The Time and the Place

by Naguib Mahfouz

  The old man replied with a sigh. “The unlucky man finds bones in liver!”

  Heads turned to him from over their water pipes and glasses of cinnamon tea.

  “Na’ima,” he said with meaningful terseness.

  “What about her? Has Hamli done something wrong?”

  The man shook his turbaned head and said, “Hamli has nothing to do with my worries. I met el-A’war, the boss of Da’bas, and he greeted me with extraordinary friendliness—then he told me he wants to marry Na’ima.”

  Eyes sparkled with interest and disquiet, then the driver of a donkey cart asked, “And what did you say to him?”

  “I was all confused. With great difficulty I told him I’d read the Fatiha for her with Hamli and he shouted, ‘EI-A’war himself comes to you and you talk to him of Hamli?’ The fact of the matter is, I panicked.”

  “And then?”

  The wrinkles of the old man’s face filled with disgust. “Without knowing what I was doing I stretched out my hand and recited the Fatiha with him.”

  “And what about Hamli’s Fatiha?”

  “I met with him and confessed my dilemma. The good lad was unhappy, but he went off without saying anything.”

  The men exchanged looks in silence, and the vacuum was filled with the gurgling sounds of the water pipes. The café owner decided to soften the old man’s pain and said magnanimously, “You’re not to blame. Any one of us in your place would have behaved as you did. Say a prayer to the good Lord and take it easy.”

  “But the trouble doesn’t stop there,” said the old man, striking himself with his clenched fist.

  “And can there be anything worse?” enquired the café owner in astonishment.

  “Two hours after el-A’war’s Fatiha, I found Gu’ran, the boss of Halwagi, in front of me.”

  “God save us! And what did he want?”

  “Also Na’ima!”

  The owner of the café brought the palms of his hands together, then raised his face to the ceiling of the café as though addressing himself to the heavens. The old man said, “He stood in my path like divine fate. I didn’t know what to say or do. Then I found myself compelled to confess to him about el-A’-war’s Fatiha.”

  “May we all be preserved!”

  “He said, ‘You blind old driveler, I say Gu’ran and you tell me el-A’war?’ The truth is that I panicked. Not knowing what I was doing, I held out my hand and recited the Fatiha!”

  “And what about el-A’war’s Fatiha?”

  The old man, in a state of complete collapse, said, “That’s just the trouble—so come to my rescue!”

  They at once perceived that the trouble had a direct bearing on Farghana itself, and that once again their alley was threatened with destruction. They all cast about for some solution, until a blind Koran reciter spoke. “She can’t marry the two of them, that’s out of the question. And she can’t marry one rather than the other, because that spells death.” Then he removed his turban and scratched his head for a long time without coming up with any answers.

  The lupine-seed seller had a suggestion. “Let her marry Hamli in secret.”

  Many answered him in a single voice. “Not Abu Zeid al-Hilali* himself could marry her now.”

  When too much thinking had wearied their heads in vain, the Koran reciter said, “Say a prayer with me: ‘O Munificent Possessor of Mercies, save us from what we fear!’ ”

  In the morning people found a strange commotion going on in an abandoned warehouse in the alley. There was a group of builders, carpenters, and laborers working with great determination in the warehouse, getting it ready for a new life. Over the entrance had been fixed a large notice reading FARGHANA POLICE STATION. Then along came some policemen with an officer, who took over the new place. People gathered in front of the police station, and an old policeman told them, “The Commandant is angry—the violence must cease.”

  Some said that God had answered their prayers, but their hearts were not put at rest. Everything around them convinced them that violence was stronger than the government. During their whole lives they had not seen a single policeman challenging one of the big bosses, whereas the bosses challenged the law every moment of the day and night. No one had forgotten how the superintendent of the Daher police station had one day sought the help of Halwagi’s big boss, Gu’ran, against a Greek drug dealer who enjoyed the protection of the French government and was threatening to kill him. How then could this small police station, these few men, possibly put an end to violence?

  The young officer with the two gold stars and the red braid came out and seated himself in a cane chair by the entrance to the police station, then sent a policeman to the Mulberry Café to bring him a narghile—a water pipe. He was around twenty-five years of age, slenderly built, and with coarse features; there was nothing remarkable about him apart from a large head with crinkly hair. He looked at the assembled crowd and said with a strange simplicity, “Othman al-Galali, your obedient servant. Don’t be afraid, the government is with you.”

  The people ingratiated themselves with him by smiling doltishly, and nobody said a word. Taking up the flexible tube of the narghile, he continued. “It’s a disgrace for men to live like women. Don’t let anyone get the upper hand of you.”

  When he did not find a single indication of encouragement, he said with a certain sharpness that signaled his impatience, “And whoever shields a criminal I shall treat as a criminal.”

  Their eyes blinking in confusion, the people then dispersed one by one, all safely getting out of the way. The officer explored the quarter with some of his men. He made the rounds of Da’bas and Halwagi, and wherever he went he was followed by looks. From windows and cafés and nooks and crannies, he was the target for stares of timidity, derision, or resentment. He passed by el-A’war, who ignored him, and he passed by Gu’ran, who ignored him and then gave out a resounding laugh, and all the while Othman remained calm.

  Everyone realized that he was parading the prestige of the government, and Gu’ran resolved to take him unawares with a decisive response. In the late afternoon of the same day, a bloody battle broke out between Halwagi and Da’bas on the open ground of the threshing floor, and the news of it spread like fire in the wood store. Laithi’s weak heart trembled, and Farghana’s joints turned to water. Many people advised the father to marry his daughter to Gu’ran, for he was after all the stronger of the two. It would be the lesser of two evils.

  The following morning Othman made his appearance wearing a galabeya just like all the other inhabitants of the quarter. At first the people could not believe their eyes, but his identity was confirmed by his well-known voice. “For the benefit of those who were frightened by the uniform, I have taken it off. So now let the tough guys come to me if they are truly men.”

  He moved off from the police station alone, without allowing a single policeman to follow him. Instead he was followed by stupefied men, women, and young boys. He made his way to Halwagi with a resolution not seen in anyone before him, until he was standing in front of the Hazel Café, where Gu’ran was to be found among his companions and followers. Othman said quietly, yet with a frowning face that clearly threatened, “Yesterday you challenged the government. Now here I am, alone amid you, demanding my share of being challenged, so let any real man among you step forward.”

  A young man named Inaba insolently wiggled his belly a few feet away from the officer, who turned suddenly and gave him a violent blow in the stomach, at which the man fell motionless to the ground. Everyone was stupefied at this unexpected show of courage, while the onlookers backed away. All eyes were fixed on Gu’ran, sitting squat-legged on a couch, enveloped in his cloak. For the first time Gu’ran looked into the face of the officer. “Without reason you attacked a companion of mine.”

  “He deserved to be taught some manners and I did so, and your turn will come right away,” shouted Othman.

  “You’re young,” said Gu’ran, his face disfigured with scars, “so,
for the sake of your family, take yourself off.”

  “Get up if you’re a man, and step forward.”

  Derisively Gu’ran made no movement. Othman took several steps toward him, and speedily Gu’ran’s bodyguards grouped themselves in front of their master.

  “Do I see you hiding behind a wall of cowards?” said the officer scornfully.

  “Stand aside,” Gu’ran called to his men.

  They quickly dispersed, like pigeons after a shot has been fired. Gu’ran leaped up. He was of medium height, with a compact body and thick neck. “Where are your policemen?” he inquired.

  To this the officer replied with fury. “I’ll beat you the way you beat others….” And with the suddenness of a thunderbolt he gave Gu’ran a humiliating slap. Gu’ran screamed out angrily and sprang at him, and the two became locked in mortal combat. This was an amazing moment, which to this day the quarter has not forgotten: it was like the storied battle between the elephant and the tiger. It was a battle decisive in the quarter’s history, and it changed its course forever. Every tough in Gu’ran’s bodyguard, and indeed among el-A’war’s men too, read his fate in it.

  Gu’ran, with all the savagery in his blood, wanted to squeeze the life out of Othman between his iron arms, but the officer relied upon his agility and quick punches, an art wholly unknown to Gu’ran. The officer’s punches landed on his enemy’s jaws, chest, stomach, and crooked nose, and Gu’ran screamed with crazed anger. “I’ll be cursed if I don’t drink your blood!”

  The men, prevented by their traditions from participating in the battle, shouted, “Death…death to him, Master!”

  Screams, shouts, and general clamor rose up. The whole quarter was assembled under the vaulted tunnel that divided Halwagi from Farghana. Na’ima stood there trembling with excitement, nervously clutching at her father’s hand as she described to him what was happening, what his feeble eyes were unable to see for themselves.

  Gu’ran’s head spun with the blows that rained down on him. His movements grew slower, his arms sagged, and his eyes stared out unseeingly. “The monster has fallen to his knees,” called out Na’ima joyfully.

  He had indeed fallen. Bent double like a bear, with his head sunk into the dust, he then collapsed on his side. Dozens of cudgels were raised aloft, at which Othman, out of breath, called out, “You women!”

  The men backed away in shame, while one of them shouted at him, “Soon they’ll be reciting the Fatiha over your dead body.”

  Othman took to roaming the quarters in his ordinary galabeya and the strange legend that had grown around him saw to it that he was received with respect wherever he went. Whenever he came across a tough, big or small, he would block his way and demand that the man say, for everyone to hear, “I’m a woman.” If there was any hesitation, he would hurl himself at the tough and flatten him to the ground. Every day would bring battles that the officer would enter boldly and emerge from victorious. Only a few months were to pass before the toughs departed from Da’bas and Halwagi, and no one was left but old men, women, and children, or those who went about with lowered eyes and had washed their hands of violence. The weak felt as if they had been born anew, and they looked at the officer with affection and esteem in their eyes.

  Uncle Laithi grew sick, lost his sight completely, and took to his bed, and Na’ima wandered around on her own with the handcart of liver. As the days passed she became increasingly beautiful, aided by the reputation she had gained from el-A’war and Gu’ran having recently competed for her. The alley expected from one moment to the next that she would be betrothed to some suitable bridegroom. Then, one night, Handas, the lad at the café, whispered to those gathered there for the evening, “Have you seen how the officer looks at Na’ima?” No one had noticed anything, so he went on. “He devours her with his eyes.”

  Each one, from his own vantage point, proceeded to observe Na’ima. They perceived that she usually made her pitch with her handcart by the wall opposite the police station; that Othman would steal glances at her with noticeable interest, his eyes exploring the places of particular beauty in her face and body; and that when calling out her wares, the inflection of Na’ima’s voice would be tinged with coquetry. In her sidelong glances and in every movement in her dealings there were feminine nuances directed at a man deserving of attention. As one of the café habitués, on a subsequent evening, said, “He devours her and she likes being devoured.”

  “And poor Uncle Laithi?” muttered the café owner.

  “Who knows?” said the lupine-seed seller. “Perhaps the officer has asked the old man to be his father-in-law!”

  “Nothing is too difficult for God,” said the blind Koran reciter.

  The others’ eyes, though, bespoke the extent of their hopelessness. “He’s stronger than Gu’ran and el-A’war together,” said a young man, “and heaven help anyone who lets out so much as a squeak.”

  And Na’ima stood in the moonlight, checking through the day’s takings and singing, “Before him I was a fool.” But, desiring peace, the young men steered clear of her, saying that no girl sang like that unless she was in love.

  Not many nights were to pass before Handas returned with news. “Everything has come to light—I saw the two of them yesterday at the Shubra wasteland…”

  “Have a fear of God!” warned the owner of the café.

  “She was standing—God be praised—in front of the cart, and the officer was eating the liver like a wild animal.”

  “It’s quite natural,” said the Koran reciter. “It happens to everyone.”

  “But at the Shubra wasteland!” exclaimed Handas. “Didn’t you hear, sir? I called on God’s mercy for poor Uncle Laithi.”

  Sadness penetrated to the depths of their hearts. Then the café owner said, “Her father’s decrepit, but it’s the honor of the whole quarter.”

  “The quarter itself is too decrepit to defend her honor,” said the lupine-seed seller.

  Shame turned their faces sullen, and they were astonished that this should come from the man who had bestowed peace upon them. The narghile and its tobacco had no taste for them. “And what’s to be done?” asked the young man.

  “Just say ‘I’m a woman,’ ” said the blind Koran reciter.

  Na’ima noticed the silence and contempt that enclosed her, and she began making up to this one and that, testing her doubts, but she encountered a wall of rancor. She was not afraid of being attacked, safe in the knowledge that the toughest of the toughs was to be found at his place outside the police station, but she suffered a lonely isolation. She kept her head raised proudly, yet the look in her honey-colored eyes was as a withered leaf, devoid of any spirit. At the slightest passing friction she would flare up in rage and be ready for a fight. She would curse and swear, and shout at her victim, “I’m more honorable than your mother.” And all the while the officer would be seated in the cane chair, smoking his narghile and stretching out his legs halfway across the alley. His body had filled out, his stomach was paunchy, and there was a lofty look in his eyes. His ardor, though, had subsided, and it seemed that Na’ima herself no longer aroused his feelings. Those who, despite everything, had not forgotten the benefits he had brought, sighed and said, “What will be will be.”

  Na’ima now spent only the shortest time possible in the alley and would then wander far afield into different quarters and not return until night. Because she was always edgy and spoiling for a fight, her features had become stern and sullen, the look in her eyes frigid. She had become marked by a certain dullness which showed that old age was rushing toward her without mercy.

  When that magic of hers that had turned the officer’s head had faded—or so it appeared to curious eyes—there were whispers in the corners of the Mulberry Café. In the moments of silence the gurgling of the water pipes could be heard in the dying light of the alley like a succession of mocking laughs.

  * * *

  *A folk hero.

  At the Bus Stop

 
The clouds gathered and grew denser like night descending, then the drizzle came down. The road was swept by a cold wind full of the aroma of humidity. The passersby quickened their pace, except for a group that had collected under the bus shelter. The ordinariness of the scene would almost have frozen it into inactivity, had it not been for a man who rushed headlong like a madman out of a side street and disappeared into another street opposite. Following on his heels was a group of men and youths who were shouting, “Thief…catch the thief!” The uproar gradually decreased then suddenly died out, with the drizzle continuing. The road emptied, or almost so; as for those gathered under the shelter, some were waiting for the bus while others had retreated there for fear of getting wet. The noise of the chase again revived, becoming louder as it grew closer. Then the pursuers came into view as the men laid hands on the thief, while around them the youths cheered with high-pitched voices. Halfway across the road, the thief tried to make his escape, so they took hold of him and fell upon him with slaps and kicks. Receiving such a violent beating, he resisted and struck out at random. The eyes of those standing under the shelter were firmly fixed on the battle.

  “What a cruel beating they’re giving him!”

  “There’ll be a crime worse than theft!”

  “Look—there’s a policeman standing at the entrance to a building, watching!”

  “But he’s turned his face away!”

  The drizzle increased so that for a while it formed an uninterrupted sequence of silver-colored threads, then the rain fairly poured down. The road emptied of all but those fighting and those standing under the shelter. Exhausted, the men then stopped their exchange of blows with the thief and surrounded him; puffing and blowing, they exchanged inaudible words with him. Then, heedless of the rain, they became engrossed in a weighty discussion that no one could make out. Their clothes clinging to their bodies, they continued determinedly with their discussion, without paying the least attention to the rain. The thief’s movements expressed the vehemence of his defense, but no one believed him. He waved his arms about as though he were making a speech, but his voice was drowned by the distance and the heavy downpour of rain. There was no doubt that he was delivering a speech and that the men were listening to him. Under the rain, they gazed mutely at him. The eyes of those standing under the shelter remained fixed on them.