“You two,” said al-Baqli gratefully, “are the best persons I’ve known in my life.”
“There are certain priorities,” said Mr. Nuh, “before we get down to any work—things that can’t be put off. First and foremost, you must go to the Turkish baths and get rid of all that accumulated dirt so that you can show your true self.”
“I’m afraid they won’t know me at the bank….”
“And have a haircut and a shave, and today we’ll buy you a ready-made suit and other clothes so that you can put up at a decent hotel without arousing suspicion.”
“Shall I stay at a hotel permanently?”
“If you want to,” said the lawyer. “You’ll find full service and everything….”
“A flat also has its merits,” said Mr. Nuh.
“But a flat’s not complete without a bride!” exclaimed al-Baqli.
“A bride?”
“Why not? I’ll not be the first or last bridegroom at seventy!”
“It’s a problem.”
“Don’t forget the bridegroom’s a millionaire.”
“That’s a strong incentive, but only to the unscrupulous….” said the lawyer, laughing.
“Scrupulous or not—it’s all one in the end!” said al-Baqli scornfully.
“No, you might find yourself back at begging quicker than you imagined,” said Nuh.
“Let’s put that off for the time being,” said the lawyer.
“The question of a woman cannot be put off,” said Isam al-Baqli. “It’s more important than the ready-made suit.”
“There are plenty of opportunities, and nightclubs galore.”
“My need of the two of you in this respect is particularly urgent.”
“But we said goodbye to riotous living ages ago.”
“How can I get along on my own?”
“Someone accompanied by money is never alone.”
“We’ll have another session,” said Mr. Nuh, “after giving thought to the investing of the fortune. It would be wise to spend from the income and not from the capital.”
“Remember,” protested al-Baqli, “that I’m in my seventies and have no one to inherit from me.”
“Even so!”
“The great thing is for us to make a start,” said the lawyer.
When they got together in the evening, Isam al-Baqli had a new look and a new suit. But while the filth had vanished, the signs of the wretchedness of old age and former misery still remained.
“Valentino himself, by the Lord of the Kaaba!” said the lawyer, laughing.
As Othman al-Qulla was on friendly terms and had business with the manager of the Nile Hotel, he rented a fine room there for al-Baqli, and the latter at once invited his two friends to dinner. They had a few drinks before the meal and then sat together after eating, planning a meeting for the following day. Then al-Baqli accompanied them to Mr. Nuh’s car but did not return to the hotel. Instead he took a taxi to Mohammed Ali Street and made straight for a restaurant famous for its Egyptian cooking. He did not consider what he had just eaten a meal, but merely something to whet his appetite. He ordered hot broth with crumbled bread and the meat of a sheep’s head, and ate to his heart’s content. He left the place only to pick and choose among such sweets as baseema, kunafa, and basbousa, as though afflicted by a mania for food. Just before midnight he returned to the hotel, so drunk with food he was nearly passing out. Locking his room, he experienced an unexpected feeling of sluggishness creeping through his limbs. Still with his trousers and shoes on, he threw himself down on the bed without turning off the light. What was it that lay crouched on his stomach, chest, and heart? What was it that stifled his breathing? Who was it that grasped his neck? He thought of calling for help, of searching for the bell, of using the telephone, but he was quite incapable of moving. His hands and feet had been shackled, his voice had gone. There was help, there was first aid, but how to reach them? What was this strange state he was in that wrested from a man all will and ability, leaving him an absolute nothingness? So, this is death, death that advances with no one to repulse it, no one to resist it. In his fevered thoughts he called upon the manager, upon Nuh, upon Othman, upon the fortune, the bride, the woman, the dream. Nothing was willing to make answer. Why, then, had this miracle taken place? It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense, O Lord.
Naguib Mahfouz
The Time & The Place
Naguib Mahfouz was one of the most prominent writers of Arabic fiction in the twentieth century. Born in Cairo in 1911, he began writing when he was seventeen. Over his long career, he wrote nearly forty novel-length works and hundreds of short stories, ranging from re-imaginings of ancient myths to subtle commentaries on contemporary Egyptian politics and culture. His most famous work is The Cairo Trilogy (consisting of Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, and Sugar Street), which focuses on a Cairo family through three generations, from 1917 until 1952. In 1988, Mahfouz became the first writer in Arabic to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. He died in August 2006.
About the Translator
Born in Vancouver, Denys Johnson-Davies began studying Arabic at the School of Oriental Studies, London University, and later took a degree at Cambridge. He has been described by Edward Said as “the leading Arabic-English translator of our time,” and has published nearly twenty volumes of short stories, novels, and poetry translated from modern Arabic literature. He lives much of the time in Cairo.
BOOKS BY NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
The Beggar, The Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail (omnibus edition)
Respected Sir, Wedding Song, The Search (omnibus edition)
The Beginning and the End
The Time and the Place and Other Stories
Midaq Alley
The Journey of Ibn Fattouma
Miramar
Adrift on the Nile
The Harafish
Arabian Nights and Days
Children of the Alley
Echoes of an Autobiography
The Day the Leader Was Killed
Akhenaten, Dweller in Truth
Voices from the Other World
Khufu’s Wisdom
Rhadopis of Nubia
Thebes at War
Seventh Heaven
The Thief and the Dogs
Karnak Café
Morning and Evening Talk
The Dreams
Cairo Modern
Khan al-Khalili
The Mirage
THE CAIRO TRILOGY
Palace Walk
Palace of Desire
Sugar Street
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The Time and the Place: And Other Stories Page 17
