Miramar

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Her expression softens like the sea on a mellow autumn morning. I beckon her nearer, but she won’t come nearer. And yet she doesn’t run away. Mad with desire, I leap up and take her again in my arms. She hardly resists. Our lips meet in a long hungry kiss, the smell of her hair filling my nostrils. “Come to me tonight,” I whisper.

  She looks hard at me. “What do you want?”

  “I want you, Zohra.” Her eyes are serious as she stands there in front of me. “Will you come?”

  “What do you want from me?” she asks sharply. The way she says it sobers me a little.

  “We’ll talk,” I reply lamely, “and make love.”

  “But we’re doing that now.”

  “Yes, but there’s too much haste, too much fear. That spoils everything.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “But you don’t understand me, Zohra!”

  She tosses her head skeptically. But in spite of all that, she walks out of the room smiling.

  I’m miserable. If only she came from an important family or had education or money. I let out a stream of curses.

  —

  I thought I’d spend the evening of Umm Kulthum’s concert at Ali Bakir’s, to listen to the music in the kind of quiet that it requires, and Rafat Amin has also invited me to his place. But after some reflection I opt for the pension, to consolidate my relations with the other lodgers.

  There’s a big tray of shish kebab and I need a quick drink or two to prepare myself for the attack. I speak at length of the glory of the Beheiry family, and of the importance of my post as deputy head accountant, not for mere boasting’s sake but to prepare them for the signs of wealth I’ll be showing when Ali Bakir’s plans come through. But they will talk politics; there is no avoiding the subject. Have you heard? What do you think? To tell you the truth…and so on and so on. I can see that for them I represent the Revolution, though Mansour might come in for a share. We all praise the Revolution, of course, and drink to its future.

  I catch a glimpse of Zohra. She’s the one who’s all in favor of the Revolution. I remember how she prayed for it one day in my hearing, and how touched I was at the sincerity and fervent innocence of her prayer.

  Does Mansour Bahy, I wonder, have his doubts about my sincerity? My friend, can’t you see that here I am, a natural enemy of the enemies of the Revolution, and that it’s been a very good thing for me?

  “Well, they’ve closed as many doors as they’ve opened.”

  “Think of the masses.”

  “All right. But what about the greedy ones who are living in the lap of luxury?”

  “People like that are the real enemies of the Revolution. You shouldn’t judge by their example.”

  I am sincerely fond of Madame Mariana; not just because she loves our music, but because I like her quick wit and her stories of the past, which she repeats with true unquenchable Greek nostalgia. And through those reminiscences, her old love stories, and her weakness for the easy life, I can easily identify her with myself: her people are basically nomads, content to find a home wherever they can find happiness.

  Amer Wagdi is a most interesting piece of antiquity. Discovered by Professor Mansour Bahy—a monument to a fascinating period of our history, of which (alas!) we know very little.

  When Tolba Marzuq joins in our praise of the Revolution, I can only salute this delectable hypocrisy, thinking how true it is that mankind is up to its ears, for all its conquests and inventions, in folly and stupidity.

  It strikes me that it would be a good idea in general to bring a few enemies together from time to time and make them spend a long evening drinking and enjoying good music in each other’s company.

  “So you don’t believe in heaven and hell?”

  “Heaven is any place where you live in dignity and peace. Hell is simply the opposite.”

  When Mansour laughs at one of my jokes he’s like a charming child. I begin to have hopes that I may soon find out what really makes him tick, and that by the end of this musical evening we’ll have become fast friends.

  As for Hosny Allam—long live Hosny Allam! He has single-handedly donated two bottles of Dewar’s to this evening’s entertainment and is sitting square in his seat like a country squire, filling our glasses, laughing uproariously. When he suddenly disappears at midnight, the evening suffers something of a blow.

  I cannot enjoy the singing the way I usually do, nor do I join in singing any of the verses of Umm Kulthum’s songs. All my potential for ecstasy is focused on Zohra, and whether she moves about serving us or sits in smiling wonder by the screen to watch us laugh and drink, a rich current seems to flow secretly between us. Our eyes meet stealthily, often, and though far apart, we secretly embrace and exchange lovers’ kisses and torments.

  —

  I must have seen that man before. He was walking to the Trianon from the direction of Saad Zaghloul Street, while I was coming from the square. It was Tolba Marzuq. I’d never seen him in his outdoor clothes, the thick coat, the dark red tarboosh, and the scarf. I shook his hand respectfully and pressed him to take a cup of coffee. We sat behind the closed glass doors on the seafront side of the café. The wind was playing with the crests of the palms that circled the statue of Saad Zaghloul. The sky was covered with light clouds, their fringes lambent at the touch of the sun.

  We exchanged a few commonplaces. I did my best to show him deep respect and sympathy. He can’t be completely broke, I thought. There must be a way of getting his confidence. He may want to make an investment, but is afraid to show that he’s got any money left. I led the conversation around to the rising cost of living.

  “A young man like me can’t possibly depend on a government salary to get by.”

  “What can he do?”

  “I am thinking,” I said in a low confessional voice, “of starting some business.”

  “Where would you get the money?”

  “I’d sell a few feddans and find a partner.” I put on an innocent smile.

  “But are you allowed to go into business and keep your government job?”

  “No!” I said with a smile. “The business would have to be a secret.”

  He wished me lots of luck, then spread out his paper as if he’d entirely forgotten I was there. Maybe he really has nothing left. Or is it just a maneuver? Anyway I lost all hope of getting anything out of him.

  Pointing to a red headline about some news of East Germany, he said suddenly, “I suppose you’ve heard about how poor they are, particularly when compared with West Germany.” I agreed. He was talking domestic politics now, using the language of foreign affairs. “Russia has nothing to offer her satellites. But the United States…”

  “We’ve had really valuable aid from Russia, though.”

  “That’s different,” he said hastily. “We are not a Russian satellite.” He was on his guard. I regretted what I’d said. “Russia and the United States both wish to dominate the world,” he went on. “Our stand of nonalignment is really the best policy and the wisest.” I’d lost him and I knew I couldn’t get him back soon. I was sorry about that.

  “In fact, if it hadn’t been for the July Revolution the country would have been overwhelmed by bloodshed.”

  He nodded his tarboosh in assent. “God is great. His wisdom be praised, which alone has saved us!”

  —

  “Where’ve you been? Why, we haven’t seen Your Highness for three days! So you’ve finally remembered me! But then why should you remember something you’ve thrown away? Didn’t I say you were an ungrateful bastard? Don’t give me any of your silly excuses. Don’t tell me about your fantastically important work. Even a minister of state wouldn’t neglect his mistress the way you’ve been neglecting me.”

  I smile complacently as I pour wine into our glasses, keeping down my loathing. I can’t stand her, and now that she’s playing the dictator, I’ve simply got to get rid of her—free myself from her once and for all.

  —

  Eve
ry worry in the world goes away when I see Zohra bring in my cup of tea.

  We hold each other in a long embrace. I kiss her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead, and her neck, then with deeper awareness I relish her lips as she presses them against mine. She draws back a little, sighing, then says, “I think sometimes that they all know.”

  “Let them!” I am reckless with the ecstasy of love.

  “You don’t care, but…”

  “I only care for one thing, Zohra.” I look at her so that my eyes can tell her how I really feel. I plead. “Let’s live together. Away from here.”

  “Where?” she asks suspiciously.

  “In a home of our own.”

  She waits for me to go on, but when I add nothing to my proposal, her eyes cloud with disappointment. “What do you mean?”

  “You love me as I love you.”

  “I love you,” she says in a low voice, “but you don’t really love me.”

  “Zohra!”

  “You look down on me, just the way they all do.”

  “I love you. God is my witness,” I say with total sincerity. “I love you with all my heart.”

  She muses sadly for a moment. “Do you consider me your equal as a human being?”

  “Why, of course.” She shakes her head. I understand what she’s getting at. “There are problems one can’t solve.” She still shakes her head, looking upset now. “I had to face problems at home, but I didn’t give in.”

  I hadn’t imagined she was so proud. I feel desire driving me to the brink of an abyss. I even let my foot slip over the edge, and at the last second try to save myself, as it were, by throwing all my weight backward. I take her hand in mine, kiss its back, its palm, and whisper in her ear, “I love you, Zohra!”

  —

  When I look at Hosny Allam’s strong and handsome face I always think of wonderful nights on the town. When I hear that he’s come to Alexandria to start a business, though, my attitude toward him changes immediately. Tolba Marzuq is only a phantom and I’d better drop him. But Hosny is a man determined to work, to achieve something, and what I must do is find myself a part to play in his project. It’s not just a question of work or success: he might save me at the last moment from Ali Bakir’s godforsaken plans. The pity of it is that Hosny is so mercurial you can hardly catch hold of him. He talks about his projected business once or twice, but he’s always daydreaming, dashing around in his car, driving at a ridiculous speed—and always with some woman or other in the seat beside him.

  “A man of the world,” I advise him, “doesn’t spend his time just fooling around.”

  “How does he spend it?” he asks with amusement.

  “Well,” I say earnestly, “he studies a plan, considers all the angles, then goes into action.”

  “Fine, but I prefer to do my studying and considering while I’m playing. We’re living on the eve of Doomsday.” And he roars with laughter.

  My God! I moan inwardly in despair. I want to make good and help someone else do the same. What shall I do?

  —

  It was a terrible fight. She fired her insults at me and I exploded in anger.

  “Can’t you forget it for once? Is it Judgment Day already?”

  The insults flew back and forth between us, we bombarded each other with curses, and Mahmoud Abu al-Abbas stood there dumbfounded. He had gone with me to her flat for his third lesson in arithmetic and bookkeeping. I got up determined to leave and he followed me out. At the gate of the building, I asked him to go and tell her I wasn’t coming back.

  I went to the Miramar but didn’t realize that she had followed me until I was at the door of the pension, when I felt a hand on the back of my neck and heard Safeya shouting, “You think you can throw me over like that? What do you take me for? A kid? A toy?”

  I struggled to get away from her, but she was already inside the door.

  “Go away!” I hissed, struggling for breath. “You’re disturbing the lodgers. Everyone’s asleep.”

  “You think you can rob me and get away with it!” she screamed. “I’ve fed you and clothed you and now you want to run away from me, you pig!”

  I slapped her, she slapped me back, and we wound up in a scuffle. Zohra tried to break it up, but couldn’t. “Please stop that,” she said to Safeya. “This is a respectable house.”

  It didn’t do any good. She threatened. “Will you go? Or shall I call the police?”

  Safeya stepped back and looked at Zohra in surprise. Then she looked from Zohra to me, drew herself up, and said, “A servant. How dare you…?”

  Before she could finish, Zohra slapped her across the mouth. Safeya hit back, but the girl was too strong for her and hit her until she almost collapsed. Everybody was awake, doors were opened, and steps came along the corridor. Hosny Allam was there first. He took Safeya by the hand and led her out.

  I went to my room, blind with rage. Madame followed me there, very upset. I apologized to her, but she wanted to know who the woman was. I had to tell a lie in order to save face.

  “She was my fiancée and I’ve broken the engagement.”

  “Her behavior shows you were right to break with her,” she said, shaking her head. “But please settle accounts with her somewhere else. I live on the good name of my pension.”

  When Zohra came in, her face still carried traces of the fight. I thanked her and apologized for what she had suffered. We exchanged anguished looks and I had to explain.

  “I left her for you.”

  “Who is she?” she asked curtly.

  “A loose woman! I knew her a long time ago. But that’s all over and done with. I had to tell Madame she’d been my fiancée.”

  I kissed her cheek lightly, grateful, regretful.

  —

  Outside the wind roars. Inside, even though it’s still only early afternoon, my room exudes evening. My mind pictures the dense clouds outside and the mounting waves of the sea. Zohra comes in and switches on the light. I haven’t seen her since yesterday and I’ve been in torment waiting for her.

  “Let’s go away, Zohra.” I plead. She sets the cup on the table and looks at me with biting reproach. “We’ll live together forever. Forever.”

  “And there won’t be any problems then?” she asks sarcastically.

  I answer with shameful frankness. “The problems I was referring to are created by marriage.”

  She mutters, “I should be sorry I ever fell in love with you.”

  “Please don’t say that. Please try to understand. I love you—I can’t live without you. But marriage would cause difficulties for me, with my family and at work too. It would ruin my career and that would inevitably threaten the home we make together. What can I do?”

  She says even more angrily, “I didn’t realize I could bring you so much calamity.”

  “It’s not you! It’s people’s stupidity. These rigid barriers, these stinking facts! What can I do?”

  “What can you do indeed?” she says, her eyes narrow with rage. “Turn me into a woman like the one from yesterday?”

  “Zohra!” I say desperately. “If you loved me as much as I love you, you’d understand me better.”

  “I do love you,” she says acidly. “It’s a mistake I can’t help.”

  “Love is stronger than everything. Everything.”

  “Everything except your problems,” she says contemptuously.

  We look at each other, feverish and desperate, furious and inflexible. If it wasn’t for my fear and my strength of will, I might give in. I think quickly, in a flash. “Zohra, there are compromises. There’s the Islamic marriage in its pure original form.” Curiosity replaces anger in her eyes. I really know very little about the subject, but I go on. “We marry as the first Muslims used to marry.”

  “How was that?”

  “I solemnly declare in the company of us two that I take you for my wife, according to the commandments of God and the doctrines of His Prophet.”

  “With no witnesses?” />
  “God is our witness.”

  “Everyone else around us behaves as if they didn’t believe in His existence.” She shakes her head stubbornly. “No.”

  —

  She’s really mulish. It hasn’t been as easy as I expected. There’s no persuading her. If she consents to live with me, I’m ready to give up the prospect of marriage, including my plans for advancement through a suitable match. I’ve thought of leaving the pension as a first step to getting her out of my mind, but I can’t. We haven’t quarreled; she still brings in my tea as usual, and lets me kiss her or take her in my arms.

  One afternoon I am stunned to see her sitting in the hall bent over a primary reader, deciphering the letters. I look at her incredulously. Madame is at her place under the statue of the Virgin. Amer Wagdi is in the armchair.

  “Look at our scholar, Monsieur Sarhan,” exclaims Madame smiling. “She’s made an arrangement for private lessons with a neighbor, a teacher. What do you think of that?”

  I am about to laugh at Madame’s teasing irony when suddenly I feel genuinely impressed. “Bravo, Zohra! Good for you.”

  The old man watches me with clouded eyes. I am all at once afraid of him. I don’t know why. I go out.

  I am deeply moved. Some inner voice tells me that I have been taking the girl’s feelings too lightly and that God will not look kindly on me. But I can’t come to terms with the idea of marrying her. Love is only an emotion and you can cope with it one way or another, but marriage is an institution, a corporation not unlike the company I work for, with its own accepted laws and regulations. What’s the good of going into it if it doesn’t give me a push up the social ladder? And if the bride has no career, how can we compete in the rat race, socially or otherwise? My problem is that I’ve fallen in love with a girl whose credentials are insufficient for that sort of thing. But if she’d accept my love without conditions I’d give up the ideal I’ve always had of marriage altogether.

  “You’ve got a lot of willpower, Zohra,” I say later, to give her her due. “But it’s a pity you’re tiring yourself out and wasting all your wages.”

  “I won’t stay illiterate all my life,” she says proudly, standing on the other side of the table.