Miramar

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “Anyway,” I said with annoyance, “Hosny should go.”

  But she made no comment; she did not seem to like the idea and went out with a disturbed look on her face.

  When Zohra came in the next afternoon we just looked at each other.

  “I am sorry you’ve been through all this, Zohra.”

  “They’re not gentlemen.”

  “The truth is you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I can always defend myself. Which I’ve done.”

  “But they won’t leave you in peace. Living here isn’t the right thing for a good girl like you.”

  “There are rats everywhere. Even in our village.”

  —

  I was confined to the pension for several days by cold, wind, and rain. Though we all kept to our rooms the elements seemed to follow us there: rain rattled the windows, the walls shook with thunder, and lightning flashed ominously, while the wind howled like a jinni.

  When I finally went out, it was another Alexandria that received me, the fury past, calm again, giving itself to the clear golden rays of the sun. I looked out at the waves in their nonchalant succession, the little cloud puffs dotted across the sky. Then I went and took my seat in the Trianon and ordered my café au lait as I used to in the good old days with Gharably Pasha, Sheikh Darwish, and Madame Lobraska—the only Frank I ever made love to, once upon a time when I was drowned in women. Tolba Marzuq sat with me for a while, then left for the lobby of the Windsor, where he was meeting an old friend. I saw Sarhan coming toward me. He shook my hand and sat down.

  “I’m glad I’ve met you here,” he said. “I must say goodbye. I may not see you when I check out this afternoon.”

  I was really surprised. “Are you leaving the pension?”

  “Yes, I am. I’d have been really sorry to go without saying goodbye to you.”

  I thanked him for his kind thoughts and would have liked to ask him a few questions, but he gave me no chance. He waved to someone, shook my hand, and left. What about Zohra? Depressed, disturbed, I sighed to myself.

  He clutched at the bars as he listened to the verdict. Then he shouted at the top of his voice, “Proud of yourself, you bastards? Are you happy, Naima, you officers’ whore?”

  I found Mariana, Tolba Marzuq, and Zohra in the hall. The atmosphere was heavy with gloom.

  “That hypocrite Sarhan has shown his true colors.”

  “I met him at the Trianon and he said he’s leaving,” I muttered.

  “In fact I turned him out. He assaulted her shamelessly,” said Mariana, indicating Zohra with a motion of her head. “Then he announced that he’s leaving to marry the schoolmistress upstairs.”

  I glanced at Tolba and he looked back with a mischievous smile. “So he’s finally made up his mind to get married.”

  “I never really liked him,” said Mariana. “I could see through him from the start. A young man of no principles. Monsieur Mansour Bahy tried to talk to him and they started fighting as well. I told him to get out on the spot.”

  I looked at Zohra. What a monstrous thing! The game was up and the villain had gone unpunished. I was gripped by an anger I hadn’t felt since the bitter old days of political struggle.

  “He’s a swine,” I told Zohra. “Don’t waste any regrets on him.”

  When we were alone I told Tolba I wished she would marry Mahmoud Abu al-Abbas.

  “What Mahmoud?” he said provocatively. “Can’t you see that she’s lost something irretrievable?” I protested, though I felt stunned. “You old fool! Can’t you see what’s been going on under your nose?”

  “Zohra isn’t like that!”

  “God bless you for an innocent!” I hated him. But I couldn’t help beginning to doubt the poor girl. “Madame was the first to draw my attention to their relationship. Though I could have guessed myself.”

  “She’s a wicked woman,” I said angrily.

  “But Madame, you understand, is most eager to act as her protector—or exploiter.”

  “No. She won’t. I’ll see to that.”

  When she came into my room in the afternoon, the girl was terribly downcast. She begged me pathetically not to remind her of my earlier advice. I said I wouldn’t—but what was she going to do?

  “I hope you won’t give up the lessons.”

  “No. I’ll find another teacher.” Her voice was joyless, but determined enough.

  “If you need any help, I…”

  She bent and kissed my shoulder, biting her underlip to hold back her tears. I stretched out my veined and leathery old hand until it rested on her young black hair.

  “God bless you, Zohra.”

  —

  That night I kept more or less to my room, giving in to a sense of complete malaise, so fatigued that I was unable to go out for some days thereafter. Mariana kept pressing me to pull my strength together. “We must celebrate the New Year,” she urged. “Shall we go to the Monseigneur as Tolba Bey suggests, or shall we celebrate it here?”

  “Here would be better, my dear.”

  I didn’t really care. How often had I celebrated it at Sault’s, Groppi’s, Alf Leila, and Lipton Gardens! And one year I’d spent it in the military prison at the Citadel.

  On the morning of the third day of my seclusion, Mariana rushed in, extremely upset. “Have you heard the news?” she panted, sinking into an armchair. “Sarhan al-Beheiry’s been murdered.”

  “What!”

  “His body was found on the road to the Palma.”

  Tolba Marzuq came in nervously clutching a paper. “This is really dreadful news. It may cause a lot of trouble.”

  We looked at each other and thought of all the probabilities—his first fiancée, Hosny Allam, Mansour Bahy, Mahmoud Abu al-Abbas—until Mariana said, “Why, the murderer may be someone we’ve never heard of!”

  “Why not?” I agreed. “We know hardly anything about the young man.”

  Madame was very anxious. “Oh! I wish they’d find the killer soon. I hope it’s no one we know. I don’t want to see the face of a policeman here.”

  “I hope so too,” sighed Tolba Marzuq—doubtless for the same reason.

  Madame sighed. I asked about Zohra.

  “The poor girl is terribly shocked.”

  “Could I possibly see her?”

  “She’s locked herself in her room. Totally broken down.”

  We went on discussing the murder but could come to no conclusion. I closed my eyes and heard the words sing in my head:

  Everyone that is thereon will pass away;

  There remaineth but the countenance of the Lord of Might and Glory.

  Which is it, of the favors of your Lord, that ye deny?

  2. Hosny Allam

  Ferekeeko, don’t put the blame on me. The face of the sea is dark, mottled, blue from stifled wrath; there is unappeased rage in the ceaseless hammering of the waves. Revolution? Why not? To put you where you belong, you progeny of whores, to take all your money and push your noses in the mud. Sure, I’m one of you. And I know it. That, unfortunately, is something that can’t be changed. “No education,” she said, “and a hazardous hundred feddans.” That’s what Miss Blue Eyes said, as she slammed the door in my face and sat down to wait for the next prospective stud bull to come along.

  From my balcony at the Cecil I cannot see the Corniche unless I lean out over the railing. It’s like being on a ship. The sea sprawls right below me. A great blue mass, heaving, locked in as far as the fort of Sultan Qaitbay by the Corniche wall and the giant stone jetty arm thrusting into the sea. Frustrated, caged. These waves slopping dully landward have a sullen blue-black look that continually promises fury. The sea. Its guts churn with flotsam and secret death.

  My room has a formal air, like our family house in Tanta. It bores me. The glory of having land is over. What we have now is the heyday of an educated rabble.

  Good. Revolution, so be it! Let it cut you all down to the ground. I’m through with you, you scraps of tattered time! Don’t b
lame me, Ferekeeko!

  —

  “How bored I am in this grand hotel of yours!” I say to Muhammad, the Nubian waiter, as he serves me breakfast in my room. A long-standing habit of mine, to be liberal and courteous to servants. Who knows, anyway? I might need them someday.

  “Will you stay in Alexandria long, sir?”

  “Yes, a very long time.”

  “Don’t you think, in that case, that a pension would be more suitable, sir?”

  I looked at him inquiringly.

  “I know a more interesting and less expensive guesthouse, sir. But this is just between us.” Pleasant, serviceable, and treacherous, employed by one master, secretly serving another. Like so many of my dear countrymen. All right. I suppose a pension would be more accommodating, a more suitable place for planning a new business. The only reason I’ve come to the Cecil is old habit—and, let’s face it, ineradicable pride.

  —

  The little judas swings open. A very pretty face. Too pretty for a servant, much too pretty for a lady. A really beautiful girl. Who will no doubt fall in love with me at first sight.

  “Yes?”

  A fellaha! How strange. At that moment, as far as I’m concerned, the Cecil could sink beneath the black waves of the sea.

  “I’ve been sent by Muhammad Kamel at the Cecil.”

  She shows me to a seat in the hall and goes inside. Meanwhile I get the feel of the place by looking at the photographs on the walls. An English officer? So. And that beauty leaning over the back of a chair? Who could she be? She is lovely, exciting. She must be an antique, though. The style of her dress leaves little doubt that she went to school with the Virgin Mary.

  A brilliant, gilded old lady comes in. The landlady, of course—a typical old retired French procuress. Or maybe (let’s hope!) not quite yet retired. That photograph must be a portrait of her before time did her in. Things are falling into place. It would appear that the Nubian has interpreted my boredom at the Cecil in his own way. Fine! A little preliminary diversion is always good for thinking out new plans.

  “Do you have any vacant rooms, madame?”

  “You were staying at the Cecil?” She is clearly very impressed, and wishes she were forty years younger. “How long would you like to stay?”

  “A month, at least. Who knows? Maybe a year.”

  “There are special terms for the summer.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “No. A gentleman of property.”

  She brings out the register. “Your name, please?”

  “Hosny Allam.” With no education, a hazardous hundred feddans, and lucky enough to know nothing at all about the thing our singers call love.

  —

  A good room, violet wallpaper. The sea view stretches as far as the eye can see, a clear blue. The curtains flutter in the autumn breeze. There is a scattered flock of clouds in the sky. And as she makes the bed, spreading sheets and a counterpane, I study the form of the fellaha: a well-knit, shapely body, with obvious good points. If my guess is right, she hasn’t run into pregnancy or abortion yet. I’d better wait, though, until I get to know the place a little better.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Zohra,” she answers stolidly.

  “Bless him that named thee!” She thanks me with a grave nod. “Are there any other guests in the place?”

  “Two gentlemen and a young man like your honor.”

  “What’s your nickname?”

  “My name is Zohra.” Polite, not at all encouraging. Too serious, that’s clear. She would enhance the interior decoration of any flat I might rent in the future, though. Certainly she’s more beautiful than my idiotic kinswoman, who has decided to choose a husband with the guidance of the Revolutionary Charter. Ferekeeko, don’t blame me.

  “Are you serious?”

  “But of course, darling!”

  “You don’t even know what love is.”

  “I want to get married, you see.”

  “But I don’t think you could possibly fall in love.”

  “Here I am proposing to you. Doesn’t that mean I love you? I’m marriageable,” I say, trying to keep any anger in check. “No?”

  “What value does land have,” she says after a moment’s hesitation, “these days?” It serves me right for getting myself into such a degrading situation.

  “Think it over,” I say as I go out. “Take your time.”

  —

  At breakfast I get to know the other guests. Amer Wagdi, a retired journalist—I reckon he must be eighty at least, quite tall, thin, but in very good health. There’s nothing left for death to devour—a wrinkled face, sunken eyes, and sharp bones. The very sight of the man makes me detest him. I wonder how he can survive while generations of the young go on dying every day.

  Tolba Marzuq is no stranger to me. I remember my uncle saying something sympathetic about the sequestration of his property, though naturally I don’t bring it up. We follow all such events, the news of sequestration and confiscation, with avid interest; like the action of a horror film.

  “One of the Allams of Tanta?” he asks, and I nod, with secret smugness. “I used to know your father. An excellent farmer.” Turning to Amer Wagdi, who is leaving the table, he laughs and says, “He wasn’t under the influence of those comedians of yours for long, God rest his soul. I mean the Wafdists,” he adds when he sees that I don’t understand the joke.

  “For all I know, he was a Wafdist,” I answer with indifference. “At the same time the whole country was.”

  “That’s right. I believe you have some brothers and sisters?”

  “My brother is consul in Italy and my sister’s married to our ambassador in Ethiopia.”

  “And you?” His mouth twitches.

  I hate him so intensely at that moment that I wish he would drown or burn. But I put on an air of not caring.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t you farm your land?”

  “No, it’s been let. But I’m thinking of starting up a new business.”

  The third lodger has been listening attentively to our conversation; so has Madame. His name is Sarhan al-Beheiry, deputy head of the accounts department at the Alexandria Textile Mills.

  “What sort of business?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “Why don’t you look for a government post? It’s more secure.”

  I detest him too. He has a hint of a country accent, like the smell of cooking that lingers in a badly washed pan. Would blue-eyed Mervat, I wonder, brand this mule “uneducated,” though? I doubt it. If he has the insolence to ask about my lack of a degree I’ll dash this cup of tea in Dream Boy Beheiry’s face.

  “Where did you get all this zeal for their Revolution?”

  “I believe in it, sir.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You should.”

  “Mervat’s refusal,” he says with a chuckle, “would appear to have driven you out of your mind.”

  I am irritated. “Getting married was just a passing thought.”

  He is angry too. “You’ve got your father’s obstinacy. God rest his soul. But none of his good sense.”

  Something urges me to attack the Revolution in the person of this Sarhan, who is clearly an opportunist, but I manage to give way.

  “Why don’t you tell us about your project?” the old lady asks.

  “I still haven’t made up my mind.”

  “You’re well-off, then?”

  I give her a self-confident smile but make no reply. And her interest in me is obviously thereby doubled.

  I leave the pension at the same time as Sarhan. We take the elevator down together, his smiling eyes clearly inviting me to some sort of rapprochement, and my anger at him subsides a little. “A government job is, generally speaking,” he says, half consciously correcting his earlier gaffe, “more secure. A private business, however, if chosen carefully…” The elevator
is there before he can finish his sentence, but his ingratiating tone needs no further explanation. He goes to the streetcar stop and I go to the garages, passing the Miramar Café. I remember sitting there with my uncle in the old days before the deluge. He used to come late in the afternoon to smoke the nargileh, sitting there wrapped in his cloak, like a king in disguise, in the midst of a group of senators and country notables. Yes, those were the days. He deserved what he got, though, and then some.

  I drive around in my Ford, aimless except to satisfy a craving for speed. I’d better keep up the acquaintance with this Sarhan al-Beheiry; I may find him useful someday. He has experience, and friends in the city.

  I drive fast along the Corniche—Mazarita, Chatby, Ibrahimiya, and beyond. My nerves have been racked and they respond gratefully to the car’s speed as it slashes through the cold refreshing air under a cloudy sky. The blue-sea-edged Corniche is sharp, clear-cut, scrubbed clean of the clamor and smell of summer vacationers. Tanta old girl, I’ll never go back to you again, except of course to collect money or sell some land! To hell with you and your memories!

  I turn off at Siyouf and cut over to the boulevard running toward Abu Qir—the royal road—driving faster and faster as my spirits and confidence rise. And where, I wonder sadly, are the Frenchwomen? Where is beauty? Where is all that solid gold? I go into the Metro cinema for the matinee and chat up a girl at the buffet during the intermission. We lunch at Omar Khayyam, then have a short siesta in her little flat at Ibrahimiya. By the time I get back to the pension at dusk, I have completely forgotten her name.

  There is no one in the entrance hall. I take a shower and the cold water somehow reminds me of the pretty fellaha. Back in my room I order a cup of tea, just to talk to her. I give her a piece of chocolate. She hesitates a little before taking it and I press her. “Why not? We’re all one family here.”

  I look her over frankly, with pleasure, and she stares back unabashed, not even looking down. Is she cunning or is she afraid?

  “Are there many like you in the country?”

  “Plenty.” She ignores my obvious intention.