“The main thing is that the costs should not be excessive.”
This time he resorted to a maxim. “An evil is not warded off by something worse.”
At which more than one voice said, “We would hope that you will find us cooperative.”
“We are with you,” said Mr. A.M., “but do not rely upon us wholly. Rely too upon yourselves, starting at least with the obvious things.”
“Absolutely so, but what are the obvious things?”
“Having traps and the traditional poisons.”
“Fine.”
“Having as many cats as possible in the stairwell and on the roofs. Also inside the flats if circumstances permit.”
“But it’s said that the Norwegian rat attacks cats.”
“Cats are not without their use.”
We returned to our homes in high spirits and with a sincere resolve. Soon, rats predominated over the rest of our worries. They made frequent appearances in our dreams, occupied the most time in our conversations, and came to engross us as life’s main difficulty. We proceeded to take the precautions we had promised to, as we awaited the coming of the enemy. Some of us were saying that there was not long to go, while others said that one day we’d spot a rat darting past and that this would be the harbinger of imminent danger.
Many different explanations were given for the proliferation of rats. One opinion was that it was due to the Canal towns being empty after the evacuation, another attributed it to the negative aspects of the High Dam, others blamed it on the system of government, while many saw in it God’s wrath at His servants for their refusal to accept His guidance. We expended laudable efforts in making rational preparations, about which no one was negligent. At a further meeting held at his home, the estimable Mr. A.M., may God preserve him, said, “I am happy with the preventive measures you have taken, and I am pleased to see the entrance to our building swarming with cats. Certainly there are those who complain about the expense of feeding them, but this is of little importance when we think of our safety and security.” He scrutinized our faces with satisfaction, then asked, “What news of the traps?”
One of us (an eminent educator) answered. “I caught a skinny specimen—one of our local rats.”
“Whatever a rat’s identity, it’s still harmful. Anyway, today I must inform you of the necessity, with the enemy at our gates, for being even more on your guard. Quantities of the new poison ground up in corn will be distributed to us. It is to be placed in vulnerable places such as the kitchen, though extreme care should be taken to protect children, poultry, and pets.”
Everything happened just as the man said, and we told ourselves that we were truly not alone in the battle. Gratitude welled up in us for our solicitous neighbor and our revered Governor. Certainly all this had required of us a lot of care on top of our daily worries. And unavoidable mistakes did occur. Thus a cat was killed in one home and a number of chickens in another, but there were no losses in terms of human life. As time went on we became more and more tense and alert, and the suspense weighed heavily on us. We told ourselves that the happening of a calamity was preferable to the waiting for it. Then, one day, I met a neighbor at the bus stop, and he said, “I heard from a reliable source the rats have annihilated an entire village.”
“There was not a thing about this in the papers!”
He gave me a scornful look and said nothing. I imagined the earth heaving with hordes of rats as far as the eye could see and crowds of refugees wandering aimlessly in the desert. Good God, could such a thing come about? But what was so impossible about it? Had not God previously sent the Flood and the flocks of birds as mentioned in the Koran? Would people tomorrow cease their daily struggle and throw all they possessed into the raging fires of battle? And would they be victorious, or would this spell the end?
At the third meeting, Mr. A.M. appeared in cheerful mood. “Congratulations, gentlemen,” he said. “We are as active as can be. The losses are slight and will not, one hopes, recur. We shall become experts in matters of fighting rats, and perhaps we shall be called upon in the future in other places. His Excellency the Governor is extremely happy.”
One of our number began to complain. “The fact is that our nerves—.”
But he was cut short by Mr. A.M. “Our nerves? Do you want to spoil our success with a thoughtless word?”
“When will the rats begin their attack?”
“No one can give a definite answer to that, and it is of no consequence so long as we are prepared for the battle.” Then, after a pause, he continued. “Latest instructions are of special importance, relating as they do to windows, doors, and any apertures in walls or elsewhere. Close all doors and windows and examine in particular the lower part of any door. If any space is found through which a mere straw could pass, seal it up completely with wooden planks. When doing the morning cleaning, the windows of one room should be opened, and while one person sweeps, another, armed with a stick, should stand at the ready. Then you should close the windows and move to the next room, where the same procedure should be followed. On finishing the cleaning, the flat should be left like a firmly closed box, whatever the weather.”
We exchanged looks in glum silence.
“It’s impossible to go on like that,” said a voice.
“No, you must maintain the utmost precision in carrying out…”
“Even in a prison cell there’s…”
“We are at war, that is to say in a state of emergency. We are threatened not only with destruction but also with epidemics—God spare us. We must reckon with that.”
We went on submissively carrying out what we had been ordered to do. We became more deeply submerged in a morass of anticipation and wariness, with the boredom and depression that accompany them. The nervous tension increased and was translated into sharp daily quarrels between the man of the house and his wife and children. We continued to follow the news, while the Norwegian rat, with its huge body, long whiskers, and alarming glassy look, became a star of evil that roamed in our imaginations and dreams and occupied the major part of our conversation.
At the last meeting, Mr. A.M. had said, “I’ve got some good news—a team of experts has been assigned to the task of checking the buildings, flats and locations exposed to risk, and all without any demand for additional rates.”
It was indeed good news, and we received it with universal delight, the hope being that we would be able to relieve ourselves of some of the distress we had been suffering. Then one day the concierge informed us that a bureaucrat had inspected the entrance to the building, the stairwell, the roof, and the garage, and had pronounced favorably on the large bands of cats roaming about here and there. He had instructed the concierge to be extra vigilant and to inform him of any rat that might make its appearance, be it Norwegian or Egyptian.
One week after the meeting, the doorbell of our flat rang and the concierge gave us the good news that the bureaucrat was on his way and wished to have permission to make an inspection. The time was not convenient, because my wife had just finished preparing lunch, but I nevertheless hurried out to greet him. I found myself standing before a middle-aged, sturdily built man with a thick mustache, his square face with its short snub nose and glassy stare reminding me of a cat. I greeted him, concealing a smile that almost transformed itself into a laugh, and told myself that they really did have a flair for choosing their men. I walked ahead of him, and he proceeded to examine the traps and poisons, the windows and doors, nodding his head in approval. He did, however, find in the kitchen a small window covered over with a wire mesh of tiny holes, at which he said firmly, “Close the window.”
My wife was on the point of protesting, but he snapped at her. “The Norwegian rat can gnaw through wire.”
Satisfied that his order had been carried out, he sniffed at the smell of food, thus proclaiming his commendation. I therefore invited him to eat. “Only a mean man refuses generosity,” he answered simply.
Immediately we pre
pared a table for him alone, telling him that we had already eaten. He sat down as though in his own home and began gobbling up the food without any restraint or shyness—and with quite extraordinary voracity. Out of politeness, we left him to it. However, after a while I thought it best to check on him in case he might be in need of something. I gave him another helping, and while doing so I became aware of a dramatic change in his appearance. It seemed that his face reminded me no longer of a cat but of a rat, in fact of the Norwegian rat itself. I returned to my wife with my head spinning. I did not tell her what I had noticed but asked her to be pleasant to him and make him welcome. She was away for a minute or two, then returned, pallid, and stared at me in stupefaction. “Did you see what he looks like when he eats?” she breathed.
I nodded, and she whispered, “It’s quite amazing, unbelievable.”
I indicated my agreement with a movement of my spinning head. It seems that our utter astonishment caused us to forget the passage of time, and we only came to when we heard his voice from the hallway calling joyfully, “May your house ever prosper!”
We rushed out, but he had reached the front door before us and had gone. All we glimpsed of him was his swaying back, then a swift about-face as he bade us farewell with a fleeting Norwegian smile. We stood behind the closed door looking at each other in bewilderment.
His Majesty
A son of the earth, a scion of weeds, he had been brought up and had grown and developed in the garden that had once surrounded the old square of al-Ataba. From the unknown he had sprouted, to be tended by filthy hands that fed him with a crust, clothed him in a galabeya and robbed him of his humanity. Then one day, when he had grown big and strong, a passerby pointed him out and said to his companion in a loud, laughing voice, “He looks just like the king!”
The king! He knew there was a king, and from a distance he had seen the king’s mounted escort. What did the man mean? The pointing and the surprised glance occurred again. Did he really resemble the king? Can such a thing really happen? He hurried off and found a mirror at the entrance of a furniture shop in al-Azhar Street, and took a look at himself, to see the king. So this was the king! Neither the raggedness of the galabeya nor the filthy state of his face could mask his appearance.
Having washed his face and combed his hair, he began to go back and forth across the square. He obtained one success after another, being pointed out and prompting comments. He continued on, smiling proudly at his priceless appearance. With the passage of time he became known in the district as “His Majesty,” “His August Majesty.” People scoffingly explained the extraordinary likeness by the well-known promiscuity of the late king, father of the present one. Who was to know whether perhaps…? Was it not conceivable that…? Was it so out of the question that…? Thus it was that scornful remarks attributed to him the honored blue blood of the Mohammed Ali dynasty. He himself knew nothing about either a father or a mother, so anything was possible. Found lying on the ground, naked or in a bundle, he had grown up in the arms of nature, like his earliest forebears in olden times.
He toyed with the surmises about his wonderful yet unknown origin, expecting from his likeness the greatest blessings. The fact was that his imposing appearance lessened for him the agony of being a vagrant and to a great extent spared him blows from the truncheons of the police. He was also the most generous of vagabonds, the most upright of pickpockets. “If one day you are exalted by good luck,” his companions said to him, “don’t forget us!”
He promised to do well by them and to protect them, and he became even more attached to his fantastic dreams. His fame eventually reached the police station. The detectives set off and came back to report, “The right height, appearance and complexion—it’s a miracle.”
The superintendent himself decided to have a look. Standing before the young man, he scrutinized him in stupefaction, and after dismissing him, the superintendent found himself thinking about him as a real problem. Was it possible to disregard him as some insignificant joke? Should he not be put under surveillance so that he could be arrested red-handed? Not certain either way, the superintendent thought it best to communicate the facts to one of his superiors at the Ministry of the Interior with whom he had a close relationship. Investigations were carried out. The highest security centers were thrown into confusion and came to regard the matter with the greatest seriousness. “The affair may reveal doubles as yet unknown to us, at which point we shall be asked, ‘Where were you, gentlemen?’ ”
“What’s to be done?”
The decision was made to apprehend the young man and place him in the Tor prison camp, as a danger to public security who had to be put away. In this manner the problem was disposed of, the minds of the police were put at rest, and Farouk the Second was almost forgotten.
The July Revolution came about, and hammer blows were struck at the ancien régime. A journalist wrote about someone resembling the deposed king lying forgotten in a prison camp, and the words brought about the young man’s release. He returned to his life of vagrancy, this time without illusions, though he gave thanks to God for his freedom.
Certain magazines published his picture, and he achieved a fame he had never dreamed of. A film company decided to produce a film depicting the corruption that existed in the time before the Revolution, and the king was to appear in it in a marginal role behind the events. The young man was invited to audition for the part. His performance proved satisfactory owing to the simplicity of it, and he achieved a not inconsiderable reputation. Even so, the road to success was not opened to him, for he was not shown to possess any particular talent.
The authorities came to the conclusion that there were too many stories about the young man and that his picture was being published too often. And so a new problem arose, one that no one had taken into consideration. “Our people are good-hearted,” it was said with farsightedness, “and it is not unlikely that there are some who are sympathetic toward the king in spite of his corruption, and the existence of this young man could be a spur to such sympathy….”
“Then the publication of his picture should be forbidden.”
“The most appropriate thing is for him to disappear completely.”
The young man thought he had been born anew in order to meet a new age. The small role he had played in the film set his ambitions ablaze, and he expected boons and blessings with each day the sun came up. Whenever he felt the bitterness of impatience, he comforted himself with the thought that God had not created him with this appearance without some profound purpose….
But without apparent reason, he disappeared: no one any longer saw him at his usual times and places. It seems that he disappeared for good.
Fear
During that period at the beginning of the century, the people of Farghana were the most wretched of human beings. Their alley lay between the Da’bas quarter on the one side and Halwagi on the other. The two quarters were at bitter odds, and there was ceaseless strife between them. The inhabitants of both quarters were known for their ferocity, roughness, and belligerence, their prime amusement being to play fast and loose with other people and with the law.
In the time of Gu’ran, the big boss of Halwagi, and of el-A’war, the big boss of Da’bas, the enmity between the two quarters became more intense, blood was spilled, and many were the battles that raged along the tracks and in the Muqattam Hills.
“What have we done wrong?” the people of Farghana asked themselves uneasily, “when we’re neither from Da’bas nor from Halwagi?” Because no sooner had battle been joined than they would be seized by terror and hide away everything they owned—or themselves—behind locked doors. It was not unusual for the two adversaries to be locked in battle on Farghana soil, where the crow of destruction would caw, carts would be turned over, chains would be smashed, and screams would ring out. The innocent would suffer indiscriminately until life for the people of the alley became unbearable, their own losses far outstripping those of the contending pa
rties; even the happy ones began to hate their existence.
Then one day they sought the assistance of the men of religion. These did their very best to get the two enemies to agree to spare Farghana the woes of their battles. It was a great day when they succeeded, and Farghana relaxed to a sense of peace. But what sort of peace? It cost them dearly in the way of good behavior, tact, and strict adherence to neutrality in their conduct, to the extent that fortunes were expended and honor demeaned. Whenever it became too much for them to bear and they were on the point of rebelling, they remembered the tragedies of the past and put up patiently with the suffering. Yet despite all this, they did enjoy a period of comparative peace not previously known.
This was the position until Na’ima, the daughter of Uncle Laithi, vendor of liver, appeared in the quarter.
When the old man’s sight became so bad he was unable to distinguish between a one-millieme and a two-millieme piece, he used to take Na’ima with him to help him in his work, and this was at the time when she was ripe for marriage. She embarked on her business life wearing a galabeya that, while covering her from neck to ankle, showed off her well-proportioned figure to the best advantage. It casually clung to the budding parts of her body and accentuated her face, with its plump roundness and color of a ripe doum fruit, and the almond-shaped eyes the color of clear honey in whose glances there played the liveliness of youth naively responding to admiration. The eyes of the young men gazed at her with interest, and they were drawn, as flies to sugar, to the oven on the handcart where the liver was cooked.
It was not long before old Uncle Laithi had recited the Fatiha, the opening chapter of the Koran, with a young vendor of sweet potatoes named Hamli, as a seal of Na’ima’s engagement to him. People waited for the wedding celebrations to be held, but when they were gathered one evening at the Mulberry Café—so named because it was sited under the branches of a mulberry tree—they read distress clearly written on the old man’s wan face. The owner of the café asked him, “God protect us, Laithi—what is it?”
The Time and the Place: And Other Stories Page 13
