The Seventh Heaven: Supernatural Tales

by Naguib Mahfouz

  She looked at him questioningly.

  “Why haven’t you married?” he asked.

  She stared in the distance for a while, then answered, “I have refused more than one proposal.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because of your love for the other man?”

  “But that has been forgotten, like everything else.”

  “There must be a reason,” he pressed her.

  “The loss of my virginity was no small matter,” she said. “Perhaps I have despaired of making anyone happy.”

  “That’s a very regrettable thing,” he said.

  “Maybe it was meant to be,” she said resignedly.

  She’s still a ravishing woman!

  On his way home, Anous felt he was floating through an ethereal atmosphere. He loathed the duty that took him away from the house at 15 al-Durri Street in Imbaba.

  It’s true, I have fallen in love with Rashida.

  19

  Estrangement fell like a forbidding barrier between father and son. The mother was saddened to the point of death. The house became downcast, as oppressive as a rat’s nest. Should he seek a transfer to one of the provinces? And what about Imbaba? What would happen if his father knew the passions burning in his breast? An unexpected thought occurred to him: he had been born as a punishment for his father. If not, why had he declared a secret war upon him from his earliest awareness of his surroundings? What a father deserving of absolute rejection, a sad and regretful situation—especially as I love the man totally. Though beastly and crude to the outside world, he is mild and kind inside his own home. He cannot picture his own perversity, believing instead that he is only exercising his natural right—the right of the smart and the strong. His greed for money and power knows no limits. As accustomed to committing crime as to saying good morning, he is solicitous to his supporters, generous to the point of profligacy. But when it comes to the common laborers, whose money he steals and whose food he hoards, Qadri scorns them all—without mercy. One day Anous will detest him so much that he will even deny the man is his father. Even more calamitous than this, the Boss has stamped Anous’ mother with his character, for she worships his power. Every time he commits some outrage, she falls into raptures of adoration. Truly, he—Anous—dwells in the lion’s den, in the temple of might and sin.

  As things became more and more complicated, provocative situations emerged. He arrested his father’s supporters as they were pilfering the money of the bakery’s employees. No sooner had he locked them up—for the first time in the hara’s history—than a torrent of giddy joy exploded in the alley, stirring a volcano in the house of Boss Qadri the Butcher. No longer able to remain, Anous decided to go. His mother’s torso shook as she wept.

  “He is the Devil himself,” she cried.

  Anous kissed her forehead and left. He rented a small apartment in Imbaba, telling himself that putting an end to the activities of his father’s supporters would do the same to his malignant powers. Qadri would be incapable of doing any more harm, and the quarter would slip from his hellish grip. He appealed to God, if only he could arrest his father in the very act of perpetrating a crime directly. Yet it appears that Qadri had resolved to meet the challenge with a similar one before his whole edifice collapsed—for on the same night a battle broke out between his supporters and the bakery’s workers. During it, Raouf received a fatal wound. But before drawing his last breath, he managed to assassinate Boss Qadri the Butcher.

  These were explosive events in rapid succession, shaking the hara to its very foundations, drowning it in blood— while dissipating the darkness that had engulfed it for so long.

  20

  The Butcher found himself in front of Abu, hearing him say, “Welcome, Qadri, to the First Heaven.”

  Acquainting the arrival with the place himself, he noticed that Qadri was absent-minded, with a dazed, faraway gaze.

  “It seems as though you have not yet cut your ties to the earth,” Abu pointed out to him.

  “Something weighs heavily inside me,” Qadri replied.

  “Be aware—you will now learn your destiny.”

  “Yes, but I never imagined I would be killed by a mere boy like Raouf.”

  “Your new memory has not awakened yet.”

  Confusion showed in the furrows of Boss Qadri the Butcher’s face. Slowly, slowly, he began to remember, until he let out a deep sigh.

  “Do you recall now who this boy Raouf is?” Abu asked, smiling.

  “My son Anous killed me,” said Qadri painfully.

  “Indeed,” said Abu. “And do you remember who you were before that?”

  “Adolf Hitler!” answered Qadri.

  “And before that?”

  “A notorious highwayman in Afghanistan. I can’t even pronounce his name!”

  “A long, black record,” Abu upbraided him. “Why do you resist all advancement and waste every opportunity granted to you? Your son is better than you—many others are better than you.”

  “The lesson won’t be in vain this time!” Qadri pleaded contritely.

  “And yet, even as you appear before me now, you still have not left your worldly instincts behind!” Abu cajoled him.

  “Perhaps I’m still stoned,” said Qadri lamely.

  “Your excuse is worse than the offense.”

  “I hope I can be made a guide….”

  “Do you have anything to say in favor of your behavior on earth?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Qadri. “I started out as an honest merchant. What made me greedy was other people’s weakness, their carelessness, and their hypocrisy. Being a tyrant was fun for me, and there was nothing to stop me.”

  “The others will be punished for their weakness, just as you will be for exploiting it.”

  “Won’t my murder at the hands of my own son count at all against my evil?”

  “Such relations have no meaning here,” snapped Abu. “How many sons and daughters have you killed, without even thinking about it?”

  “Even so, I didn’t create my own character, or my instincts.”

  “You own them freely,” rebutted Abu. “In your freedom, you found no limits.”

  “If you improve your defense of me, then you can have anything you want,” Qadri dangled.

  “You are still clinging to the world,” Abu laughed. “That is the most unforgivable sin of all.”

  “What do you say about my trial?”

  “The trial is finished, Qadri,” Abu disclosed. “You have been condemned.”

  And Qadri the Butcher was no longer there.

  21

  Raouf encountered Abu ensconced in his white cloud. There was a brief moment of mutual recognition, then a questioning look started to show in Raouf’s eyes.

  “Welcome to the First Heaven,” said Abu.

  He began to lecture Raouf for the usual orientation, then asked him, “How did you come to be here?”

  “I was killed in a fight,” replied Raouf.

  “But you killed your killer, as well.”

  “I struck him while I was being stabbed,” said Raouf. “I don’t recall anything after that.”

  “For the second time, you arrive as both a killer and a person killed.”

  “Really?”

  “I speak with some authority.”

  “What did I get the last time?” wondered Raouf.

  “You were condemned,” said Abu.

  “Will that happen again now?” Raouf asked with worry.

  “What would you like?” Abu asked.

  “I rushed bravely into a just battle, and slew the Satan of our alley.”

  “That is true,” conceded Abu.

  His face jubilant, Raouf queried, “Is there hope for my acquittal?”

  “Your negligence in the search for knowledge will count against you.”

  “But the circumstances I lived in were so extreme!”

  “That is also true,” said Abu. “But we evaluate the i
ndividual according to his struggle against his surroundings.”

  As the pain began to appear in Raouf’s face, Abu told him, “You are a fine young man, but the ascent to the Second Heaven is a formidable feat indeed.”

  “Doesn’t what I have done speak on my behalf?”

  “Everything has been heard,” answered Abu. “The verdict has been issued: you are appointed as a spiritual guide.”

  Raouf greeted the judgment with satisfaction, then Abu added, “More good news: you will be guiding Anous.”

  “The policeman?”

  “Yes, his behavior bodes well for the ultimate result.”

  “Could that be the promised Paradise?”

  Abu grinned as he replied, “There are seven heavens consecrated in service to the people of earth; but the time has not yet come to think about Paradise!”

  “How does one climb from heaven to heaven?”

  “Through the succeeding levels of judgment.”

  Perplexed, Raouf asked, “Shall we be spared further strife in the Seventh Heaven?”

  “That is what customarily is said to give one hope and consolation,” expounded Abu, still smiling, “though there is not one shred of evidence that it is true.”

  Streams of lyrical bliss flowed by, immersing them both in the waves of dripping pale clouds that spread over the endless expanse of verdure below.

  The Disturbing Occurrences

  1

  I will always remember what I lived through during the horrific events in the al-Khalifa quarter of Cairo. To be sure, they weren’t all horrific. Some were tales told of bags of money delivered to the homes of paupers in the dead of night. Others, though, involved mass poisonings, fires, and worse. Yet the fact each was done with the same modus operandi indicated that one person lurked behind them all. Everyone’s eyes were on the lookout; all guards were on watch, as we ran organized patrols after dark throughout the district.

  “This criminal is crazy—there’s no doubt about that,” I said to my chief.

  “All that matters is we catch him,” he answered sharply.

  As the days of our search rolled on, I was utterly miserable—for we had no results, could find no leads at all—without any halt to the incidents themselves.

  Then a letter came to me, with no signature, and only one line of writing:

  The villain behind the crimes in al-Khalifa is Makram Abd al-Qayyum, who lives in the Paradise Building, Apt. 3.

  Without hesitation we decided to put this man under observation. But just as quickly we learned he’d vacated his flat two days before. Immediately we launched an inquiry about him in the building. I met the owner, who also resided there.

  “I want to hear everything you know about Makram Abd al-Qayyum, who lived in apartment three,” I told him.

  “He moved out two days ago,” the man replied.

  “I know that—but where did he move to?”

  “Of that, he didn’t inform me.”

  “Maybe you know where he sent the furniture that he’d brought with him?”

  “The apartment’s furnished,” said the landlord. “He just took his bags out to the taxi and left.”

  “Did you recognize the taxi or the driver?”

  “No.”

  “How old would you say he is?”

  “Based on the way he looks and his health, it would be hard to say exactly—but I’d guess he’s in his thirties or forties.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s from the upper class. Yet he’s very busy. He left the building early each morning, returning at nightfall. Still, I never kept track of his movements except when my own happened to cross them.”

  “And his family?”

  “He was alone. No one came to see him, so far as I know.”

  “And how were his dealings with people?” I pressed him.

  “From my point of view, they were perfect,” the man insisted. “He was a faithful renter, always paid his 200 pounds on the first of every month. He gave me absolutely no trouble at all.”

  “What about his personal behavior?”

  “To my knowledge, it was beyond reproach. He displayed self-respect in every sense of the term.”

  “Didn’t you know him well?”

  “No,” the owner said. “We met once to draw up the contract, and again to dissolve it—that’s all.”

  “Any idea about his financial situation?”

  “No, but he certainly seemed solvent. And he was spending 200 pounds for the apartment each month.”

  “He gave you no impression of being a queer, say, or a criminal?”

  “He was as far away from all that as you can get.”

  “Describe his appearance for me.”

  “Tall, brawny, and well-built. Tawny-colored skin, with strong, well-defined features. A very elegant man.”

  “Any unusual characteristics?”

  “Though his skin is dark, his hair and his mustache are both golden blond.”

  “How did he come to rent the apartment?”

  “By way of Azuz, the flat-finder at the start of our street.”

  2

  Finding few clues in the landlord’s statements, I decided to try the doorman. He was a Nubian—as usual—but getting on in years.

  “I’d like to talk about Makram Abd al-Qayyum,” I told him.

  “May God preserve him!” he replied.

  “It seems that you like him.”

  “How could I not? He’s the best of God’s creatures.”

  Straightaway I asked about the taxi that hauled away the suspect’s bags.

  “The driver wasn’t unknown to me,” he answered.

  I made a special note of this, then queried, “You said he was the best of God’s creatures?”

  “He never asked me to do any task without giving me a tip, and not just for the grand occasions and holidays. And he was always smiling; always greeting me whether coming or going, asking how I was doing. I’ll never forget how he helped me when I was preparing my daughter for marriage. He’s a dream for the deprived, and a balm for the wounded.”

  “I suppose that he informed you of where he was moving to?”

  “No, but he told me he’d be passing by to see me often.”

  “You mean, to visit you particularly?”

  “Perhaps when he comes to this district for one reason or another.”

  “Do you know why he changed his residence?”

  “When I asked him about that, he said that he loves to wander.”

  “What do you think of his looks?”

  “Strong, fearsome, and handsome. At the same time he was emotionally sensitive in a way that didn’t at all match his powerful physique. Once, when he heard wailing over a dead person in our building, his eyes filled with tears. He used to give me money to buy bread for the stray cats that hung around the place. He was so gentle that he would toss peanuts into the stairwell for the mice that scurried there.”

  “All that is very nice,” I said. “But you undoubtedly know things that no one else does about his personal behavior. A single man doesn’t rent a furnished apartment for no reason at all.”

  “Absolutely no one else entered his flat,” the Nubian insisted. “This is an aspect I couldn’t miss.”

  “No friends and no relatives?”

  “No friends, and no relatives.”

  “He was out all day?” I asked.

  “From time to time he would eat lunch in his apartment. He’d order food from one of the local restaurants.”

  “Nothing inside his flat caught your eye?”

  “I never went into his apartment.”

  “What do you know about the time he normally returned to his flat in the evening?”

  “He most often came home about ten in the evening. He would then stay up till midnight or even dawn.”

  “What if someday it were proved to you that he poisoned innocent people and went around setting deadly fires?”

  Startled, the man exc
laimed, “That would be a warning that the gates of Hell have opened!”

  3

  We rounded up all the taxi drivers in the district and filed them before the doorkeeper. He recognized one of them, called Yunis, who the doorman said was the owner of the taxi that carried away Makram Abd al-Qayyum’s bags. The driver had no difficulty remembering the fare: he said that he’d dropped him directly at the Semiramis Hotel.

  I set off instantly to the Semiramis with a bunch of assistants. I was able to verify that the suspect spent one night in the place, leaving early the next morning. I asked about the taxi that took him away—and the porter told me that he carried his bags to a white, privately-owned Mercedes. The big, dusky, distinguished-looking gentleman with the golden hair drove the car himself. No one could remember its license number.

  Is he the car’s owner? If so, then why didn’t he use it the whole time he lived in the Paradise Building? Did he buy it just yesterday? The more that I cut through the obscure character of his actions, the more the insinuation of his guilt took root inside me, and the instincts to investigate and take up the challenge became more deeply fixed within me.

  4

  After that I went to the neighbors living on the same floor in his building. The first was an architect named Raouf. He’d barely heard me utter the name of Makram Abd al-Qayyum when he began to scowl.

  “Evidently, you don’t find him too agreeable,” I ventured.

  “Damn him, he’s a strange man,” Raouf raged. “So wrapped up in himself that he’s practically perverted. I wouldn’t doubt that he hates all humanity.”

  “The doorman has another view of him entirely,” I rejoined.

  “Pay no attention to what the doorman says; a tiny gratuity makes his head spin. I’ll never forget once when I met Abd al-Qayyum at the building’s entrance. As I began to greet him he replied with a curt haughtiness—my heart sank and my blood boiled. He’s impudent and ill-mannered.”

  “What you’re saying is new to me.”