Morning and Evening Talk

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Once Abd al-Azim Dawud asked him, “Do you really believe we can bear the burden of independence?”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “We thought about full independence but we would be lost and merciless without the British Protectorate,” Abd al-Azim replied.

  Although close friends with Farida Hanem and an admirer of Iffat’s beauty, Radia was angered by Iffat’s superiority and Amer’s submission.

  “A man should be master of his house,” she said to her son.

  “Iffat fancies herself a princess,” she said to Amr.

  “Don’t stir Amer into something that will spoil his happiness,” her husband advised. Radia was won over in the end, especially after Iffat gave birth to Shakir, Qadri, and Fayyid, whom she loved with all her heart. Amer and Iffat’s firm love overcame any differences and their partnership represented a rare example of happy matrimony: a marriage that knew no ennui, relapse, speculation, or jealousy.

  “The secret of my brother’s happiness is that he’s dissolved in his wife’s will. What a price to pay,” said Hamid.

  Surur Effendi said to his wife, Zaynab, with typical contempt and bitterness, “Hamid has married a man and Iffat has married a woman.”

  Amer was as successful in his career as he was in his marriage. He was the students’ favorite teacher, the one who influenced them the most, and one of the few who retain for life memories of those they have taught over the generations. He profited from this, for he increased his income with private lessons and overcame a number of obstacles through the influence of certain former students. As for the zenith of his fortunes, it came after the July Revolution when two of his students found themselves in the council of leaders. Iffat abhorred the revolution because it negated her brother’s pasha rank. She could not forgive it for its contempt of high-ranking professions like medicine and law. But thanks to his two students, Amer felt he was one of its men, despite the Wafdist sympathies he suppressed among the Dawud family.

  Amer’s children brought him no less happiness than his marriage did. They were talented and successful, although they caused their parents more trouble than they imagined through their personal behavior and politics. Then everything settled down and Amer entered a quarter century of retirement in a house that became a model of companionship in old age just as it had been one of happiness in love. He kept his health and vitality. He read newspapers and magazines, listened to music, and watched television. Because he was in good health while his wife’s health declined, he did the chores and supervised the servants and cooking himself. He would play with the grandchildren or, pricked by nostalgia, would drive out to the old quarter with one of his children and visit the old house where Qasim lived, pray at al-Hussein’s tomb, sit for an hour at al-Fishawi, dine at al-Dahhan then return to Bayn al-Ganayin intoxicated and joyful. He lived until he was nearly ninety, and so he rejoiced at the July glories, was burned by June 5, recovered on May 15, rejoiced once more on the resounding October 5, then was dejected on the bloody October 6. He departed the world in enviable calm, like a happy ending. He woke up one morning at the usual time and went to the kitchen to prepare tea for himself and Iffat. He returned to drink it in bed and when he finished the glass he said, “My heart doesn’t feel right.” He lay down on his back to rest and before long his head turned on the pillow, as though he was nodding off to sleep.

  Abd al-Azim Dawud Yazid

  He was the only child of Dawud Pasha and Saniya al-Warraq who lived. He grew up in Bayt al-Sayyida and received an urbane upbringing from a hanem mother and a father who was counted among the elite of his day. From childhood, he mixed with his relatives in the old quarter and was particularly fond of his cousin Amr. But he mixed with another kind of people too: the European associates of his father, who often dined and exchanged toasts at his table. He flitted between tradition and modernity, but religion played in his life only a fraction of the role it played in his close friend Amr’s. He was lean, dark skinned, good looking, and had a large head, fine mind, and a lot of ambition. He did well at school, then enrolled in the faculty of law. His father had hoped to make a doctor of him, but he liked rhetoric and belles lettres and specialized in law, in keeping with other sons of eminent men. He was appointed to the public prosecutor’s office without his father’s intervention and from the first day claimed the respect of his superiors, the English in particular.

  He was perhaps the first to choose a wife on one sighting. He caught a glimpse of Farida Husam in the family carriage and was attracted by her fair complexion and elegant features, so he found out the name of the family. Saniya al-Warraq, Radia, and Rashwana went to visit the distinguished family and reported back that Husam was a wealthy Syrian silk merchant. Farida was wedded to Abd al-Azim in a villa on Sarayat Road, bringing with her fresh beauty, wealth, and a pleasant readiness for married life. As the days passed, she gave birth to Lutfi, Ghassan, Halim, Fahima, and Iffat. Abd al-Azim excelled in his work and was interested in politics. He was a supporter of the Umma Party and was friends with prominent men, and he believed in the Watani Party drivel. His heart blazed with enthusiasm for the 1919 Revolution, but when the front split, he inclined with heart and mind to Adli Yakan and his companions. He saw his cousin Amr’s confusion and laughed uproariously.

  “You’re bewitched by the great buffoon.”

  “He’s the leader of the nation and its hope,” said Amr.

  Amr would feel the warm bond between him and Abd al-Azim when his cousin visited him in Bayt al-Qadi. But when he went to the villa on Sarayat Road he felt lost in the “European” atmosphere that governed behavior and customs there, including Abd al-Azim Pasha’s habit of whetting his appetite with two glasses of whisky and sometimes speaking to his two daughters, Fahima and Iffat, in French. Mahmud Ata al-Murakibi ingratiated himself with the pasha, keen to strengthen relations with him despite the hidden rivalry between their two families. In truth, Abd al-Azim Pasha did not particularly like the man but would exchange visits out of respect for his cousin Amr. Mahmud Bey once sought to use Abd al-Azim’s influence in one of his many lawsuits but Abd al-Azim frowned and spoke frankly, “You evidently have no idea about the probity of the law.” Mahmud Bey’s work inspired him to believe that slogans were one thing, reality something else, so was shocked by his friend’s antipathy and cursed him privately. However, he found himself on the same side as the pasha after the political schism. Seeking to make light of their differences, he said, “Allegiance to the Crown or the English, it’s all the same.”

  “It isn’t allegiance to the English, just friendship,” said Abd al-Azim.

  “Isn’t the Crown preferable?”

  “The Crown’s loyalty resides with the English. We’re calling for the Constitution.”

  “But the Constitution would deliver government to Sa‘d.”

  “Maybe to him and them.”

  “He charms the people with his call for total independence. How do you stand on that?”

  “The fools don’t know the meaning of independence. Independence is an enormous responsibility. Where would we find the money for defense?” said the man shaking his large head. “Wouldn’t it be better to leave that to the English and dedicate ourselves to reform?”

  “You’re right,” said Mahmud Bey enthusiastically. “Zaghloul’s independence could lead to another Urabi Revolution.”

  Abd al-Aziz’s eldest son, Lutfi, fulfilled his hopes, unlike Ghassan and Halim. Nevertheless, Abd al-Azim was generally considered a lucky father. Lutfi almost went astray when he inclined to Amr’s daughter, Matariya, but God was merciful, although Abd al-Azim was sad to take a stand against the daughter of his dear friend. As the days went by, he was appointed to important posts in the judiciary and was head of the High Court of Appeals when he drew his pension. His vitality enabled him to work as a lawyer until the 1950s then retire in old age. He did not sit still though; he would go each evening to the Luna Park Coffee House to play backgammon with the imperialists of his generati
on. By the July Revolution he had passed the age of worrying. He developed an acute burning in his prostate, was taken to hospital, and died two days later.

  Abduh Mahmud Ata al-Murakibi

  He was born and grew up in the mansion on Khayrat Square, the third child of Mahmud Bey and Nazli Hanem. He was characterized by good looks and nobility from childhood. He was raised in an atmosphere of grandeur and taught the principles of morality, culture, and piety at the hands of his beautiful, urbane mother. He grew up with a general aversion for socializing and though he knew his relatives from Amr, Surur, and Rashwana’s families, he did not make friends with any of them. He was fond of sports and excelled at swimming in particular. He also loved reading. He did well at school, which qualified him to enroll in the faculty of engineering, and when he graduated from there after the treaty, he joined the engineering division of the army. He began to diverge from his family’s political line and did not side with the Crown like his father and uncle. Instead, like his relative Hakim Hussein Qabil, he joined the restless generation, angry at everything and searching for something new. His mother suggested he take a wife from the Mawardi family, a family of feudal lords, so he married. He rented an elegant apartment in Zamalek for his bride, but the marriage was childless and unsuccessful; its only benefit consisted in what he learned about himself. It became apparent that in spite of his wealth he could not bear parting with money; it pained him to sacrifice a piaster unnecessarily or without forethought and planning. His wife, Gulistan, adored pomp, social life, and showing off her stunning appearance, but Abduh was completely unable to give up his customs and habits. Bitterness entrapped them and made their lives an unbearable hell.

  “You weren’t created for partnership,” his wife told him frankly.

  “I absolutely agree,” he replied, fumbling for his escape route.

  She vacated the marital home and waited for the divorce. The issue was studied at the highest levels and Abduh found support for his position with his parents, or at least clear opposition to Gulistan’s lifestyle. “I’m not in favor of divorce but in certain circumstances it’s necessary and can’t be avoided,” said Mahmud Bey.

  The divorce took place, but entailed considerable material loss with the settlement and expenses and prompted the young man to take a stand toward marriage that he would maintain for the rest of his life. He returned to his handsome room on the second floor of the mansion on Khayrat Square and devoted his energies to work and diverse reading. He, his sister Nadira, and his brother Mahir were similar in temperament, and the two brothers joined the Free Officers Movement at the appropriate time. When the July Revolution came, they found themselves in the second rank. Mahmud Bey had died by this point and they were able to save their inheritance from the grasp of the agricultural reforms. Abduh was appointed to a leading post in the army’s engineering branch and, after the Setback, was entrusted with charge of a metal company as a reward for his continued loyalty to Abdel Nasser. Though he was deeply affected by the defeat of June 5, he was among those who saw the loss of land as insignificant in comparison to the country’s psychological victory in preserving the leadership of Abdel Nasser and the socialist regime. He naturally regretted his brother Mahir’s dismissal for allegiance to Abd al-Hakim Amer, just as he had previously regretted his older brother Hakim’s pensioning off, but he could always find comfort in his mantra: “The country must come first.”

  He became dispensable in the time of President Sadat, so retired to his house and land. With the infitah policy he set up an engineering office with some of his colleagues and became excessively rich. He never left the mansion where he was born, nor the characteristics that had destined him for solitude. He continued to live simply despite his wealth, convinced he was amassing his money for others.

  Adnan Ahmad Ata al-Murakibi

  He was born and grew up in the Murakibi family mansion on Khayrat Square and learned the principles of an urbane upbringing and piety in the arms of luxury. Despite growing up with a peaceable, gentle-hearted father and a hanem mother of great dignity and morals (Fawziya Hanem, the sister of Nazli), he resembled his tyrant uncle Mahmud Bey most of all with his obstinacy and love of power. Of his generation he was the most loving to his other relatives—Amr, Surur, and Rashwana—and the most attached to the old quarter. From the beginning, he rebelled inwardly against his tyrant uncle, who imposed authority over the mansion, including his brother Ahmad’s family. He had barely reached adolescence before he let it be known that he found his uncle’s guardianship and monopoly on managing the land as if it was his exclusive property loathsome. He asked his mother the reason behind it but she just said, “Your father is content with things this way.”

  So he turned to his father and argued about it until he ruined his father’s repose.

  “The situation is a disgrace!” he said plainly.

  He carried on until he had wrenched his father from his paradise. Events came to pass and the quarrel that would divide the respectable family into two hostile factions began; brother disowned brother, sister disowned sister, and cousin disowned cousin. Adnan challenged his uncle, who spat in his face, and exchanged blows with Hasan in the mansion’s garden. A black cloud settled over the family and continued to obscure light and warmth until Ahmad Bey’s death. Ahmad Bey assumed management of his land, knowing nothing of what it entailed. Losses inevitably ensued, until Adnan completed his agricultural studies and rushed to Beni Suef to take over the work from his father and save him from ruin.

  In contrast to his brothers and cousins, Adnan was enamored of country girls. He fell in love with a thirty-five-year-old widow when he was not yet thirty himself and announced his wish to marry her, with no regard for his mother’s anxiety. He fulfilled his wish, brought Sitt Tahani to visit the mansion, and then took her home to the farm. She gave birth to Fu’ad and Faruq then stopped having children. Whenever she grew tired of the countryside she would travel to Cairo and make life difficult for Fawziya Hanem. When the July Revolution came, Adnan—for various reasons—was the only one to whom the agriculture reform laws applied. Like his father and uncle, he pledged allegiance to the Crown and hated the revolution, though he did not say or do anything that might risk offense. Fu’ad became an excellent farmer like his father and assisted him but Faruq was a failure at school and got involved in countryside crimes until he was shot one day leaving the mosque after Friday prayers. Adnan was delighted at the Tripartite Aggression but his joy relapsed. He delighted even more on June 5, and his happiness became complete in September 1970. When Sadat assumed power his sense of loyalty to a leader returned. His heart rejoiced at Sadat’s victory on October 6 and at the peace. As for the infitah policy, he considered it a gate into paradise. He farmed sheep, chickens, and eggs and made huge illusory profits. He was still not satisfied, however, so he joined the Watani Party and was elected to the People’s Assembly.

  Aziz Yazid al-Misri

  He was born and grew up on the first floor of the house in al-Ghuriya in the shadow of Bab al-Mutawalli, the first child of Yazid al-Misri and Farga al-Sayyad. The couple produced two sons and four daughters but the daughters all died in the cradle, leaving only Aziz and Dawud. The boys enjoyed good health and grew up promising strength alongside their good looks and distinct features. They took as their playground the area between the gate and the paper supplier where their father was treasurer, on a road in Gamaliya that brimmed with people, animals, and handcarts and was surrounded by mosques and minarets. The French invasion came and went before the brothers were fully conscious, and so Napoleon Bonaparte passed them by as a radish or doum palm seller might. When Aziz was old enough, Yazid al-Misri said in his Alexandrian accent, “It’s time for Qur’an school.”

  “No. Send him to my mother at the market,” Farga al-Sayyad protested.

  “It was learning to read and write that got me my job at the paper supplier,” Yazid replied.

  Farga believed in the market from which she came but could not change his
mind. At the Shurbini Coffee Shop, Shaykh al-Qalyubi praised his decision.

  “Excellent decision! Qur’an school then al-Azhar,” he said.

  The third friend, Ata al-Murakibi, sought refuge in silence. Ata al-Murakibi lived on the second floor of the house in al-Ghuriya with his wife, Sakina Gal‘ad al-Mughawiri, and newborn daughter, Ni‘ma. The three men had got to know one another at Ata al-Murakibi’s shop in al-Salihiya and began meeting at the Shurbini Coffee Shop in Darb al-Ahmar to drink ginger tea and smoke hashish. Shaykh al-Qalyubi was a teacher at al-Azhar and invited the other two for dinner at his house in Suq al-Zalat several times. They saw his young son, Mu‘awiya, playing between the well and stove. “Will you send him to al-Azhar after Qur’an school?” asked Ata al-Murakibi.

  “God does as he wishes,” said Yazid.

  However, in matters of religion Yazid was, like his friend Ata, content with performing the prescribed duties and had no aspirations beyond that. Aziz began to attend Qur’an school and was soon joined by Dawud. They memorized parts of the Qur’an and learned the principles of reading, writing, and arithmetic. During this time, Dawud fell into the snare of the education program while Aziz was spared by a miracle for which he thanked God all his life. Dawud’s life followed its course; meanwhile, when Aziz was old enough to work, Shaykh al-Qalyubi took steps on his behalf at the office of religious endowments and he was appointed watchman over Bayn al-Qasrayn’s public fountain. He dressed in a gallabiya, pantofles, and a cotton cloak in summer, or a woolen one in winter, but swapped his turban for a tarboosh and was jokingly referred to around the quarter as Aziz Effendi, a name that stuck for life. It was settled that he would receive a millieme for every good turn. “God has granted you an important position,” Yazid said to him.