She laughed delicately and replied frankly, “The fact is that we haven’t found anything to justify the trip.”
In a shaky voice, his eyes piercing hers, Mahgub said, “But the place is beautiful and calm.…”
She noticed his trembling voice and sensed his intense, fiery gaze. Then her eyes twitched and she looked down. Frowning anxiously, she said, “It’s time for us to leave.”
He nodded his head and tried to say something but found he could not speak. So he seized her hand, which she quickly took back, gazing at him with disgust. He paid no attention to this, took her hand again by force, and said—as emotion swept like a wave over the surface of his visage, “Let’s stay a little longer.” The devil of desire seized control of him. So he pressed her to him violently and put his arms around her. His mouth, which was burning to devour her, descended toward her. She, however, fended him off with her right hand and pulled her head away from him. Anger flared in her beautiful face, and she shouted at him in a voice that echoed disturbingly in the silent tomb, “You’re crazy! Let me go! Let go of my hand!”
Almost insane with torment, he pleaded with her, “Don’t be angry … I beg you … come to me.”
She broke free of his arms, however, with a wild force she did not know she possessed and shouted with stern determination, “Stay where you are! Don’t you dare touch me. Don’t you try to stop me.”
She headed for the door. He yielded and followed her, his head bowed, silent, weighed down by feelings of shame and embarrassment. They walked along silently, retracing the route they had traversed as happy friends. Her beautiful face was overcast by an angry dark red. She held her head high with pride and conceit. He did not know how to atone for his error. The longer the silence lasted, the more desperate and defeated he felt, as he wondered regretfully if he should have been more patient. He told himself sadly: Obviously a girl like Tahiya shouldn’t be treated like the butt collector. Perhaps he had not allocated to Tahiya a due amount of suave courtship. If only he had employed more deliberation and patience with her, he might well have succeeded. Damn unruly passion! It had cost him an auspicious opportunity.
When they reached the automobile, without glancing at him, Tahiya commanded, “Stay where you are!”
She climbed into the car, closed the door, and ordered the chauffeur to depart. He followed her with his eyes until she was lost from sight as the automobile quit the Pyramids Plateau, leaving him alone. He stayed where he was for a time—just as she had ordered—feeling gloomy. Then he shrugged his shoulders. As the spirit of contempt returned, he almost laughed at himself. He looked at the pyramid for a long time. Then he muttered sarcastically, “Forty centuries have watched my tragedy from the top of this pyramid.” A sudden wave of anger overwhelmed him, his pale face turned red, and his nostrils quivered. He felt like pelting Cairo with huge stones from the pyramids. His feet started moving, even though anger still devoured him. Why was he sad? She was just a female and no better than his girlfriend, the butt collector. Right. All the same, he had blown an opportunity, losing Tahiya and her father forever. He thought for a moment. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he murmured contemptuously, “Tuzz.”
18
A period of relative stability ensued.
Mahgub put his failure behind him and set to work enthusiastically. He met the editor of The Star and was commissioned to translate some pieces at a rate of fifty piasters a month. So his income rose to a pound fifty, and this sufficed to ward off the prospect of starving to death. It rendered his life tolerable at any rate. He began to work nonstop, night and day, at both his university studies and his undemanding journalistic chores. He had no free time and thus rarely thought about himself or ruminated about his afflictions. Whole days passed when he did not clench his fist in anger or yell “Tuzz!” with sardonic fury. Yes, he experienced a few brief moments of inevitable rage when he prepared to consume his vile food, for example, when he saw Ali Taha’s athletic body and happy smile, or when he remembered knocking on doors to beg for a few piasters. Except for these occasions, life proceeded with tolerable comfort.
March passed with its mild weather, fine winds, and a sky that was beginning to shed its winter cloak to welcome spring’s heat and fragrance. Next came April with its sun—as jaunty as any other upstart—and its dust-laden winds and bilious, grimy weather. His father’s usual monthly letter arrived at the beginning of May. In it he said he was sending the last pound note he could spare. He prayed for his son’s good fortune and success. Then he added that he was expecting his son’s support, which he so badly needed, from that time forward. He included the good news that, God willing, he would soon be able to move and perhaps even to walk with a cane. There was nothing in the letter they had not already agreed on, but Mahgub could not repress the rage that shook him as he remembered his black nights—nights when he was starving and delirious. He kept saying of his parents, “If only they had been … I would have been.… If only they had been … I would have been.…”
Then the examination came on the first of May, and the results were announced by the twentieth. The four friends, who had been classmates for four full years, all passed. The examination was for Mahgub not merely an academic exercise. As a matter of fact, it was his one and only opportunity to reap the reward for fifteen years of effort. So he was doubly delighted, breathing a huge sigh of relief. A graduate’s delight with his success is, however, brief. Indeed, it is a joy that lasts merely through the night the results appear. The next morning, especially if his circumstances resemble Mahgub’s, he is burdened by concerns of a new type—those of a young person whose student’s cloak has been shed only to confront alone the veiled tyrant, which brings opportunities for happiness and pitfalls threatening misery, called the future. The companions began to meet almost every evening at the university club where news reached them of classmates—with connections and family influence—for whom the doors of government service had opened. The four friends discussed their futures with positive comments and criticism, both optimistic and pessimistic. Ahmad Badir was wont to say contentedly, “My life’s plan isn’t going to change, because I’m not searching for a new career. Yesterday I was a student and a journalist. Now I can concentrate on journalism.”
Ma’mun Radwan did not know whether he would be sent to France or would stay in Egypt, but his objective, which was Islam, remained the same in either case. He once asked, “Couldn’t we start our real struggle with a Young Muslims Association? We would purify Islam of all the dusty pagan practices and reclaim its youthful spirit. We would broadcast our appeal across the entire Arab East before blanketing all Muslim lands.” Ali Taha’s objectives were unclear, and he seemed confused about how to achieve any of them. He was ready to get involved with politics, but only under the kind of political system that appealed to him, not with what was currently available. If he could find a party with progressive social principles, he would join without hesitation, but where was such a party? Should he wait for parties of this type to arise before entering politics or should he take the initiative now? It was doubtless easier to wait and also more judicious, since what use was there in advocating social reform in a country that was preoccupied by its constitution and pact with Great Britain. Perhaps it would be better to wait a little till he stockpiled more knowledge and information, and so on. He had not set his heart on a career appointment but also would not turn one down if it were offered.
Only Mahgub Abd al-Da’im was panic-stricken. Islam, politics, and social reform were topics that did not interest him. His sole concern was fending off death by starvation and that meant a job that paid a living wage. If he failed to find work, starvation threatened not only him this time but his parents as well. He was less concerned about them than about the awkward position in which they had placed him. What could he do? There actually was no patron who would help him, and no one received a government position without such support. He thought for a long time but did nothing more than write to tell his fath
er that he was about to look for work and that he hoped to be able to fulfill his duty toward his family soon. He explained the difficulties he faced. Then the French professor of philosophy nominated Ma’mun Radwan for a fellowship at the Sorbonne and also recommended Ali Taha for an appointment at the university library, where he would find a suitable atmosphere for preparing an MA thesis. On hearing this, Mahgub compared his luck to his comrades’. Soon Ma’mun, child of the most miserable village in al-Gharbiya Province, would move to Paris. Soon Ali would settle comfortably into his chair at the library, preparing his thesis and announcing his engagement to Ihsan. Bravo, bravo! What was he doing? Would the black days of February return? He went to meet Ali Taha at the library a week after his appointment, expecting to find him overjoyed. The young man greeted him with his customary smile, but Mahgub did not detect in his expression the joy he had anticipated. Indeed, he imagined he saw instead an unfamiliar languor. He was totally amazed and so perplexed by this that he suspected the young man was attempting to hide his happiness behind the mask of listlessness. They talked at length, and Ali announced his intention to leave the position.
He said, “This is a time for me to wait and think while I discover a way to enter public affairs. Perhaps I’ll choose journalism when the moment is right.”
Mahgub was reminded of his work at The Star and of the vast wealth it showered on him. A sarcastic smile spread across his lips. Then Ali Taha continued, “I’m preparing to write a study of the distribution of wealth in Egypt.”
Crushed by his friend’s expectations, Mahgub asked bluntly if there was any possibility he could find a job at the library. The young man took him to the personnel officer to ask his opinion. The man was very blunt. He took Mahgub’s hand and told him sharply, “Listen, son. Forget your qualifications. Don’t waste money on applying for a job. The question boils down to one thing: Do you have someone who will intercede for you? Are you related to someone in a position of power? Can you become engaged to the daughter of someone in the government? If you say yes, then accept my congratulations in advance. If you say no, then direct your energies elsewhere.”
He left the library, his eyes clouded by despair and failure’s bitter taste. What he had heard wasn’t news to him. All the same, it infuriated him as if he were hearing it for the first time. Gloomy and despairing, he proceeded to stomp around the Orman Gardens. Oh, if only he had stayed on good terms with the Hamdis family! If only he had not ended that relationship by acting like a barbarian that day at the pyramids! Why couldn’t he ever do anything right? Why couldn’t he grasp his share of happiness and satisfaction? Why should hunger stalk him as if it could find no other prey? The world as a whole was happily ignoring him. Spring pulsed through the green boughs and crimson blossoms, flew high with the sparrows and larger birds, and danced on the red lips that were busy speaking to his right and left. The entire world was happy and blissful. Faces beamed. The Orman Gardens were a collage of human, animal, and plant delights. The earth itself and the sky were enveloped by a silent rapture surpassing any words. Would he starve to death in such a world? The question seemed bizarrely eccentric to him. He laughed mockingly, sarcastically, defiantly. He asked rebelliously, “Should I die of hunger? May rain never fall. May rain never fall.” How could he starve to death while rejecting conscience, chastity, religion, patriotism, and virtue too? Had anyone who was really depraved gone hungry in this world? No, weren’t they accused instead of appropriating all the good things in life? Why shouldn’t he print a classified ad in al-Ahram saying, “Young man of twenty-four with university degree, ready to undertake any job no matter how depraved. With a clear conscience, he will sully his honor, chastity, and conscience in exchange for seeing his ambitions satisfied.” Wouldn’t prominent figures fight for his services? But who would publish such an announcement for him? Who would take him by the hand? It was no use running to his former classmates, his professors, or to Hamdis Bey. There was only one person left, and that was Salim al-Ikhshidi, who was neither chivalrous nor benevolent. But who else was there?
19
He thought it best to visit al-Ikhshidi at home, because his office at the ministry did not offer a calm enough environment. So he went to al-Munira, where the gentleman occupied an apartment on al-Sayyid al-Mifdal Street, choosing Friday morning to assure he would be home. The gent, who lived alone in Cairo, cared for by a cook, received him in a small but elegant parlor. The host intuitively grasped the motive for the call but nonchalantly allowed his visitor to make his request.
Mahgub said, “I apologize for coming to your home, but I know your work in the ministry does not allow you to hear private concerns.”
Al-Ikhshidi replied coldly, “I actually work all the time except for a brief period on Friday.”
Mahgub grasped the veiled criticism but with customary boldness chose to ignore it, saying, “I’ve been awarded my degree.”
Al-Ikhshidi smiled in languid encouragement and mumbled, “Congratulations.”
The young man thanked him enthusiastically and continued, “Salim Bey, you are a former neighbor and classmate, our guide in both learning and patriotism. So long as I live I’ll never forget that you saved my life and my future by introducing me to the editor at The Star. That’s why I’ve come to you with a big request. Your Excellency, a degree without a patron is less valuable than wrapping paper. Could you possibly direct me toward some position?”
Al-Ikhshidi listened impassively, since he was used to hearing impassioned speeches like this. He despised the young man and scorned his poverty and need. He did not feel much like helping him. There were two vacant positions at the ministry, but he had promised one to an individual and had received a magnificent present with reference to the other. Mahgub might come in handy some day, but a quick fix was preferable to one long-delayed. Mahgub began to gaze at him with eyes full of fear and hope. He sensed that he was at the mercy of an egoist. Receiving no response, he said touchingly, “I’ve taken too much of your time.”
Then al-Ikhshidi lit a cigarette and nodded his head as if he were sorry, even though his eyes remained expressionless. He observed calmly, “We have no positions vacant at the moment.”
Despair swept over the face of the young man, who asked, “Is there any hope?”
“There’s no need for total despair. We don’t have any positions, but there are many elsewhere in the government; I might be able to steer you in the right direction.”
There was nothing particularly encouraging about this remark, but Mahgub felt compelled to respond, “Thank you, bey. Thank you.”
Al-Ikhshidi gave him a very enigmatic look and said, “I hope you’ll be pragmatic, grasp how the world works, and learn that every favor has a price. I’m not asking for anything myself, because I’m simply a guide.”
“Don’t say that. I beg God’s forgiveness.”
Al-Ikhshidi smiled and replied, “If you catch my drift, there are capable people who can help individuals like you.”
Al-Ikhshidi was silent for some moments before he continued, “There’s Abd al-Aziz Bey Radwan, for example. Haven’t you heard of him?”
“Of course. I think he’s a well-known businessman.”
“So he is, and currently his word carries a lot of weight. His sphere of influence is the Ministry of the Interior.”
The young man asked anxiously, “Why would he help me?”
“The way is easy, but you ought to know his cut from his nominees is a guarantee of half of the salary for a period of two years.”
This price alarmed the devastated young man. He looked at his companion fearfully. Then after some hesitation, he asked, “Isn’t there someone less demanding?”
Like a waiter reciting a menu, al-Ikhshidi immediately replied, “The well-known musician Miss Dawlat.”
Astonishment showed on the young man’s pale face. The other man ignored his reaction and continued, “Her area of influence is the railways, Ministry of Defense, and some of the larger agencies.�
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Al-Ikhshidi drew heavily on his cigarette and then added, “The prices are as follows: eighth level: thirty pounds; seventh: forty; sixth: one hundred … payable in advance.”
Mahgub sighed in despair. Then after reflecting briefly, he said, “I suppose Abd al-Aziz Bey Radwan’s condition is more realistic, since I don’t have even a millieme of the sum requested by the musician. I could relinquish half of my salary if I had one. How do I contact him?”
“You can’t now—not for a month and a half, when he returns from performing the pilgrimage.”
Damn him! Mahgub would starve to death before the man returned. In a faint voice, as though afraid of vexing his companion, he observed, “Waiting means starvation, but what can I do?”
Laughing for the first time, al-Ikhshidi said, “You’re not a toy boy and your mother’s not a flirtatious coquette. So what can I do?”
They were silent, and al-Ikhshidi would certainly have ended the meeting had something not occurred to him. He considered quickly and then assured himself that while Mahgub would probably benefit from the experience, he himself certainly would—if his plan succeeded. So he said, “There’s Mrs. Ikram Nayruz.”
“Founder of the Society for Blind Women?”
“Yes.”
“But she’s very wealthy—her fortune’s proverbial.”
“Yes, yes. The lady doesn’t ask for money but is fond of fame and praise. I could introduce you to her some time. Then it would be up to you, relying on your pen and The Star. Should you succeed in pleasing her, your future will be guaranteed. She has vast influence in many ministries and political parties.”
He was hoping to exploit the young man to do publicity for her after introducing him as one of his flunkies. So he said, “Mrs. Nayruz is hosting a benefit next Sunday at the Society for Blind Women. Attend the party, and I’ll introduce you to the lady. Write about the benefit and its patron, and we’ll see … we’ll wait and see.”
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