Cairo Modern

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Shawkat piped up again, “The strangest wager I ever witnessed was a young man who bet his sweetheart.”

  Everyone seemed interested, and many asked, “Really? How could that be?”

  The inebriated young man answered, “He’s a dear friend who once took his sweetheart to a private gaming club. He lost all his money, and eveyone had drunk so much they couldn’t think straight. Then a drunk suggested that he should bet his sweetheart against all his losses. That way he would get all his cash back or lose his girlfriend. He accepted the proposal, made the bet, and lost his sweetheart.”

  “What did the woman think?”

  “She was dead drunk. The winner acquired possession of her, or—put more accurately—she acquired possession of him.”

  “Who could that friend of yours be?”

  “I can’t tell you, because one of the parties is here.”

  Looks of disbelief were exchanged, mouths smiled skeptically, and curiosity showed clearly on every face—especially the women’s. Ihsan asked Iffat Bey, “Who do you think the gambler is?”

  Delighted by this question, the young man glossed it to fit his purposes, replying, “Only Mr. Shawkat knows that, and perhaps even he doesn’t know.”

  “Do you approve of this type of wager?”

  He responded with mock indignation, “I don’t gamble with someone I love.”

  She realized that she had said more than was appropriate and resolved that her third glass would be her last. Many heads felt dizzy, and a couple began to quarrel, exchanging abusive comments. Mr. Husni Shawkat was almost delirious, and Mahgub Abd al-Da’im was drunk. Liquor had rewired his mind, allowing him to forget his cares and to dedicate himself eagerly to conversation and laughter.

  Once the platters and bottles were empty, Iffat yelled at them, “To the garden!”

  They echoed his call, “To the garden, to the garden,” as they set off singly and in pairs. Mahgub wanted to stay behind on the yacht in keeping with his plan and stepped aside, even though he was severely intoxicated. He chanced to see, however, his wife leading the pack, arm-in-arm with Iffat Bey. His blood boiled and he clenched his teeth angrily. One of the brethren chanced upon him and took his arm, inviting him to walk with him. He did not resist, forgetting his resolve and fears. The garden was flooded with waves of sightseers—women and men. Some were walking and laughing together while others were seated, eating and drinking. These two varieties of fun-lovers spread merriment everywhere. Blissful harbingers and youthful bonds joined them all together harmoniously, not to mention their joyful love of mirth and jesting. Thus complete strangers struck up conversations and pelted each other with wisecracks without so much as a by-your-leave. They climbed a grassy hillock, descended a gully bordered by flowers, sheltered in a bower covered with jasmine and hyacinth-bean blossoms, or crossed a bridge over a creek that flowed silver in the moonlight, while the full moon peered down at them from the heavens’ heights during its never-ending procession amidst the planets and stars, flooding the world with its brilliant light. Souls felt relaxed and pure. Anyone with a good voice began to sing, and musicians caused their strings to speak. The party from the yacht proceeded down the paths, creating an uproar and a din, and Mr. Husni Shawkat nonchalantly picked fights; so people stared at them. Mahgub, on his wife’s right—Iffat Bey was beside her—was drunk. He was speaking and laughing, even though he was furious at the boy, who was sticking as close to his wife as her shadow. Despite his intoxication and jollity, he could not forget that he was in al-Qanatir, his hometown, and close to his wretched parents. He began to look around cautiously as he struggled to ward off the anxiety afflicting him. He considered heading back to the yacht more than once but kept yielding to the pull of his companions. Then Husni Shawkat made them stop so he could buy figs from a vendor—an elderly man who hobbled along, so old and infirm that he leaned on a stick. Mahgub immediately thought of his father. When they continued on their way, the man’s image stayed with him. His father, if he were able to leave his bed, would look just like this man, leaning on a stick at every step. He reflected for a time and then told himself: It’s not unlikely that if his funds give out he’ll pick up a basket of figs and roam the town with them. Perhaps he was struggling through the town somewhere with a basket of figs at that moment. He looked toward the train station as he staggered forward, feeling severely depressed. He no longer shared in his companions’ amusement and delight. His good humor and joy had deserted him, and he felt anxious, sorrowful, and fearful. Coming here had been a big mistake. If he had stayed behind, however, would that have changed anything? If his father’s estimate was accurate, he would have gone for three months without any support. What had the man done for himself and his mother? Given his weakness and ill health, how had he been able to confront life’s severity? Three months or more: June, July, and August together with this week of September: in other words, the period when he had savored prosperity and the good life. His head felt heavy as his inebriation subsided leaving behind a hangover and a splitting headache. His audacity, which mocked everything, had betrayed him. So he wondered with alarm whether this awakening was what people call conscience. After the destructive rebellion that had characterized all his university life, after competing in this crucial trial that had lasted for three whole months and emerging with unequivocal success, how could his soul flounder in this despicable state of cowardice and pain? Clenching his fist violently and obstinately, he refused to admit that he felt lost and afraid, that the moan in his breast was his conscience, or that he still could be moved by filial emotions. He refused all this stubbornly and furiously. To console and strengthen himself he dismissed his qualms as merely fear of a scandal that might threaten his social status. He did not pity his parents but was afraid their misery might induce them to upset his life and to cloud his glory’s serenity. Their time would come on the first of October. When he received his new salary, he would purchase some peace of mind by sending his father a few pounds. Then he would be done with this torment. He repeated this notion to himself and affirmed it vehemently, attempting to recover his courage and ecstasy. When he noticed his surroundings once more, he found that he was stumbling about alone. Looking around blankly, he saw only Mr. Ahmad Asim. He asked him, “Where are our friends?” The man shrugged his shoulders, saying, “I don’t know.” Mahgub realized that he had lost the group. He felt tired and, suddenly, nauseous. Then he started vomiting. His companion took him by the hand and led him to the yacht and down to a cabin, where he stretched out on a bunk and fell asleep. He did not know how long he had been there, but in his imagination he kept seeing the fig seller till he imagined the man actually was his father, who had been forced by penury to accept the ignominy of begging.

  43

  They were tired when they returned to the yacht and their voices were hoarse. The yacht set sail shortly before midnight. When Ihsan asked for her husband, Ahmad Asim said he was sleeping in a cabin. He offered to take her there, but Iffat volunteered instead. So, the two descended into the yacht’s belly, where he preceded her down a side corridor to a cabin, opened the door, and stepped aside to make way for her. She entered, and he followed right behind her and closed the door. She found the cabin empty except for Ali Iffat’s portrait on a table. She turned and saw the portrait’s subject leering at her from the door with eyes that sang of passion and conquest. She realized that he had tricked her into his own cabin. Filled with fear, she asked, pretending she did not understand his designs, “Where’s Mahgub?”

  Smirking, with eyes red from drink, he suggested, “We’ll go to him after a short rest.”

  In a grave voice she asked, “Why have you brought me here?”

  His self-confidence was limitless. So he responded by kneeling before her, putting his arms around her legs, and embracing her. Looking up at her, he said, “Don’t ask, Ihsan. You know everything. In my condition, words would be a pointless repetition. Hasn’t my heart been speaking since we first met? Hasn’t it cried
out so loudly tonight that I was afraid its pleas would reach the ears of our companions?”

  Overwhelmed by anxiety and disapproval, she grasped his arms to shake them off her, shoved him away violently, and shouted at him in an angry, crude voice, “Please leave me alone. Leave me!”

  Her face glowered with anger and she frowned. Witnessing her earnestness and aversion, he blushed with shame, allowed his arms to slacken, rose glumly without saying a word, and opened the door to allow her to leave the cabin. Then he showed her to her husband and withdrew. She found Mahgub sleeping or dozing. He was exhausted and his face was extremely pale.

  The yacht docked at Qasr al-Nil around two a.m. The couple returned to the Schleicher Building in Ahmad Asim’s car. Mahgub’s head had cleared a little, but he was still tired and weak. The harm done to his spirit and psyche, however, was even more calamitous and bitter. His hangover had affected his spirit, leaving him depressed. Once his intoxication subsided, his soul was troubled, and he perceived the world with an invalid’s senses. Ihsan disappeared briefly and returned with a cup of coffee for him. She sat facing him on the chaise longue and said, “You drank too much.”

  He acquiesced by bowing his head, although he recalled the other reasons that had troubled his peace of mind. He said irritably, “I never wanted to go on this excursion.”

  In defense of the trip, she replied, “What was the matter with it? It was an excellent, scenic excursion.”

  He snapped, “Mr. Iffat Bey’s certainly a cad!”

  Ihsan smiled and, after some hesitation, stammered, “It’s over. I put a stop to it.”

  He leveled bulging, feeble red eyes at her inquisitively. So she summarized what had happened. He insisted, however, on her telling him everything, no matter how trivial. Then she narrated the incident in minute detail. Finally he exploded, “Cad … scoundrel! But you handled it magnificently. What a vile bunch they all are.”

  His eyes flared, although he was wondering what right he had to criticize anyone in the world when he thought and acted the way he did. As if to answer himself, he remarked, “We can make fools of other people if we want but should never allow anyone to make a fool of us.”

  As she considered this remark, an enigmatic smile flitted across her lips. He began to think about his parents. His plan to lend them a helping hand in the interests of shaking any vexing shadow from his life was a sound one. He marveled at how a minor change in his body could deprive the world of its sparkle in the wink of an eye, transforming its pleasure and purity to such revolting pain and turbidity. Ihsan suggested that he should get some sleep, but he preferred to relax a little in the chair while she slipped into bed. He began to wonder again what he would do if this change persisted and he continued to see the world through a peevish convalescent’s eyes. He trembled. He could find only one answer: suicide. That was how a devoted egoist would terminate his life. Even so, there were people in the world who preferred fatigue and torments over security—like his former friend Ali Taha. He had to admit they found some pleasure that was peculiar to them in their struggles, but what sort of pleasure was it? Was there really a pleasure associated with altruism and could it compare to egoism’s? He admired that pleasure while also despising it. He could see Ali Taha’s handsome face and recalled his zealous enthusiasm. He remembered his days in the hostel and Ma’mun Radwan. Then his head turned as if of its own volition toward the bed, and his eyes gazed at Ihsan, who was sound asleep. His memories were framed by astonishment and dreams.

  44

  He woke shortly before noon the next day—Friday—and at once memories of the previous night assailed him, bringing their sorrows with them. He got out of bed with ambitious vigor, bathed in cold water to restore body and soul, and entered the living room where he found his wife. She asked him tenderly, “How are you?”

  Smiling in confused embarrassment, he mumbled, “Great … thanks to you.”

  He dressed and went out, making his way to Soult Parlour’s garden café, where he met some fellow government officials. He drank a glass of lemonade, spent an hour chatting, left there, and allowed his feet to lead him from street to street, yielding to the pleasure of walking. Remembering the previous night, he frowned, appalled by the pain and despair he had felt and by the black thoughts and weak, submissive notions these had inspired. He was embarrassed by the mental and spiritual languor afflicting him and told himself: Up to now, I’ve triumphed thanks to my free intellect, forceful volition, and my lofty motto: tuzz. So I mustn’t squander any of my hard-won treasure. Right, there were his high-ranking position, ambition and prestige, wine, women, good food and opulence—how could he allow a paralyzed father, morbid thoughts, and insane jealousy to spoil all these pleasures? He quickly recovered his energy and vitality as well as his ironic, heartless mentality. He greeted life once more with his customary audacity and boundless ambition. Everything seemed to be on track, as though life would continue to obey his logic forever. One Saturday, halfway through September, however, events showed him that even if he could control himself, he was incapable of controlling them.

  Saturday was Qasim Bey Fahmi’s time, and Mahgub was going to leave the apartment at seven p.m. sharp to afford his boss privacy, but the doorbell rang at six. The young man was not expecting anyone at that hour. He sauntered to the foyer to see who was there. The cook had opened the door, allowing him to see the visitor. He could not believe his eyes and began to stare with crazed confusion. He saw his father … his very own father, in the flesh. The man was standing at the threshold, leaning on a stick, casting a fixed, sullen look at him. Each of them stood nailed in place, their eyes rigid, not moving at all. Mahgub at that dreadful moment was overcome by fear, desperation, and an unprecedented sense of defeat. His father shattered the painful silence by saying in a voice that was weak but still capable of evincing his pain and fiery sarcasm, “Don’t you recognize me anymore? Why don’t you rush to welcome me?”

  The young man shook off his daze and approached his father with shaky steps. He proffered his hand, which his father ignored. Mahgub said apprehensively and hesitantly, “Come in, Father. Come in.”

  Leaning on his stick, the man entered, proceeding with heavy steps. His back was bent and his physique ruined. He began to examine the furniture and walls with an eye filled with ironic admiration. He said, “God! God! How intensely you must suffer from bitter misery and poverty, son.”

  Mahgub’s apprehension increased and he felt devastated, for he could not utter a word. Here his father was terrorizing the apartment shortly before Qasim Bey arrived. These two facts he found to be irreconcilable. All the same, they were necessarily both facts, even if he hated to think of their consequences. How would he remember this fateful day on the morrow? Would he recall it as a dreadful crisis from which he had miraculously escaped or as a black day when all his dreams imploded? In his first rush of emotion, he could not think straight or devise any plan. The bedroom door opened just then, and Ihsan emerged. Perhaps the unfamiliar voice and commotion had prompted her to come out. She was amazed to find an elderly stranger there and cast a disparaging glance at his shabby appearance. Abd al-Da’im Effendi turned his head toward her, and a sad smile appeared on his lips. Turning matter-of-factly toward his son, he asked, “Your wife?” Then turning his head back toward her, he said, “Greetings to my son’s wife. I’m your father-in-law, bride.”

  Ihsan stared at her husband’s face and was distressed by his rigidity, anxiety, and despair. She observed in his eyes a hopeless look she had never seen before. All this confirmed for her the truth of the old man’s claim. She knew nothing about the relationship between the two men or what her husband’s position was but rallied to act appropriately. She approached the visitor and extended her hand to him respectfully, inviting him to sit down. Mahgub observed what was happening in front of him with dazed eyes, although he was progressing from negative befuddlement to positive bewilderment. He began to appeal to his willpower and intellect to extricate him from
this predicament. As he started to awake from the impact of the surprise, he felt uncomfortable that his wife was present and gestured unobtrusively for her to withdraw. She retired graciously at once. He worked furiously to collect all his force to gain control of the situation and to recover his mind and volition. The peril that threatened him, drawing ever nearer with the minister’s rendezvous, helped him focus. Yes, he would have to hide his father soon from the visitor’s eyes and to deal with him in calm seclusion. The man was his father no matter what, not a devil or fate or destiny. In a gentle, tender voice, he said, “Come with me, father.”

  He offered his arm to the man, who did not refuse it, understanding that he wanted to speak to him in private. He rose with his son’s assistance, and Mahgub took him to the parlor to the right of the entrance. Then he closed the door. His mind kept wondering how his father had found his dwelling. Why had he come? Was it entirely a coincidence that he had arrived on the minister’s day and shortly before his appointed time? He smelled a rotten conspiracy, and al-Ikhshidi’s ghostly image, with his triangular face and round eyes, appeared to his mind’s eye. A tremor shot through his body, and his soul was filled with rancor and hatred. Do you suppose he had told him the whole secret? Good Lord, what catastrophe was stalking him? But no, his father didn’t know the fateful secret. Otherwise—being the rural, fiery fellow he was—he would not have been able to stay calm. The vile wretch had produced him at a fitting moment so he could discover the truth himself. That way the shock would be more atrocious. His forehead was dripping with cold sweat.

  The man directed a fiery look at him and asked, “Why are you standing in front of me that way. Why don’t you welcome me? Why don’t you congratulate me on my recovery?”

  The angry man fell silent to catch his breath. Then he continued in a harsh, ironic tone, “I’ve been so distressed by what I understood to be your poverty, misery, and futile efforts to get a job that I was moved to leave your mother by herself in al-Qanatir to come in person to console you. May God come to your aid, you poor darling.”