The Time and the Place: And Other Stories

by Naguib Mahfouz

  From behind the fence there rose before his eyes the form of a man, who coughed and inquired, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Safwan was startled at the presence of this stranger and asked sharply, “And who are you? What’s brought you to my house?”

  “Your house?” said the man in a hoarse, angry voice.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the guardian for religious endowment properties.”

  “But this is my house.”

  “This house has been deserted for ages,” the man scoffed. “People avoid it because it’s rumored to be haunted by spirits.”

  Safwan decided he must have lost his way, and hurried back toward the square. He gave it a long comprehensive look, then raised his head to the street sign and read out loud, “Nuzha.” So again he entered the street and counted off the houses until he arrived at the fourth. There he stood in a state of bewilderment, almost of panic: he could find neither his own house nor the haunted one. Instead he saw an empty space, a stretch of wasteland lying between the other houses. “Is it my house that I’ve lost or my mind?” he wondered.

  He saw a policeman approaching, examining the locks of the shops. He stood in his path and pointed toward the empty wasteland. “What do you see there?”

  The policeman stared at him suspiciously and muttered, “As you can see, it’s a piece of wasteland where they sometimes set up funeral pavilions.”

  “That’s just where I should have found my house,” said Safwan. “I left it there with my wife inside it in the pink of health only this afternoon, so when could it have been pulled down and all the rubble cleared away?”

  The policeman concealed an involuntary smile behind a stern official glare and said brusquely, “Ask that deadly poison in your stomach!”

  “You are addressing a former general manager,” said Safwan haughtily. At this the policeman grasped him by the arm and led him off. “Drunk and disorderly in the public highway!”

  He took Safwan to the Daher police station, a short distance away, where he was brought before the officer on a charge of being drunk and disorderly. The officer took pity on him, however, because of his age and his respectable appearance. “Your identity card?”

  Safwan produced it and said, “I’m quite in my right mind, it’s just that there’s no trace of my house.”

  “Well, now there’s a new type of theft!” said the officer, laughing. “I really don’t believe it!”

  “But I’m speaking the truth,” said Safwan in alarm.

  “The truth’s being unfairly treated, but I’ll be lenient in deference to your age.” Then he said to the policeman, “Take him to Number 42 Nuzha Street.”

  Accompanied by the policeman, Safwan finally found himself in front of his house as he knew it. Despite his drunken state he was overcome with confusion. He opened the outer door, crossed the courtyard, and put on the light at the entrance, where he was immediately taken aback, for he found himself in an entrance he had never before set eyes on. There was absolutely no connection between it and the entrance of the house in which he had lived for about half a century, and whose furniture and walls were all in a state of decay. He decided to retreat before his mistake was revealed, so he darted into the street, where he stood scrutinizing the house from the outside. It was his house all right, from the point of view of its features and site, and he had opened the door with his own key, no doubt about it. What, then, had changed the inside? He had seen a small chandelier, and the walls had been papered. There was also a new carpet. In a way it was his house, and in another way it was not. And what about his wife, Sadriyya? “I’ve been drinking for half a century,” he said aloud, “so what is it about this blessed night?”

  He imagined his seven married daughters looking at him with tearful eyes. He determined, though, to solve the problem by himself, without recourse to the authorities—which would certainly mean exposing himself to the wrath of the law. Going up to the fence, he began clapping his hands, at which the front door was opened by someone whose features he could not make out. A woman’s voice could be heard asking, “What’s keeping you outside?”

  It seemed, though he could not be certain, that it was the voice of a stranger. “Whose house is this, please?” he inquired.

  “Are you that drunk? It’s just too much!”

  “I’m Safwan,” he said cautiously.

  “Come in or you’ll wake the people sleeping.”

  “Are you Sadriyya?”

  “Heaven help us! There’s someone waiting for you inside.”

  “At this hour?”

  “He’s been waiting since ten.”

  “Waiting for me?”

  She mumbled loudly in exasperation, and he inquired again, “Are you Sadriyya?”

  Her patience at an end, she shouted, “Heaven help us!”

  He advanced, at first stealthily, then without caring, and found himself in the new entrance. He saw that the door of the sitting room was open, with the lights brightly illuminating the interior. As for the woman, she had disappeared. He entered the sitting room, which revealed itself to him in a new garb, as the entrance had. Where had the old room with its ancient furniture gone to? Walls recently painted and a large chandelier from which Spanish-style lamps hung, a blue carpet, a spacious sofa and armchairs: it was a splendid room. In the foreground sat a man he had not seen before: thin, of a dark brown complexion, with a nose reminding one of a parrot’s beak, and a certain impetuosity in the eyes. He was wearing a black suit, although autumn was only just coming in. The man addressed him irritably. “How late you are for our appointment!”

  Safwan was both taken aback and angry. “What appointment? Who are you?”

  “That’s just what I expected—you’d forgotten!” the man exclaimed. “It’s the same old complaint repeated every single day, whether it’s the truth or not. It’s no use, it’s out of the question….”

  “What is this raving nonsense?” Safwan shouted in exasperation.

  Restraining himself, the man said, “I know you’re a man who enjoys his drink and sometimes overdoes it.”

  “You’re speaking to me as though you were in charge of me, while I don’t even know you. I’m amazed you should impose your presence on a house in the absence of its owner.”

  He gave a chilly smile. “Its owner?”

  “As though you doubt it!” Safwan said vehemently. “I see I’ll have to call the police.”

  “So they can arrest you for being drunk and disorderly—and for fraud?”

  “Shut up—you insolent imposter!”

  The man struck one palm against the other and said, “You’re pretending not to know who I am so as to escape from your commitments. It’s out of the question…”

  “I don’t know you and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? Are you alleging you forgot and are therefore innocent? Didn’t you agree to sell your house and wife and fix tonight for completing the final formalities?”

  Safwan, in a daze, exclaimed, “What a lying devil you are!”

  “As usual. You’re all the same—shame on you!” said the other, with a shrug of the shoulders.

  “You’re clearly mad.”

  “I have the proof and witnesses.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone having done such a thing before.”

  “But it happens every moment. You’re putting on a good act, even though you’re drunk.”

  In extreme agitation, Safwan said, “I demand you leave at once.”

  “No, let’s conclude the incompleted formalities,” said the other in a voice full of confidence.

  He got up and went toward the closed door that led to the interior of the house. He rapped on it, then returned to his seat. Immediately there entered a short man with a pug nose and prominent forehead, carrying under his arm a file stuffed with papers. He bowed in greeting and sat down. Safwan directed a venomous glare at him and exclaimed, “Since when has my house become a shelter for th
e homeless?”

  The first man, introducing the person who had just entered, said, “The lawyer.”

  At which Safwan asked him brusquely, “And who gave you permission to enter my house?”

  “You’re in a bad way,” said the lawyer, smiling, “but may God forgive you. What are you so angry about?”

  “What insolence!”

  Without paying any attention to what Safwan had said, the lawyer went on. “The deal is undoubtedly to your advantage.”

  “What deal?” asked Safwan in bewilderment.

  “You know exactly what I mean, and I would like to tell you that it’s useless your thinking of going back on it now. The law is on our side, and common sense too. Let me ask you: Do you consider this house to be really yours?”

  For the first time Safwan felt at a loss. “Yes and no,” he said.

  “Was it in this condition when you left it?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then it’s another house?”

  “Yet it’s the same site, number, and street.”

  “Ah, those are fortuitous incidentals that don’t affect the essential fact—and there’s something else.”

  He got up, rapped on the door, and returned to his seat. All at once a beautiful middle-aged woman, well dressed and with a mournful mien, entered and seated herself alongside the first man. The lawyer resumed his questioning. “Do you recognize in this lady your wife?”

  It seemed to Safwan that she did possess a certain similarity, but he could not stop himself from saying, “Not at all.”

  “Fine—the house is neither your house, nor the lady your wife. Thus nothing remains but for you to sign the final agreement and then you can be off….”

  “Off! Where to?”

  “My dear sir, don’t be stubborn. The deal is wholly to your advantage, and you know it.”

  The telephone rang, although it was very late at night. The caller was the barman. Safwan was astonished that the man should be telephoning him for the first time in his life. “Safwan Bey,” he said, “Sign without delay.”

  “But do you know….”

  “Sign. It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

  The receiver was replaced at the other end. Safwan considered the short conversation and found himself relaxing. In a second his state of mind changed utterly, his face took on a cheerful expression, and a sensation of calm spread throughout his body. The feeling of tension left him, and he signed. When he had done so, the lawyer handed him a small but somewhat heavy suitcase and said, “May the Almighty bless your comings and goings. In this suitcase is all that a happy man needs in this world.”

  The first man clapped, and there entered an extremely portly man, with a wide smile and a charming manner. Introducing him to Safwan, the lawyer said, “This is a trustworthy man and an expert at his work. He will take you to your new abode. It is truly a profitable deal.”

  The portly man made his way outside, and Safwan followed him, quiet and calm, his hand gripping the handle of the suitcase. The man walked ahead of him into the night, and Safwan followed. Affected by the fresh air, he staggered and realized that he had not recovered from the intoxication of the blessed night. The man quickened his pace, and the distance between them grew, so Safwan in turn, despite his drunken state, walked faster, his gaze directed toward the specter of the other man, while wondering how it was that he combined such agility with portliness. “Take it easy, sir!” Safwan called out to him.

  But it was as though he had spurred the man on to greater speed, for he broke into strides so rapid that Safwan was forced to hurl himself forward for fear he would lose him, and thus lose his last hope. Frightened he would be incapable of keeping up the pace, he once again called out to the man. “Take it easy or I’ll get lost!”

  At this the other, unconcerned about Safwan, began to run. Safwan, in terror, raced ahead, heedless of the consequences. This caused him great distress, but all to no avail, for the man plunged into the darkness and disappeared from sight. Safwan was frightened the man would arrive ahead of him at Yanabi Square, where various roads split up, and he would not know which one the man had taken. He therefore began running as fast as possible, determined to catch up.

  His efforts paid off, for once again he caught a glimpse of the specter of the man at the crossroads. He saw him darting forward toward the fields, ignoring the branch roads that turned off to the eastern and western parts of the city. Safwan hurried along behind him and continued running without stopping, and without the least feeling of weakness. His nostrils were filled with delightful aromas that stirred up all kinds of sensations he had never before properly experienced and enjoyed.

  When the two of them were alone in the vast void of earth and sky, the portly man gradually began to slow down until he had reverted to a mere brisk trot, then to a walk. Finally he stopped, and Safwan caught up with him and also came to a breathless stop. He looked around at the all-pervading darkness, with the glittering lights of faint stars. “Where’s the new abode?” he asked.

  The man maintained his silence. At the same time, Safwan began to feel the incursion of a new weight bearing down upon his shoulders and his whole body. The weight grew heavier and heavier and then rose upward to his head. It seemed to him that his feet would plunge deep into the ground. The pressure became so great that he could no longer bear it and, with a sudden spontaneous burst of energy, he took off his shoes. Then, the pressure working its way upward, he stripped himself of his jacket and trousers and flung them to the ground. This made no real difference, so he rid himself of his underclothes, heedless of the dampness of autumn. He was ablaze with pain and, groaning, he abandoned the suitcase on the ground. At that moment it seemed to him that he had regained his balance, that he was capable of taking the few steps that still remained. He waited for his companion to do something, but the man was sunk in silence. Safwan wanted to converse with him, but talk was impossible, and the overwhelming silence slipped through the pores of his skin to his very heart. It seemed that in a little while he would be hearing the conversation that was passing between the stars.

  The Ditch

  Despite the great care I take in respect to personal hygiene and health in general, the sensation of dirt and disease besets me like some constant nagging thought.

  I do not dwell solely in a human body, but also in an ancient and dilapidated flat in a decrepit alley submerged in garbage. The ceiling of the flat is bare of paint and reveals in places colorless veins, the walls are split into parallel and intersecting lines, while the floor has burst out into bulges and cavities that are in constant strife, through threadbare rugs, with the soles of one’s feet. In summer the ceiling and walls exude a scorching heat, in winter a damp drizzle. The stairs are being eaten away, and one of the steps has come apart, so that half of it has collapsed, presenting an obstacle to anyone going up or down, and a not inconsiderable danger in the dark. On top of all this there is the crack that runs down the outside of the house on the side that abuts the lavatories, a side where the mortar and lime have flaked off and the stones have become exposed.

  Hosni Alley is now without a sidewalk altogether, and no one recollects that it used to have two—no one, that is, other than myself, since I was actually born in the house. In this I am unlike the families of Ibrahim Effendi, the occupier of the middle floor, and of Sheikh Moharram, the tenant on the ground floor, who came to the house at the very earliest twenty years ago.

  In my childhood days, the house was of mature age and in fair shape, and the alley, paved with stones and with two sidewalks, was no less splendid than Shurafa Street, to which it sloped down. The two sidewalks have by now disappeared under dirt and garbage, which, accumulating day by day, advances from the two sides toward the middle of the narrow road. Soon all that will be left will be a ditchlike passageway by which to come and go; it may even become so narrow as not to admit the body of Sitt Fawziyya, the wife of Ibrahim Effendi.

  The shadow of times long past, the expectat
ion of the house collapsing, and the diffusion of filth all pervaded my feelings and gave me a sensation of disease—and of fear as well. I was alone in a flat whose earlier occupants had been dispersed among new houses and the cemeteries. In addition, I was a civil servant, the one and only civil servant in a house that was well on its way to falling down, a civil servant groaning in the grip of rising prices and asking himself what would be his fate were an earthquake to occur or—in these days ominous with the possibilities of war—an air raid. Or what would happen were the house to bring to a close its exhausted life and die a natural death. Then I would make up my mind to chase away these anxieties with the same intensity as they were chasing me, and to commit myself to God’s care and not to anticipate trouble before it actually came. At the café among my friends (overworked civil servants), or in front of the café television, I would become oblivious of my worries. But they would return in their most concentrated form on the first day of every month. This was a day about which both Sheikh Moharram and Sitt Fawziyya (who because of her strong personality used to act for her husband in all business matters) were extremely anxious, while I too would be full of apprehension. It was on that day that Abd al-Fattah Effendi, a postman and owner of the old house, would show up.

  A man in his fifties, he still persisted in wearing a tarboosh; he was an unattractive person, though not perhaps because of any particular defect. I would become aware of his presence when I heard Sitt Fawziyya chiding him harshly, not letting him get a word in edgeways. As for me, It would deal with him with all the tact of which I was capable. I would receive him and sit him down on the only sofa and give him tea. He used to enjoy returning my greeting by saying, “I’d like someday to come and find you’d done your religious duty by getting married.”

  Concealing the fact that I had a lump in my throat, I would ask him, “Have you got a bride and a wedding going for free?”