to run away. I went up to him, took him by the hand, and led him into my room. His pajamas were torn and his lips were bleeding.

  “She’s a wild beast!”

  I tried to calm him down, but he wouldn’t stop.

  “Can you imagine? Her Highness wants to marry me!” I tried to quiet him, but he still went on. “The crazy bitch!”

  I’d had enough of his shouting. “Why does she want to marry you?”

  “Ask her! Ask her!”

  “I’m asking you.”

  He looked at me, listening for the first time.

  “Why? There must be some reason behind such a request.” Then he asked guardedly, “What are you getting at?”

  I shouted, “I’m getting at the fact that you’re a bastard.”

  “What did you say?”

  I spat in his face. “There,” I shouted. “I spit on you and the likes of you. Traitors!”

  We crashed together, pounding each other until Madame ran in to separate us. “Please, please,” she pleaded, “I’m fed up
with all this. Settle your quarrels outside, not in my house. Please.” She took him out of the room.

  —

  My heart heavy and my mind distracted, I went to my office at the studio. A woman was sitting near my desk. It was Doreya. I couldn’t speak for a moment, then my head cleared. “Doreya! What a surprise!”

  I smiled. I had to smile. I was supposed to be very glad to see her. I took her hand and pressed it. And indeed a sudden joy came over me, scattering the worry and fear that had been gnawing at my vitals.

  She looked up at me, her face very pale.

  “I might have waited for a day or two until we met, but I couldn’t stand it anymore. I rang you and you weren’t there.”

  I fetched a chair and sat down facing her, with an incomprehensible anxiety beginning to creep over me.

  “Let’s hope it’s good news, Doreya.”

  “I got a message from Fawzi,” she said, looking down. “Through an old friend, a journalist.” My heart sank. That journalist. No good news here, certainly. “He’s freed me to do what I like with my future.”

  My heart was pounding and though everything was clear I insisted on a detailed explanation. Strangely enough, I was excited, but curiously enough, I was far from happy. I kept asking, “What does he mean?”

  “He knows about us. Obviously.”

  “But how?”

  We looked at each other. I felt myself not just involved, but enmeshed in something, enchained to a point where the fact that her news had not brought me happiness or relief in the least could only make me wonder. What’s the matter? I asked myself. Then, “Do you think he’s angry?”

  She sounded a little impatient when she spoke. “Well, he’s acted as you expected him to.” I bowed my head. “So now I want to know what you think.”

  Yes, of course. Now all she wanted was my green light, and everything to go her way. I was to build her the nest I’d always longed and pleaded for. My dreams were about to come true.

  But it had dawned on me that I wasn’t pleased with the prospect. Not at all pleased, in fact, but worried by it, feeling neither shame nor regret for our relationship or her situation, but something that had to do with myself alone. Could I ever be happy? And supposing that I couldn’t bring myself to fight for my own personal happiness? In that case what position should I take?