“Find yourself another place to stay!” she says in a shrill voice.
I have nothing to stay for; out of obstinate pride, however, I insist on staying until the next day, since I’ve paid the rent in advance.
I go out and wander aimlessly in the streets under a cloudy sky, pregnant with rain. I look in the shopwindows brilliant with New Year gifts and stare listlessly at old Santa Claus. Then I go to Pedro’s to meet Ali Bakir.
“I hope you’ve taken care of the alibis,” he says. “We start tomorrow at dawn.”
—
Early in the morning I go to work thinking, “The dawn is over; the die is cast.” I am tense, impatient for news. I ring the plant and ask for Ali Bakir, but they tell me he’s on his morning round. Good. Everything has gone according to plan and he’s doing his routine work as usual. Too excited to work, I leave the office early. As I pass by Broadcasting House, I see Mansour and a pretty girl going out together. Who can it be? His fiancée? His mistress? Will Zohra find herself on the shelf a second time? At the thought of Zohra I am depressed, which makes me realize that I’m not cured of love for her yet. It’s been the only true emotion that ever beat in my wayward heart.
I pay a visit to Aleya Muhammad and her family, who give me a very cool welcome. I’d intended to invent a few lies, but her father bursts out angrily, “Imagine a housemaid taking us to task like that!”
It’s lunchtime, but no one asks me to stay and I leave their flat without any hope of putting things right. Not that I really care. In a few hours I’ll be rich and sure to find a splendid wife. I have lunch at Panayoti’s—Abu al-Abbas’ now—then move on to Ali Bakir’s house, but he isn’t at home and by the time I get to the pension I am frantic for news. I pack my suitcase and take it to the entrance hall. From there I ring Ali Bakir and when I hear his voice over the receiver I am immensely relieved.
“Hello.”
“This is Sarhan. Greetings. How are things?”
“Everything’s fine. I haven’t talked with the driver yet.”
“When do we know?”
“Let’s meet at eight o’clock, at the Swan.”
I leave the Pension Miramar and check in at the Pension Eva. Aimless after that, I wander from one café to another, drinking all the time, throwing my money away, drowning my anxiety and the pain of my love-tormented heart in drink, and vowing that my family will enjoy prosperity they’ve never dreamt of since my father died. A little before eight I arrive at the Swan. I am annoyed to run into Tolba Marzuq at the entrance, but I shake his hand pretending I’m glad to see him.
“What brings you here?” he says.
“A date.”
“Well. Let me buy you a drink. We’ll sit together until your friend comes.” We sit in the winter lounge. “Cognac?” he asks me, his hollow voice reverberating in his jowls. I am drunk already, but thirsty for more. We drink, talking, laughing.
“Do you think they’d let me go to Kuwait to visit my daughter?” he suddenly asks.
“I expect so. Do you want to make a new start?”
“No. But my son-in-law—he’s also my nephew—has become very rich.”
“You’re probably thinking of emigrating.”
There is a cautious look in his eyes. “No. I just want to see my daughter.”
I draw my head near his. “Shall I tell you something that should comfort you?”
“What’s that?”
“Some people don’t like the Revolution. But look at it this way: What other system could we have in its place? If you think clearly, you’ll realize that it has to be either the Communists or the Muslim Brotherhood. Which of those would you prefer to the Revolution?”
“Neither,” he replies hastily.
I smile in triumph. “Exactly. Let that be your comfort.”
It is time. But Ali Bakir has not shown up. I wait in agony for another half hour, then I telephone his flat, but get no answer. He’s probably on his way. So what’s keeping him? Can’t he understand what this delay is doing to me?
Tolba Marzuq looks at his watch. “It’s time for me to go.” He shakes me by the hand and leaves.
I cannot stop drinking. Finally a waiter calls me to the telephone. I run to the booth and take up the receiver, my heart thumping.
“Hello!…Ali, why haven’t you come?”
“Listen, Sarhan, it’s gone badly wrong.”
His words are all mixed up with the alcohol blurring my brain, everything seems to be spinning around me.
“What’s that you’re saying?”
“We’re lost!”
“But how? Tell me everything.”
“What difference does it make? The driver wanted the whole lot for himself. They got him and he’s going to give everything away. He’s probably done it already.”
“What do we do? What are you going to do?” My mouth has gone dry.
“We’re finished. I’m going to do what the devil tells me.”
He rings off.
I’m trembling, shaking so badly that I can hardly stay on my feet. I think of running away, but the waiter is watching me. I go back to the table. But I can’t sit down. I drink off what’s left in my glass, pay my bill, and walk out. But terror—suffocating, hopeless—is closing in on me. I can’t fight it. I head for the bar, order a whole bottle, and find myself drinking madly, while the bartender watches in alarm, glass after glass, gulping it down without a pause or a word or a look around me. Then I’m looking up at him.
“A razor, please.”
The bartender smiles, but does not move.
I say it again. “A razor, please!”
He hesitates a little, but when he sees the look on my face he calls a waiter, who comes back from somewhere with a used blade. “Thanks.” I put it in my pocket. Now I’m turning away from the bar and walking out toward the front door. I’m reeling. Not from drunkenness. From desperation. Haste. I’m crossing the road, and I wish I had the strength left in me to run.
I have no hope. No hope.
5. Amer Wagdi
My peace had been destroyed by all these incidents. I had taken asylum in Mariana’s pension hoping to live quietly in my old age and to find consolation in my memories for the unbearably cruel disappointment of the last years of my career. It had not occurred to me that it would turn into an arena of brutal conflict, ending with violence and even murder.
When a little energy had welled up in me again, I joined Mariana and Tolba Marzuq for our usual gathering in the hall. I wished to see Zohra, but Mariana’s hysterics and Tolba’s scowls prohibited it. I didn’t wish to bring her into such an atmosphere which would be intensified by her woes and would not respect them. I understood that Hosny Allam had gone out at his usual hour. He had been upset by the terrible news for a while, but soon seemed to forget it altogether. Mansour Bahy, on the other hand, behaving quite unlike his usual self, was still in bed asleep.
“Here’s a miserable ending to the year,” complained Mariana. “I wonder what the New Year has in store for us.”
“A lot of trouble, no doubt!” said Tolba irritably.
“As long as we’re not to blame…” I muttered.
He snapped, “You’re protected by your old age.”
We heard Mansour’s door open; he was on his way to the bathroom. Half an hour later he went back to his room. A little after that he came out from behind the screen, his eyes clouded. Madame told him his breakfast was ready, but he refused it with a shake of his head, not saying a word. It upset us all to see him in this condition. Madame was the first to speak.
“Won’t you sit down, Monsieur Mansour? Are you all right?”
“Quite all right.” He still stood. “I’ve overslept, that’s all.”
Madame pointed to the newspaper spread out on the sofa.
“Haven’t you heard the news?” He didn’t seem interested. “Sarhan al-Beheiry was found dead on the road to the Palma.”
He gazed into her eyes, showing no surprise or alarm, just starin
g at her, as if he had not heard or did not understand. Or perhaps he was more seriously ill than we had imagined. Mariana offered him the paper. He looked at it blankly for a while, then read in silence. We were all watching him. Then he looked up.
“Yes, he was found dead—murdered.”
“Do sit down,” I said. “You’re tired.”
“I’m all right,” he replied coldly, probably not fully conscious of what he was saying.
“You can see we’re rather worried,” remarked Mariana.
He looked from one face to another.
“Why?”
“Well, we’re afraid the police will come. It will be very upsetting.”
“They won’t come.”
“But the police, don’t you know…” began Tolba Marzuq.
“I killed Sarhan al-Beheiry,” said Mansour. Then, before we had understood what he said, he walked to the door, opened it, and looked back at us. “I’m going to the police myself.”
He closed the door behind him. We looked at one another in amazement and for a moment were all struck dumb.
“He’s mad,” said Mariana, panic-stricken.
“No, he’s sick,” I said.
“Maybe he did kill him,” said Tolba Marzuq after a pause.
“That timid, well-behaved young man?”
“He’s certainly sick,” I said, feeling sorry for the boy.
“But why should he kill him?” wondered Mariana.
“Why should he confess that he did it?” wondered Tolba in his turn.
“I’ll never forget his face,” said Mariana. “Something has touched his brain.”
Tolba went on with his theorizing. “He was the last one to fight with Sarhan.”
I protested that everyone had fought with him.
“There lies the cause,” he said, pointing to Zohra’s room.
I began to be angry. “But he’s the only one who hasn’t shown any special interest in her.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t in love with her, or that he didn’t wish to take revenge on a rival.”
“My dear sir, Sarhan left her.”
“Yes, he left her. But he took her heart and her honor.”
“Do shut up. Don’t accuse people like that.”
“Will he really go to the police?” said Mariana.
We went on talking heatedly until we were exhausted and finally I called a halt.
“That’s enough,” I said. “We’ll submit to what Providence decrees.”
Or as darkness on a vast, abysmal sea.
There covereth him a wave, above which is a wave, above which is a cloud.
Layer upon layer of darkness.
When he holdeth out his hand he scarce can see it.
And he for whom Allah hath not appointed light, for him there is no light.
Hast thou not seen that Allah, He it is Whom all who are in the heavens and the earth praise, and the birds in their flight?
Of each He knoweth verily the worship and the praise: and Allah is aware of what they do.
And unto Allah belongeth the sovereignty of the heavens and the earth, and unto Allah is the journeying.
My eyes soon grew tired of reading. As I left my room it struck four. Mariana was writing in the hall.
“It’s the first time I’ve spent such a depressing New Year’s Eve,” she said. “It’s like a funeral.”
“No more of that, please,” said Tolba Marzuq.
“It’s like a curse on the place,” she went on angrily. “Zohra must go. She’ll have to earn her living somewhere else.”
I felt stabbed. “But, Mariana, what’s she done? She’s just unlucky. It’s not her fault. She’s turned to you in her trouble.”
“She’s brought bad luck with her.”
“Why don’t we celebrate the New Year?” said Tolba, snapping his fingers as if he’d found a bright idea.
“We?” I said. “How ridiculous!”
But he ignored me.
“Get ready, my dear,” he said to Mariana. “We’ll go out together as we planned.”
“But my nerves, Monsieur Tolba, my nerves…”
“That’s why I’m taking you out.”
And as far as they were concerned, everything was suddenly transformed.
Hosny Allam came in and announced his intention of moving out of the pension. When we told him about Mansour Bahy’s strange confession, he was genuinely surprised. He talked it over for a while, then shrugged his broad shoulders, went and packed his suitcase, said goodbye, and left.
“We’re back on our own, as we started,” I commented sadly when I saw him go.
Tolba said merrily, “Thank God for that!”
And suddenly they were bubbling with energy and excitement and there were no traces of anxiety left. Mariana was decked out as she would have been in the old days. She wore a dark blue evening gown that set off the whiteness of her skin, a black coat with a real fur collar, and gilded shoes; and she had put on diamond earrings and a string of pearls. Covering the signs of age with maquillage, she seemed to have reverted to the days of her famous beauty. As she stood in the hall, theatrically posed, we looked at each other. And she laughed with joy, like a young girl.
“I’ll wait for you,” she said to Tolba as she went out, “at the hairdresser’s.”
—
I was all by myself, with nothing to keep me company but the howling of the wind. I called for Zohra. I had to call her three times before she finally appeared from behind the screen. She stood there, looking inexpressibly sad and broken, until it seemed to me as if she had actually become bent and shrunken. I pointed to the sofa. Without a word she crossed the room and sat down, under the statue of the Madonna. She folded her arms and looked down at the floor. My heart was so filled with tenderness and compassion for her that tears, too feeble at this late period in my life to give me the relief of weeping, sprang to my eyes.
“Why do you sit there alone, as if you were without friends? Listen. I’m an old man, very old, as you see. I stumbled in my life three or four times. When that happened, I would cry, ‘It’s all over!’ and wish I could kill myself. But here I am, as you see, at an age that very few live to. And all that’s left of those terrible times of despair are vague memories, without odor, taste, or significance. They might have happened to someone else.”
She listened without response.
“Let’s leave grief to time, which wears away iron and stone. You must think of your future. The truth is, Madame doesn’t want you to stay.”
“I don’t care!”
“What are your plans for the future?”
“Just what they were,” she said, looking at the floor. “Until I get what I want.”
I sensed a strength of will in her that reassured me. “It’s right that you should go on with your plan of learning a profession. But how will you live?”
“I’m offered work at every turn.” She spoke with both confidence and defiance.
“What about your village?” I said gently, trying to be persuasive. “Won’t you consider going home?”
“No. They don’t think well of me.”
“What about Mahmoud Abu al-Abbas?” I was almost begging her. “He has his faults, but you’re strong. You could certainly reform him.”
“He’s no better than anyone at home.”
I gave up. “I’d so like to see you happy and well, Zohra.” I sighed. “I’m very fond of you and I know you like me. And I hope you’ll come to me if you’re ever in trouble or need.” She looked at me with affectionate gratitude. “However painful your past experience has been, life will still be the same. You’ll still go on looking for the one man who can make you happy.” She lowered her head and sighed. “And you will find the man who is worthy of you. He’s there now, somewhere. Perhaps he’s been waiting for the right happy moment to meet you.”
She murmured something I couldn’t understand, but I had the feeling that what she had said was right.
�
��Life is still good,” I said. “And it will always be so.”
We sat together for a while, between harmony and silence. After some time, she excused herself and went to her room.
I had fallen asleep in my chair and woke up at the sound of the door opening. Mariana and Tolba came in singing. They were drunk. Tolba shouted, “What are you doing up so late, old man?”
“What’s the time?” I asked, yawning, rather startled.
“We are two hours into the New Year,” said Mariana in a blurred, intoxicated voice. The man pulled her after him to his room, kissing her, and she followed after a halfhearted show of resistance. The door closed behind them. I sat looking at it as if in a dream.
—
Madame did not come to the table and after setting breakfast Zohra left Tolba and me alone. He had a hangover.
“Lovely morning,” I said, pulling his leg. “And congratulations.”
He ignored me for some time, then murmured, “It’s your evil eye!” But he soon burst out laughing. “It was such a flop, a double fiasco—ludicrous and humiliating at the same time.”
I pretended not to understand.
“You know what I mean, you old fox!”
“Mariana?”
He could not help laughing again. “We tried everything you could imagine. In vain. When she took off her clothes she looked like a wax mummy. ‘What in the world have we sunk to now?’ I said to myself.”
“You must have been out of your mind.”
“Then she had a kidney attack. Started crying, if you can imagine. Said I was mutilating her!”
After breakfast he followed me into my room and sat down facing me.
“I think I’ll go to Kuwait soon. Our departed friend prophesied I would.”
“Departed friend?”
“Sarhan al-Beheiry.” He gave a short laugh. “He tried to reconcile me to the Revolution with the most curious argument. He assured me that the only alternatives to the Revolution were either the Communists or the Brotherhood. And he thought he’d covered it all!”
I could not see that he hadn’t. “But that’s the truth.”
“There is a third alternative,” he said mockingly. “What’s that?”
“America.”
Miramar Page 15
