Palace Walk tct-1

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Fahmy finally grew uncomfortable at dominating the session, after he had ascertained that the emotions he felt were too great to be relieved by a conversation with Yasin in this setting, where the latter, even if sympathetic, still played the part of a spectator. Fahmy’s soul urged him to join his comrades at the coffee shop of Ahmad Abduh, where he would find hearts as responsive as his own and souls that vied with his to express the perceptions and ideas raging inside. There he would hear an echo of the anger crackling in his heart. He would be able to formulate his daring and unruly impulses in a splendid atmosphere of yearning for total freedom. Fahmy leaned toward Yasin and whispered, "To Ahmad Abduh’s coffee shop".

  Yasin sighed deeply, because he had begun to wonder with great discomfort about some graceful way of slipping out of the coffee hour to go off in search of entertainment without adding any more fuel to Fahmy’s flaming anger. Yasin’s grief had not been fabricated, at least not entirely. The momentous news shook his heart, but left to his own devices he would have forgotten it without much effort. In view of the strain on his nerves of trying to keep up with Fahmy, to flatter him and show respect for his unprecedented anger, Yasin left the room saying to himself, "I've done enough for the nationalist movement today. Now it’s my body’s turn".

  54

  Fahmy opened his eyes when he heard the sound of dough being pounded in the oven room. The shutters were closed, and the room was almost dark except for the pale light coming through the openings between the slats. He could hear Kamal’s regular breathing and turned his head toward his brother’s nearby bed. Memories of his life, fresh this morning, swarmed through his mind. He was waking up from a deep sleep resulting from his total exhaustion of mind and body. He had not known whether he would wake up in this bed or never wake up again. He had not known, nor had anyone else, for death was roaming the streets of Cairo and dancing along its arcades.

  How amazing! Here was his mother making bread as always. Here was Kamal, sound asleep, rolling around as he dreamt. Yasin’s footsteps overhead indicated that he had wrenched himself out of bed. His father was probably taking a cold shower. Here was the morning light, both splendid and shy. Its first rays were gently seeking entry. Everything was proceeding as usual, as though nothing had happened, as though Egypt had not been turned upside down, as though bullets were not searching for chests and heads, as though innocent blood was not enriching the earth and walls. The young man closed his eyes with a sigh. He smiled at the swelling current of his emotions that carried zeal, sorrow, and belief in successive waves.

  During the last four days he had lived a life of far greater scope than he ever had known before. His only comparable experience had been in shadowy daydreams. It was a pure, lofty life, ready to sacrifice itself in good conscience for the sake of something glorious, a goal worthier and more exalted than life itself. It did not care whether it risked death, which it greeted resolutely and attacked scornfully. If it escaped from death’s clutches once, it returned to attack again, shunning any consideration of possible consequences. This life always had its eyes fixed undeviatingly on a magnificent light and was driven by an irresistible force. It submitted its fate to God, whom it felt encompassing it like the air.

  Life considered as a means to something else was despicable. It was less significant than an atom. Life considered as an end in itself was so exalted it was equal to the heavens and the earth. Life and death were brothers. They were like one hand in the service of one hope. Life strengthened this hope with exertion, and death strengthened it with sacrifice. If the awesome upheaval had not occurred, Fahmy would have perished from grief and distress. He could not have stood for life to have continued on in its calm, deliberate way, treading beneath it the destinies and hopes of men. The upheaval had been necessary to relieve the pressure in the nation’s breast and in his own. It was like an earthquake providing relief to the pressures that accumulate inside the earth.

  When the struggle began, it found him ready. He threw himself into the midst of it. When and how had that happened? He was riding a streetcar to Giza on his way to the Law School when he found himself in a band of students who were waving their fists and protesting: "Sa'd, who expressed what was in our hearts, has been banished. If Sa'd does not return to continue his efforts, we should be sent into exile with him".

  The other passengers, their fellow citizens, joined in their discussion and threats. Even the conductor neglected his work and stopped to listen and talk with them. What a moment!.. After a dark night of grief and despair, Fahmy’s hope shone anew. He was certain that this blazing fire would not grow cold.

  When they reached the courtyard of the school, it was swarming with clamorous students creating a great uproar. Their hearts raced ahead of them as they rushed to their colleagues. They sensed that something was brewing. Someone immediately began calling for a strike… That was new and unheard of then. While they were shouting for a strike with their law books under their arms, the head of the Law School, Mr. Walton, came to greet them with unusual graciousness and advised them to enter their classrooms. In response, a young man climbed up the stairway leading to the secretary’s office and began to address them with extraordinary zeal. All the dean could do was withdraw.

  Fahmy listened to the speech with rapt attention. His eyes were fixed on the speaker, and his heart was beating rapidly. He would have liked to climb up there too and pour out the contents of his raging heart, but he did not have a background in public speaking. He was content for someone else to repeat the outbursts of his own heart. He listened to the speaker attentively and enthusiastically until the first pause. Then Fahmy shouted along with all his comrades at the same time, "Independence!"

  He listened to the continuation of the speech with an interest enlivened by the shouting. When the speaker reached a second stopping point, Fahmy cried out with everyone else, "Down with the Protectorate!" Then, his body rigid with emotion and his teeth clenched to hold back the tears inspired by the agitation of his soul, he kept on listening until the speaker reached his third stopping place. With all the others, he shouted, "Long live Sa'd!" That was a new chant. Everything seemed new that day, but this was a ravishing chant. Deep inside him, his heart reverberated to it and kept repeating it with its successive beats, as though echoing his tongue. But the cry on his tongue was actually echoing his heart.

  He remembered now that his heart had repeated this chant silently all through the night prior to the uprising. He had spent that night in grief and distress. His stifled emotions, love, enthusiasm, aspirations, idealism, and dreams had been scattered in disarray until the voice of Sa'd had rung out. They had been drawn to him like a pigeon floating in the sky drawn back by its master’s whistle.

  Before they knew what was happening, Mr. Amos, the assistant British judicial counsel in the Ministry of Justice, was making his way through their midst. They greeted him with a single chant: "Down with the Protectorate!" He was gruff with them and not even civil, advising them to return to their lessons and leave politics to their fathers.

  At that point one of them protested: "Our fathers have been imprisoned. We won't study law in a land where the law is trampled underfoot".

  The cry from the depths of their hearts resounded like a peal of thunder, and the man quickly withdrew. For a second time, Fahmy wished he were the speaker. How many ideas were swarming through his mind, but other students proclaimed them first. His enthusiasm became even more intense. He was consoled by the fact that what he expected to happen would more than compensate for anything he had missed.

  Matters progressed rapidly. Someone called for them to leave the school. They went of if in a demonstration, heading for the School of Engineering, where the students joined them at once, and then on to Agriculture, where the students rushed out chanting as though they had been expecting them. They went to Medicine and Commerce. As soon as they reached al-Sayyida Zaynab Square they merged with a mass demonstration of citizens. Shouts were raised for Egypt, independence,
and Sa'd. With every step they took, they gained more enthusiasm, confidence, and faith, because of the impulsive participation and spontaneous response of their fellow citizens. They encountered people whose souls were primed, reeling with anger that found expression in their demonstration.

  Fahmy’s astonishment that the demonstration had occurred almost overpowered his feelings about the demonstration itself. He wondered, "How did all this happen?" Only a few hours had passed since morning, when he had been despondent and dejected. Now here he was a little before noon taking part in a turbulent demonstration where he discovered in every other heart an echo of his own, repeating his chant and imploring him not to hesitate but to persevere to the end. How joyful he was and how enthusiastic… His spirit soared off into the heavens with boundless hope. It regretted the despair that had overcome it and was ashamed of the suspicions it had entertained about innocent people.

  In al-Sayyida Zaynab Square he witnessed another of the novel scenes of that amazing day. He was one of those who saw groups of mounted policemen commanded by an English officer advancing on them, trailing plumes of dust behind the horses. The earth shook with their hoofbeats. He could well remember how he had stared at them in dismay. He had never before found himself exposed to such unexpected danger.

  He looked around him at faces that glowed with enthusiasm and anger. He sighed nervously, but kept on waving his fist and chanting. The mounted policemen surrounded them. Of the formidable ocean in which he was surging he could only observe a limited area and even there everyone else was craning his head to see. Then they heard that the police had arrested many students, those who had confronted them defiantly or had been at the head of the demonstration. For the third time that day he had an unfulfilled wish. He wished he were one of those arrested, but he could not have extricated himself from the band he was in without extraordinary effort.

  That day had been relatively peaceful compared with the next. Monday morning began with a general strike and a demonstration in which all the schools participated, carrying their banners, together with untold throngs of citizens. Egypt had come back to life. It was a new country. Its citizens rushed to crowd into the streets to prepare for battle with an anger that had been concealed for a long time. Fahmy threw himself into the swarms of people with intoxicating happiness and enthusiasm, like a displaced person rediscovering his family after a long separation.

  The demonstration, which was thronged by onlookers, passed by the homes of influential politicians, voicing its protests in various terms, until it reached Ministries Street. Then a violent disturbance passed through the swarms of people and someone shouted, "The English!" Bullets immediately started flying and drowned out the sound of the protesters. The first fatalities occurred. Some people continued on with insane zeal, while others seemed nailed to the ground. Many separated off and sought shelter in homes and coffeehouses. Fahmy was in this last category. He slipped into a doorway, his heart beating wildly in alarm. He stopped thinking about anything except his life. He stayed there for he knew not how long until silence prevailed everywhere. Then he stuck out his head, followed by his feet, and set off for home, incredulous that he had survived. He was in a kind of daze when he reached his house. In his sorrowful solitude he wished that he had been one of the departed or at least one of those who had held their ground. In a blaze of harsh self-criticism, Fahmy promised his stern conscience to act more thoughtfully the next time. Fortunately the arena for thoughtful action was vast and near at hand.

  Tuesday and Wednesday were like Sunday and Monday. They were comparable in both their joys and sorrows. There were demonstrations and chants, bullets and victims. Fahmy threw himself totally into all of this. Driven by his enthusiasm, he reached far-flung horizons of lofty sentiment. He was troubled that he was still alive and regretted his escape. His zeal and hopes were doubled by the spread of the spirit of anger and revolution. It was not long before the tramway workers, the drivers and street sweepers went on strike. The capital appeared sad, angry, desolate. There was good news that attorneys and civil servants were about to strike. The heart of the nation was throbbing. It was alive and in rebellion. The blood would not have been shed in vain. The exiled leaders would not be forgotten. A self-conscious awakening had rocked the Nile Valley.

  The young man rolled over in bed. He turned his mind away from the deluge of memories and began to follow the beats of the dough once more. He looked around the room, slowly becoming visible as the sun rose outside the closed shutters. His mother was making bread! She would continue to knead the dough morning after morning. God forbid that anything should distract her from concentrating her attention on preparing the meals, washing the clothes, or cleaning the furnishings. Great activities would not interfere with minor ones. Society would always be flexible enough to embrace exalted and trivial matters and to welcome both equally. But not so fast… Was a mother not part of life? She had given birth to him, and sons fueled the revolution. She fed him, and nourishment fueled the sons. In fact, nothing about life was trivial. But would not some day come when a great event would rock all the Egyptians, leaving none of the differences of opinion that had been present at the coffee hour five days ago? How remote that day seemed… Then a smile came to his lips when this question leapt into his mind: What would his father do if he learned about his continual struggle, day after day? What would his tyrannical, despotic father do about it and his tender, affectionate mother? He smiled anxiously, because he knew he would be exposed to problems no less significant than if the military authority itself should learn his secret.

  He pulled back the covers and sat up in bed murmuring, "It’s all the same whether I live or die. Faith is stronger than death, and death is nobler than ignominy. Let’s enjoy the hope, compared to which life seems unimportant. Welcome to this new morning of freedom. May God carry out whatever He has decreed".

  55

  No one could claim any longer that the revolution had not changed at least some aspect of his life. Even Kamal’s freedom to go to school and return by himself, which he had enjoyed for a long time, was affected by a development he found obnoxiously burdensome, although he could not prevent it. His mother had ordered Umm Hanafi to follow him on his way to and from school. She was not to let him out of her sight and to bring him home if they ran into a demonstration. He would not have a chance to loiter or obey any frivolous impulses.

  The news of the demonstrations and disturbances made the mother’s head spin. Her heart trembled at the savage attacks on the students. She spent gloomy days filled with alarm and panic, wishing she could keep her two sons at home until matters returned to normal. She was unable to achieve her goal, especially after Fahmy promised he would definitely not participate in any strike. Her confidence in his good sense had not been shaken. Her husband rejected the idea of keeping Kamal home from school, because he knew the school would prevent the younger pupils from participating in the strike. Reluctantly the mother agreed that the brothers could go to school, but she had stipulated Umm Hanafi’s supervision for Kamal, telling him, "If I were able to go out, I would follow you myself".

  Kamal had objected as forcefully as he could, because he realized intuitively that this supervisor, who would keep nothing about him secret from his mother, would put a decisive end to all the mischief and tricks he enjoyed in the street. That would destroy this brief, happy time of his day as he went from one of his prisons to the other: home and school. He was also intensely annoyed at walking down the street accompanied by this woman whose excessive weight and faltering step would certainly attract attention. He was forced to submit to her supervision, since his father had ordered him to accept her. The most he could do to comfort himself was to scold her whenever she got too close to him, since he had decreed that she should stay several meters behind him.

  In this manner they made their way to Khalil Agha School on Thursday morning, the fifth day of the demonstrations in Cairo. When they reached the door of the school, Umm Hanafi approached th
e gatekeeper and, acting according to her daily instructions received at home, asked him, "Are the pupils in the school?"

  The man answered her indifferently, "Some have gone in and others have left. The headmaster is not interfering with anyone".

  This answer was a bad surprise for Kamal. He was prepared to hear the response he had come to expect since Monday-namely: "The pupils are on strike". Then they would return home where he would spend the whole day in freedom. That made him love the revolution from afar. His soul urged him to flee to escape the consequences of this new reply. He told the gatekeeper, "I'm one of those who leave".

  He walked away from the school with the woman behind him. When she asked him why he had not gone in with the others who were staying, he implored her repeatedly, for the first time in his life, to deceive his mother by telling her that the pupils were on strike. To strengthen his entreaty and gain her affection, he prayed for her to have a long and happy life when they were passing by the mosque of al-Husayn. Umm Hanafi was unable to keep the truth, as she had heard it, from his mother, who chided him for being lazy and ordered the woman to take him back to school. They left the house again and Kamal treated her to a fierce tongue-lashing and accused her of treachery and betrayal.

  In school, he found only boys his age, the youngsters. The others, the overwhelming majority, were on strike. About a third of the pupils were present in his class, which contained a higher percentage of younger students than any other. The teacher ordered them to review the previous lessons. Meanwhile he busied himself correcting their exercises and ignored them as though they actually were on strike. Kamal opened a book. He pretended to read but paid no attention to the book. He did not like staying at school with nothing to do, when he could have been with the strikers or at home enjoying the vacation that these amazing days had unexpectedly granted him. He found school oppressive in a way he had not before.