Cairo Modern

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “Will I achieve my objective this way?”

  “That depends on your pen! You’ll have to purchase a ticket for fifty piasters, since you’re not a card-carrying journalist. Hopefully you’ll realize later that this trivial sum has been of more utility than sixty pounds paid to Miss Dawlat. So get with it. Don’t delay.”

  Despite his daring, when it came to borrowing the price of admission from his coach, his courage failed him. So he stood up, shook the man’s hand gratefully, and left.

  20

  Fifty piasters! The sum truly was insignificant, but how was he going to get hold of it? He had actually earmarked his desk and books to sell to support him during the month before his first paycheck. Do you suppose he would ever receive this salary? Who would give him the price of the ticket? Ma’mun Radwan had gone to Tanta to say goodbye to his family before leaving for Europe. So that only left Ali Taha. What was inevitable was inevitable.

  He went to the university library Saturday morning, and Ali Taha greeted him with his customary smile, but Mahgub saw at first glance that his friend was feeling sad. This was not the Ali Taha he knew; the brilliant light of his eyes had gone out. His vivacious, energetic spirit had died. All of this might have delighted Mahgub in other circumstances. Today, however, he was worried that this sorrow might prove a stumbling block for his visit’s objective. Pretending not to notice his friend’s expression, he asked, “How’s your study coming?”

  Ali Taha swelled with vexation and replied with palpable despair, “I don’t know. I can’t do anything now.”

  Mahgub frowned, pretending to sympathize. Secretly cursing his inescapable bad luck, he said, “May God suppress this evil. What are you talking about?”

  Ali had a nervous temperament and could barely conceal his secret. So he said, “As you might guess, it concerns Ihsan!”

  Cold water might as well have been splashed on Mahgub’s face. His interest aroused, he stammered inquisitively, “Your fiancée?”

  “My fiancée,” Ali sighed with brokenhearted grief.

  Mahgub’s astonishment increased. He commented as if wanting to know everything, “I don’t understand at all.”

  Ali hesitated for a second. Should he reveal his secret? He was not secretive by nature and Mahgub was a friend with whom he had shared the story of his love. Moreover he badly needed to talk about it. So in a voice that clearly revealed his deep affliction and despair, he said, “I don’t either. I can’t tell you how dumbfounded and perplexed I’ve been. I keep asking myself: What happened? What wretched, furtive motives exuded their poisons in the dark? Life was proceeding beautifully. We were in love, and our love increased over time. We understood each other and grew closer as the days passed. We knew our past and appreciated it. We were conscious of our present and were satisfied with it. We had hopes for our future and looked forward to it. We met repeatedly and felt perfectly comfortable with each other. Our affection sank deep roots.”

  He fell silent for a moment. His companion’s eyes never left his gloomy face. Then, enchanted by the fervor of the conversation, he burst out, “What spoiled our life? It’s incredible, but that’s the unvarnished truth. How did this occur? She began to change. At first the change was slight, but it didn’t escape my wakeful, vigilant heart. I detected an anxious, perplexed look in her eyes. She was absentminded at times, and her smiles grew lukewarm. She began to avoid talk about love. She was on guard against any mention of our hopes and promises. I privately vowed to be patient for a time, although I felt bitter anxiety and painful doubt. But this was to no avail, because nothing changed. I shared my suspicions with her, telling her that our love was worth nothing if she kept secrets from me. But she accused me of exaggerating and apologized for any change by referring to her indispositions. So my torment and pain doubled. How could I believe that a love like ours would suddenly die, without any warning? I longed for her but our meetings became a living hell. Finally she broke up with me. Can you believe that? I went crazy, stalking her. I sent her letters and persevered stubbornly, pursuing her. So she agreed to meet me. She arrived shattered by sorrow and shame. I shouted at her that her changes would drive me insane.”

  The young man ceased speaking. Mahgub had been following him intently, hanging on his words with such interest that he nearly forgot why he had come. He pretended to be deeply moved in order to encourage his friend to continue speaking.

  Ali said, “I told her that her transformation would drive me insane. Then she said that meeting me really did drive her crazy. She told me that our hopes were destined to expire and that we should tend our sorrow sagely, satisfying ourselves with the inevitable conclusion. Should I agree to suffer without any attempt to defend myself? Should I forsake my happiness without asking why? She told me that it was her parents’ desire and that she had given up attempting to change their minds after trying everything possible. She finally begged me to withdraw so I wouldn’t add to her suffering.”

  The young man looked at Mahgub for a long time till he lost some of the intoxication of his recital. Then he blushed and asked, “Why am I boring you? Everything’s over. My hopes are shattered. Studying wisdom is pointless.”

  Mahgub was totally amazed. Why would Uncle Shihata Turki, a cigarette vendor, reject Mr. Ali Taha? Did he think the young man wasn’t fit to marry into his family? Or did the man want his daughter to finish her studies and support his family? Then something occurred to him. He asked his friend, “Isn’t it possible that some rich and prominent fellow wants the girl and her father would like to marry her to him?”

  Ali raised his eyebrows anxiously but said nothing. Remembering the original goal of his visit, Mahgub now wished to pave the way for it. Ali’s confession delighted his soul, which felt energized and joyful. All the same, he told his friend, employing a preacher’s jargon, “In any event, you shouldn’t surrender to sorrow. I tell you that no matter what the true motive for this rupture was, your girl no doubt played some role. So consider her something that never existed and toss the whole affair—cause and effect—into the wastebasket.”

  Ali protested sorrowfully, “The wound hasn’t healed yet!”

  “This is what you get for yielding to your theory about love. Don’t you see that dogs deal with love in a way that’s more conducive to happiness and contentment? We’re always responsible for our own suffering.”

  Ali remained silent. So the preacher continued, “Forgetfulness … forgetfulness. Do you want to turn into one of those maniacs whose lives were ruined by love?”

  Silence prevailed. A powerful reason for him to loathe Ali Taha had now been erased. He no longer hated him the way he had. The weight of his aversion was lightened and he began to ask himself: What harm does it do him to lose Ihsan? He still has his job, youth, and good looks. Since Ihsan had long set Mahgub’s emotions on fire, it was a relief that his rival had not won her—even if a third party had. He stood up, preparing to obtain what he wanted. Leaning toward his friend as they shook hands, he said in a scarcely audible voice, “Mr. Ali, your brother needs fifty piasters till the end of the month.”

  Ali thrust a hand in his pocket and then handed Mahgub the money. Mahgub took it, saying, “Thank you, thank you, dear friend.”

  He left the library feeling good, asking himself as he tugged at his left eyebrow: When will my pocket be filled with the government’s money?

  21

  He made his preparations. He bathed, ironed his suit, shirt, and fez, shined his shoes, shaved, and combed his hair. He looked like a new person, even if he was still skinny and his complexion sallow.

  He arrived rather early at the home of the Society for Blind Women and found it to be a large, elegant house surrounded by a luxuriant and heavily shaded garden. He entered a large hall with a big stage at the end. Rows of green chairs were squeezed together. On either side, balcony doors overlooked the garden. Only a few guests were present when he made his entry. So he calmly selected a seat and started examining the place with jaded eyes. He
wondered whether his trip through this house would actually lead him into the government. An unbroken flow of people was arriving. They were greeted by a group of lovely young women. After sitting there for twenty minutes, he found that the number of guests had increased substantially as women and men crowded together wearing the most splendid frocks and magnificent suits. Beauty was everywhere and fragrant perfumes spread throughout the room. Mahgub’s field of vision wandered as his protruding eyes hesitated between pretty faces, radiant throats, high backs, and swelling breasts. His blood rushed through his veins with renewed vitality as anxiety shot through his nervous system. He marveled at this dazzling world. Where had it been hiding? The fine clothes and precious jewelry, of which a single piece would suffice to support all the students at the university and all these women—how many there were and how beautiful. It was truly unfortunate that at least one man hovered around each of them. Most were speaking French fluently—these fallen Muslims! It almost seemed that French was the house’s official language. How did they communicate with the blind women? Sarcasm (blended with spite) washed over him, but not because he felt chauvinistic about his country’s language. He was merely trying to marshal reasons for an instinctive hatred. He wondered where His Excellency, Mrs. Umm Salim’s son, might be. He glanced toward the entrance in time to catch the arrival of a dazzlingly beautiful lady, whom he recognized at first sight. He remembered al-Qanatir in a bygone era and recalled the youthful engineer of al-Qanatir and his gorgeous wife. Yes, it was Hamdis Bey’s wife, and no one else. Behind her came the bey, followed by Tahiya and Fadil. He trained his eyes on the family as they made their way to their seats in the front row. His pale face reddened as he remembered their trip to the Pyramids. He imagined he heard the car door clanging shut again, leaving him outside. Clenching his teeth, he felt an infernal desire to assault this elegant, haughty maiden. Oh, if only one of these beautiful women would take his arm, allowing him to parade past his “relative’s” family! That noble family had taken the trouble to visit this chamber in order to be charitable and merciful. He must prevail, unrestrained by any impediment or law, prick of conscience or moral maxim. When would he sit with them in the front rows? In a magnificent tuxedo, not a journalist’s suit! Before leaving this reverie, he spotted in the distance Mr. Salim al-Ikhshidi, who was moving forward with his customary composure and leisurely gait, as if alone in the chamber. He recognized with a nod of his head many of the upper echelon—women and men. Mahgub’s eyes followed him till he sat down. Mahgub was filled with admiration and envy. This was a real life, an enjoyable life, a life to satisfy all of a person’s drives. Al-Ikhshidi was his role model, and what an ideal role model he was. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning to his right he saw Mr. Ahmad Badir seated beside him. They shook hands warmly, and Mahgub asked, “Sir, what has brought you here?”

  The young man looked at him as if to say: What brings you? He answered with astonishment, “My work! Aren’t I a reporter?”

  Mahgub told him, “I’m a reporter too—for The Star magazine.”

  They both laughed. Ahmad Badir was about to ask his companion whether he planned to become a professional journalist when the curtain rose. A distinguished lady with a shining forehead and a round, dignified face appeared on the stage. Although almost sixty, she had retained vestiges of her beauty. She was greeted with animated, long-lasting applause, which she received with the serenity of a person accustomed to it. She bowed her head to greet her admirers and then spread out a piece of paper. Mahgub studied her for a long time. He heard Ahmad Badir say in a low voice, “Mrs. Ikram Nayruz, founder of the home.”

  Right. He had grasped that intuitively. He wondered what role she would play in his life.

  Ahmad Badir continued, “She’s an old woman but fond of young men!”

  Realizing that Ahmad Badir would be chattier than usual, Mahgub actually was delighted, because it was vexing to plunge into a new world without a guide. Meanwhile Mrs. Ikram Nayruz was delivering her introductory remarks in a calm, melodious, and lovely voice. She welcomed her guests, praising the benevolence that had nested in their bosoms. Then she discussed the Society for Blind Women and its lofty goals. She delivered her speech in Arabic, but there was scarcely a sentence that lacked a grammatical error or an ill-chosen word. The two friends exchanged a smile.

  Ahmad remarked, “There’s no cause for concern. There’s no one here who could detect a mistake.”

  Mahgub pretended to defend her: “Her mistakes can be forgiven. Isn’t she speaking a foreign tongue?”

  The audience watched a scene from a play by Molière. Madame Thérèse sang a French song that made a profound impression. Next everyone was invited to another room, a circular chamber that had been cleared for dancing. At the back of the room was an Italian band. Tables were set out on either side of the chamber. Music played, dancers danced, and drinks were passed around. The two friends stood chatting at the entrance to one of the balconies as they watched the dancing. Mahgub had never witnessed social dancing before, and it excited his astonished admiration. He saw chests that almost touched breasts and arms that encircled waists. He was amazed that these people could control their impulses. He wished he were dancing. Scrutinizing faces with anxious bulging eyes, he whispered to himself, “Wealth. Wealth equals sovereignty and power. It’s everything in the world.” His eyes happened upon a swelling bosom that almost made him dream it would poke through the diaphanous white gown. His lust aroused, he raised his eyes to discover his sweetheart’s face. What he found was an ugly crone, even if she was a coquette. He nudged his companion, directing his attention to the woman as he whispered, “How can an old woman have such breasts?”

  Ahmad Badir examined the woman carefully. He smiled mockingly and then replied, “And how can this charity event take place in a bar?”

  Mahgub frowned in anger or mock-anger and replied, “Let the blind women go to hell! A bar’s better and longer lasting.”

  His eyes made the rounds once more and he noticed Tahiya Hamdis. He spotted her dancing with a handsome young man with rippling muscles. He was as tall as Ma’mun Radwan and as powerfully built as Ali Taha. He sensed that he—that other young man—could floor him with a single punch. He scowled and asked Ahmad Badir about him.

  His friend said, “A deputy attorney and a nationally ranked tennis player.”

  Mahgub sighed. Had he been able to become great then—even by a crime for which he would be put to death—he would not have hesitated. What stopped him from being one of these young people? The whole world! The existential forces that shaped history, established social classes, and apportioned fortunes had made Abd al-Da’im Effendi his father and al-Qanatir his place of birth. Then he heard Ahmad Badir whisper urgently to him, “Look at the balcony!” Turning his head that way he saw a lady whose face was almost hidden by a fan of ostrich feathers. Bowing over her hand was a man well advanced in years. When he straightened up, Mahgub recognized him from photos published in the papers from time to time.

  Ahmad Badir commented, “This is Anis Bey Ibrahim’s wife and the pasha is one of her admirers. She’s said to be finagling to have her husband named a pasha.”

  The music stopped, and many people scampered to the balconies and garden. So the two young men withdrew to the balcony. Ahmad Badir said, “When I first started attending these social affairs, my status brought me endless suffering. I imagined that everyone had nothing to do except to examine me from head to foot. How about you?”

  As Mahgub considered his outfit and pale, withered face, blood rushed to his cheeks. Soon, however, he was able to tap into his brashness and insolence. Then he replied calmly, “As we stand here, I feel I’m a man wandering through a herd of cattle!”

  He had barely finished his statement when he found himself face to face with Hamdis Bey. His heart pounded violently. He favored his relative with a glance that he wholeheartedly attempted to cleanse of fear and anxiety. He wondered how the man would address him. What would h
e say? What would he do?

  Hamdis Bey recognized him, smiled, and held out his hand, saying, “How are you, Mahgub?”

  They shook hands and parted without incident. Astonishment overwhelmed him. Tahiya must have kept the affair to herself! He had never thought that possible. He realized that Ahmad Badir was asking him a second time, “Do you know Hamdis Bey?”

  He answered proudly, “Of course, naturally. He’s my mother’s paternal uncle’s son.”

  “Why haven’t you ever told us about this distinguished relative?”

  As though still buoyed by his delightful salvation, Mahgub replied in the same tone, “Tuzz!”

  They descended the steps to the garden, and his eyes kept searching for Salim al-Ikhshidi. When would he introduce him to the lady? Was there any benefit to be hoped for? He passed clusters of women and men and examined an elite group of celebrities, some of whom were reserved while others were quite vivacious. A strange-looking individual attracted his attention. The gentleman had a huge, ill-proportioned body and a potbelly. He seemed animate matter that had yet to be molded into anything. He walked with his legs splayed apart as though disabled. All the same, he appeared to be esteemed, loved, and honored. He chatted with the high and mighty with an easy familiarity, teasing them and nonchalantly raising his voice while conversing with them or guffawing loudly. Mahgub was amazed and asked, “Since you know everything about everyone, who’s that?”

  Ahmad Badir laughed and said, “How could you not know him? Azuz Darim was once a respected government official. Then he was forced to resign on a morals charge. So he worked in the private sector. He knew influential people and was returned to government service, prospering there without relinquishing his private enterprise.”