“Yes, but not without suffering for it.” I had told him that I’d given up the rent from my share of the inheritance to my mother and brothers, but four feddans couldn’t go far.
“You’re still young,” he said encouragingly. “You have a brilliant future before you.”
But I was bored with that kind of talk. “Let’s stay with the present, if you don’t mind. What’s life worth without your own villa, your own car, and your own woman?”
He laughed in agreement, but Safeya heard me as she was bringing in the tray and shot me a searing look.
“He’s got everything he needs,” she said to the engineer. “But he’s a hard-hearted son of a bitch.”
I retreated. “The fact is I have nothing but the woman.”
“We’ve been living together for over a year,” she said in her nagging fashion. “I thought I’d teach him to be careful with money, but he’s taught me how to throw it away.”
We ate and drank. Then we slept. In the evening the three of us went out, Safeya to the Genevoise, Ali Bakir and I to the Café de la Paix.
“Does she still hope to marry you?” he asked as we sipped our coffee.
“She’s out of her mind. What can you expect from a nut?”
“I’m worried…”
“She’s got her head in the clouds. Besides, I’m sick of her.”
Through the glass window we looked out at a sunny evening. I felt Ali Bakir’s eyes turned on me, but I ignored them. I knew what was coming.
“Now let’s get serious,” he suddenly said.
I looked at him. We were facing each other. It was too late. There was no way out.
“Right. Let’s get serious.”
“Fine. The plan’s been thoroughly gone over from beginning to end.” He was unnervingly calm.
My heart contracted. I looked at him, surrendering, drawn on even though full of misgivings.
“Now I’m the superintendent. You’re responsible for the accounts and books. The truck driver is safe and so is the guard. Nothing is left but for the four of us to get together and swear on the Koran.”
I laughed out loud. He looked at me, surprised, then realized how ridiculous what he’d just said was.
“All right.” He laughed in return. “Even so, we’ll take an oath. The goods are up for grabs. You can imagine what a truckload of yarn can bring on the black market. It’s a safe operation and we can repeat it four times a month.”
What he said made me thoughtful and I let my mind drift.
“Believe me,” he went on, “there’s no other way. Doing it legally is running after nothing. You get a promotion or a bonus now and then. So what! You can’t afford anything. How much does an egg cost? How much do you have to pay for a suit? Even for food! And you’re talking about a car, a villa, and a woman. All right. Buy all that. Look, you were elected to the ASU Base Unit and to the board of directors. What did it all come to? You volunteered to arbitrate for the workers and solve their problems. Did they give you anything? Did they open the doors of heaven for you? Prices are going up, salaries are going down. And life is going by. Great! There’s something wrong somewhere! How did it happen? Are we being used as guinea pigs? Baby, just turn my face to the wall!”
“When do we start?” My own voice sounded strange in my ears.
“We won’t start for another month or two. We have to plan all the details very, very carefully. Afterward you’ll live the life of good old Harun al-Rashid.”
I still felt very edgy, even though I’d really given in to him long before.
“Eh? What do you say?” He looked me sharply in the eye.
I burst out laughing. I laughed until the tears came; and he sat there, his cold face set, eyes fixed on me all the while. I learned across the table. “Okay,” I whispered, “chum!”
He shook me by the hand and left. As I sat there alone I was torn by all kinds of ideas. I remembered an incident with Mahmoud Abu al-Abbas a few days before.
“Professor,” he said, “I’ll soon be needing your help and experience.”
“What for?”
“God willing, I’ll buy Panayoti’s restaurant when he sells out and leaves.”
I was astounded. Had he made enough money out of the newsstand to buy a little restaurant? “What can I do for you? All I know about food is that we eat it.”
“No. Just teach me how to keep the books.”
I promised finally to help him.
The thought crossed my mind that I might sell the few feddans I had and come in as his partner. “You’ll probably need a partner,” I said.
But he obviously disliked the idea. “No, I prefer to work on my own. I’d rather keep it a small business and not attract the attention of the government.”
—
I’d been to the headquarters of the Socialist Union, where I’d listened to a talk on the black market, followed by a discussion. As I was leaving the hall at the end of the meeting, I heard someone call my name. I stopped, looked around, and saw Rafat Amin making his way toward me in the crowd. I hadn’t seen him since we’d been together at college. We shook hands cordially and pushed through the throng together out to the road. He said he’d attended the meeting because he too was a member of the Base Unit of the Socialist Union, at Amalgamated Metallurgies. It was a pleasant evening, so we walked in the direction of the Corniche. When we finally found ourselves alone in the street, we burst out laughing at the same time, for no apparent reason, but because of memories we shared, memories we couldn’t forget or ignore—the number of meetings we’d been to where we’d clapped and cheered together. We’d both been members of Wafdist student committees. Do you remember? Sure! Who can forget those days? Then we were in opposition to the state. Now we are the state!
“I can’t imagine that you of all people should have turned your back on your precious Wafdism!” he said, laughing all over again.
“And what about you? You couldn’t have been a loyal Wafdist. Tit for tat and you started it.”
“But you! Are you a real socialist?” he asked, nudging me with his elbow.
“Of course.”
“Why, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“Even the blind can see the achievements of the Revolution.”
“But you’re not blind, are you?”
“I mean it,” I said seriously.
“So you’re a revolutionary socialist?”
“Certainly.”
“Congratulations. Now tell me where we can spend the evening.”
I took him to the Genevoise. At midnight I wanted to wait for Safeya, but she said she was going out with a Libyan customer.
—
I was just coming out of the Strand cinema when I saw the pretty fellaha coming down Safeya Zaghloul Street in the company of an old Greek woman. Dark, soft, with bewitching eyes and a ripe figure. The pavement was crowded. A cool salt-laden breeze was blowing; and a halo of clean carded cotton covered the dome of the sky, giving the air a purity and softness that perched on the heart like happiness itself. The two women threaded their way through the crowd. I stepped back to make way for them, greeting the girl with a slight nod and a flicker of my eyelids. Cautiously, she smiled. Good, I said to myself. A cautious smile, there’s something in that. I was so pleased; it was like the sweet taste of green beans in my mouth, virgin fresh, just picked out of the green fields.
—
I looked at her face at dusk as I drank my coffee. Her eyes were red and swollen after a long sleep, her thick lips slack. Looking her worst, as usual in the early evening, she didn’t know what I had in store for her.
“Safeya?” I put as much sorrow in my tone as I could. She looked up. “I’m in a fix. There’s a stupid situation we have to face together.” She shot me a wary glance and gestured to me to explain. “We’ll have to change our way of life. I mean living together in the same flat.” She frowned and looked up, ready for a fight. “It’s a catastrophe. Especially in light of the housing shortage. But one of
my colleagues gave me a hint yesterday. You must remember, surely, that I told you about the Administrative Survey? They pry into everything, they’ve been asking questions. I’m sure you care about my career as much as I do.”
“But we’ve been living together for a year and a half,” she protested.
“They’ve been the happiest days of my life. We might have gone on forever without anybody knowing. But…” I looked into my empty cup as if I were reading my fortune. “But I’m out of luck. It seems I’ll just have to go back to living on my own in a messy bachelor flat. I may even have to live in some dirty little hotel or noisy pension.”
“There is a way!” she hissed. “You know there is. Only you’re an ungrateful bastard!”
“I’ve been honest. I told you from the beginning: I’m not the marrying kind. I’ll always love you, but God didn’t design me for marriage.”
“Because He made you without a heart.”
“In that case there’s no use in going over all this again.”
She looked me deep in the eyes. “You want to leave me?”
“Safeya, stop it. If that were the case, I’d have said it right out a long time ago.”
She was terribly upset, and her grimaces added to the ugliness of her face at the moment. I wished she’d hate me and let me go my own way.
We’re through, I thought. I said to myself that on Judgment Day we’d balance each other on the scales. We’ve shared everything except her presents to me on special occasions, which I couldn’t return because of my commitments at home. Other men exploit their mistresses shamelessly. True, I’m not used to spending money on women. In any case I expect a final battle. I’ve been through all this before. I really fell in love once at college, but I’d arrived on the scene too late. It would have been a wonderful match—a beautiful girl with a great future, the daughter of a rich doctor, rolling in money from his patients. But what’s the use of that now? It’s too late. Anyway, I’ve fallen again. Yes, I think I love the fellaha, though it’s just a physical attraction, I suppose, like the one that led me to Safeya at the Genevoise.
—
“I’d like a room for a long stay.”
Her inquisitive blue eyes gleam with satisfaction. She leans back on the sofa under a statue of the Madonna, an air about her of faded gentility, her peroxide hair suggesting a desperate clinging to the past. She haggles shamelessly over the price of a room and insists that I should pay a higher price when summer comes.
“But have you just arrived in Alexandria?”
It isn’t simply a passing question, but one in a series of inquiries. I respond by giving her an account of my work, my age, my hometown, and my marital status.
As we are talking the fellaha comes in. She blushes and looks down, taking in the situation at a glance. Madame doesn’t notice the girl’s confusion or her heightened color. By the time she shows me the room, the last vacant one overlooking the street, we’re like two old friends.
I like the room and sit comfortably in the big armchair. I can hear her call the girl, so I get to know her name without asking. She comes in shortly to make up the bed with fresh sheets and blankets. I watch her happily, examining her closely, at my ease, the hair, the fine features of the face, and the tall figure. My God! What a beauty! Bewitching! And she has character too! She tries to steal a look at me, but I am on the alert. I smile at her confusion.
“I am so happy, Zohra!” She goes on with her work as if she hasn’t heard. “God bless you! You’ve reminded me of my home in the country.” She smiles. “Let me introduce myself. Sarhan al-Beheiry at your service.”
“A Beheiry?” she asks.
“From Farquasa in Beheira.”
“I’m from Zayadiyya,” she says, biting off a smile. “Imagine that!” I exclaim happily, as if the fact that we come from the same province is a good omen for love.
She has finished her work and is going out, but I beg her, “Please stay a little. I have so much to tell you.”
She shakes her head with innocent coquetry and leaves. I am pleased with her refusing me; I consider it something special. She couldn’t have treated an ordinary lodger so. All I have to do now is put out my hand and pluck. Her body looks innocent, though, and I don’t know if she’d be willing or not.
I love her and can’t do without her. I wish we were together somewhere, away from this pension, which must be full of tiresome, inquisitive fools.
At breakfast I am introduced to two strange old men. One of them, Amer Wagdi, is so old he’s an actual mummy, but he’s a merry old fellow. They say he’s an ex-journalist. The other is Tolba Marzuq, whose name sounds vaguely familiar. He’s under sequestration. I don’t know what brings him to the pension, but I’m keenly interested in him from the start; anything out of the ordinary is interesting, a criminal, a madman, someone under a sentence or under sequestration. He keeps his eyes on his cup, avoiding my looks. Out of caution, I wonder, or pride? I stare at him with mixed feelings, a sense of triumph over his class mixed with pity for his individual plight. But I’m strangely alarmed at the thought of the state confiscating property. After all, it could happen to anyone.
Amer Wagdi compliments me on being an economist. “The state now depends mainly on economists and engineers,” he says courteously. But the thought of Ali Bakir grips and depresses me. “In my time it was the eloquent speechmakers who carried the day.” I laugh sarcastically, but the old man is hurt. Apparently he has merely stated it as a fact and not as a piece of criticism, but he goes on to defend his generation. “My son,” he protests, “it was our task to wake the people after a long sleep. You need words for that. Not economics or engineering.”
“Your generation has honorably fulfilled its duty,” I say by way of apology, “or we wouldn’t be able to do ours.”
Tolba Marzuq, the other old man, says nothing throughout the entire conversation.
My heart has recovered an innocence as youthful as this beautiful morning, the clear blue sea, and the blessed warmth of the sun. A kind of vigor seems to sing in my blood: my love for life expands with every breath I take. I work well at the plant, then have lunch with Safeya in my old flat. She gives me a penetrating look and I put on the mask of depression. I complain of my loneliness at the pension. “I don’t think I can stand it for long, darling. I’ve asked a real estate agent to try to get me a flat.” I hear the old song about being an ungrateful bastard. In bed with her after lunch, I wonder when I’ll be released from this hard labor.
Later back at the pension I see Zohra carrying a cup of coffee to Amer Wagdi’s room. The clock strikes five, so I order a cup of tea. She comes in blooming like a flower or a song, a melody of black hair, dark skin, and delectable eyes. I touch her hand as she gives the cup.
“I am a prisoner in this room,” I whisper, “for your sake.”
She frowns to disguise her excitement and turns away.
“I love you!” I call out after her, “Don’t forget that ever.”
The next afternoon she responds to my attempts at drawing her into conversation. I want all the information about her I can get.
“What brought you here from Zayadiyya?”
“I had to make a living,” she says in her homely country accent. She tells about her people, her running away from home and finding refuge with Madame, an old client of her father.
“But she’s a foreigner. And the pension is almost a marketplace, you know.”
“I have worked in the fields,” she replies proudly, “and in the markets.”
The girl is no fool. But should I take her story at face value? Village girls who run away from home have usually left something behind.
“It all happened,” I say, dazzled by her, “so that we might meet in this pension.”
She looks at me curiously and not unsuspiciously, but cannot disguise her liking for me.
“I love you! I can’t stop telling you that over and over again, Zohra.”
“That’s enough,” she murmurs.
/>
“No! I won’t stop it until I hear the same words from your lips, and have you safe in my arms.”
“Is that what you’re up to?”
“Yes. Otherwise I can find no pleasure in life.”
She is not angry or upset, but leaves me with an untroubled face. I congratulate myself. And I find myself feeling my old longing for marriage overflowing like water over a fountain’s rim. I wish with all my heart I could, Zohra, but…if…damn all those stupid deadly obvious facts and figures!
—
Two new guests come to stay at the Miramar, Hosny Allam and Mansour Bahy. I look forward to making their acquaintance. I have a sort of hunting instinct that makes me want to constantly add new friends or acquaintances to my bag.
Hosny Allam comes from an old family of Tanta. A gentleman of property. He has a hundred feddans, is handsome, tall, and powerfully built, just what we’d all love to be. I may hate his class in the abstract, but I’m fascinated by any of them, if I’m lucky enough to keep him company. It’s easy to imagine the kind of life Hosny leads in spite of everything. If he’s as openhanded as he ought to be, we’ll have lots of good nights out together.
Mansour Bahy is quite different, a broadcaster at the Alexandria Broadcasting Service and the brother of a really big man in the police. Which is good—could be useful in fact—but he’s very introverted; he has very delicate features and is as innocent as a child, but cold as a statue. Where’s the key to his character? How could I find out what his real feelings are? I get so many requests for help from people from home looking for jobs here that I could do with an extra friend or two. Besides, a high police official can come in useful in lots of situations.
—
I grab her. I wait until she sets the cup of tea on the table, then grab her by the arm. She loses her balance and falls into my lap as I sit down in the big armchair. I take her in my arms and kiss the curve of her cheek—all I can see of her face—a quick, hungry, hurried kiss. She disentangles herself, her strong hands pushing me off, then jumps up and moves swiftly away. I look at her expectantly and smile.
Miramar Page 12
