The Seventh Heaven

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “First of all, do not call me, ‘Your Reverence,’” Abu rebuked him. “Second, we do not judge a thought itself even when it is false. Rather, we denounce submission to any idea, even if it is true.”

  “Such a cruel trial! Justice on earth is far more merciful.”

  “We will come to justice,” Abu reassured him. “How did you find your alley?”

  “Horrible,” spat Raouf. “Most of the people there are poor beggars. They are controlled by a man who monopolizes all the food—and who has bought the loyalty of the shaykh of the hara. He kills, steals, and lives securely above the law.”

  “That is an accurate description,” Abu said. “What was your position toward all this?”

  “Rejection, rebellion, and a genuine desire to change everything.”

  “Thank you. What did you do to achieve that?”

  “It wasn’t in my power to do anything!”

  “Do you want to rise to the Second Heaven?”

  “Why shouldn’t I rise?” Raouf shot back. “My heart and mind both rejected what was happening.”

  “And your tongue?”

  “Just one rebellious word would get it cut out.”

  “Yet even speech by itself would not satisfy our sacred tribunal,” warned Abu.

  “What kind of proceeding is this!” Raouf asked, his frustration growing. “What was I, after all, but a single individual?”

  “Our alley here is full of unfortunates,” rebutted Abu.

  “My first duty was to acquire knowledge!”

  “There is no dividing one’s trust—and no excuse for evading it.”

  “Wouldn’t one expect that would lead to violence?”

  “Virtues do not interest us,” said Abu dismissively. “What concerns us is truth.”

  “Doesn’t it help my case that I was murdered over love?”

  “Even that has an aspect which is not in your favor,” said Abu.

  Astonished, Raouf asked, “And what aspect is that?”

  “That you put your faith in Anous Qadri—when he is the very image of his tyrannical father.”

  “I never dreamed I was so guilty.”

  “Though you have some mitigating circumstances, my brief in defending you will not be easy,” worried Abu.

  “Ridiculous to think anyone has ever succeeded in being declared innocent in this court.”

  “Indeed, only a rare few discharge their full obligation to the world.”

  “Give me some examples,” Raouf challenged Abu.

  “Khalid bin Walid, and Gandhi.”

  “Those are two totally contradictory cases!”

  “The tribunal has another view,” said Abu. “The obligation itself is what matters.”

  “There’s no hope for me now.”

  “Do not despair—nor should you underestimate my long experience,” said Abu soothingly. “I will do the impossible to save you from condemnation.”

  “But what could you say on my behalf?”

  “I will say that you had a blameless beginning, under the most arduous conditions, and that much good was expected of you if you had only lived long enough. And that you were a loving, devoted, faithful son to your mother.”

  “The best I can hope for, then, is to be made someone’s spiritual guardian?” Raouf fretted.

  “This is a chance for you to recapture what had eluded you,” Abu consoled him. “In our world here, the human being only ascends according to his success on earth.”

  “Then, Mighty Advocate, why don’t you send down a guide for Boss Qadri the Butcher?”

  “There is no one who does not have their own guide.”

  “How then,” Raouf asked in confusion, “can evil continue?”

  “Do not forget that the human being has free will,” replied Abu. “In the end, everything depends upon the influence of the guide and the freedom of the individual.”

  “Wouldn’t it be in the cause of good to eliminate this freedom?”

  “The Will has determined that only the free may gain admission to the heavens.”

  “How could He not admit into heaven the pure saint of our alley, Shaykh Ashur?” Raouf remonstrated. “He doesn’t practice free will, for all he does or says is filled with righteous inspiration.”

  Abu smiled. “What is he but a creation of Qadri the Butcher? He interprets dreams in Qadri’s interests, relaying to him the private confidences from inside the houses that welcome his blessings!”

  Raouf lapsed into defeated silence. He absented himself for a moment amid the ripe greenery adorned with rows of blooming roses, surrendering to the place’s sweetness and grace. Then he said, sighing, “How tragic for a person to be forced to abandon this garden!”

  “Be warned—it is sinful to wish to evade your duty!” Abu scolded.

  “When shall I appear before the court?” Raouf asked.

  “The trial is finished,” announced Abu.

  Raouf stared at him in stupefaction.

  “The examination has been completed,” said Abu calmly. “The defense was raised during the discourse between you and me. The verdict has come down: you are to be commissioned as a spiritual guide. Congratulations!”

  3

  The court determined to hold Raouf Abd-Rabbuh in the First Heaven for a short time in order to cleanse him of any stains, in preparation for his mission. Abu stayed at his side till he had finished his training and acclimation, receiving returning guides at the same time.

  “I’d like to see Adolf Hitler,” said Raouf. “Will he be coming now?”

  “He was condemned, and has since been reborn in your very own alley. You saw him regularly.”

  “Hitler?”

  “He is Boss Qadri the Butcher.”

  Dumbfounded, Raouf became quiet, then asked, “So who would the shaykh of the hara, Shakir al-Durzi, be?”

  “Lord Balfour.”

  “And Shaykh Ashur, the false friend of God?”

  “He is Khunfus, betrayor of Urabi’s Revolution.”

  “I don’t see them changing or learning from their repeated experience.”

  “That is not always the case. Do you know who your mother was?”

  “Abu, she was an angel, surely!”

  “She was Rayya, the infamous serial killer; yet look how she has progressed!”

  Shaken, Raouf fell silent again. Just then Abu received the first of the incoming arrivals.

  The one who just arrived said, “I am trying as hard as I can.”

  “I am aware of that,” Abu answered, “but you must redouble your efforts, for the time has come for you to go up.”

  “I’m sure I know who that is,” Raouf said, when the man had disappeared. “Isn’t he Akhenaten?”

  “Indeed he is. He is not very fortunate, however, for his probation has stretched on now for thousands of years.”

  “But he was the first to bring the news that God is one!”

  “Verily, but he imposed the One God on the people by coercion, rather than by persuasion and rational argument. Hence, he made it easier for his enemies to later remove God from people’s hearts the same way—by force. If it were not for his clear conscience, he would have been condemned.”

  “Why has his period here been so prolonged?”

  “He did not succeed with any of those he was chosen to guide, such as Pharaoh-in-the-time-of-Moses, al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, and Abbas I.”

  “Who is his man now?”

  “Camille Chamoun.”

  The next arrival approached; he delivered a written report, uttered some stirring words, then vanished completely. “That was President Wilson!” Raouf exclaimed.

  “You are correct.”

  “I’d assumed he was one of the happy few who’d risen to the Second Heaven.”

  “You are no doubt referring to his sacred principles,” observed Abu. “But you forget that he neglected to use America’s power to implement them—and that he recognized the protectorate over Egypt.”

  “And who’s his man
?”

  “The eminent littérateur, Tawfiq al-Hakim.”

  When the third arrival had gone, Raouf declared, “That was Lenin—no doubt about it.”

  “Correct again,” affirmed Abu.

  “I’d have thought he’d be condemned on account of his atheism,” Raouf gasped. “What did you say in his defense?”

  “I said that in the stream of intellectual prattle, he changed the names—but not the essence—of things. Perishable matter he termed divine, assigning it some of the qualities of God—timelessness, creation, and control over the fate of the universe. He called the prophets scientists, the angels workers, and the devils the bourgeoisie. He also promised a paradise on earth, which exists in time and space. I extolled the power of his belief and his bravery, as well as his service to the laboring classes through sacrifice and self-denial. I added that what really mattered to God Almighty was whether good or bad befell humankind. As for He Himself—His majesty be praised— He has no need of human beings. Not all their faith can increase Him, nor their disbelief diminish Him. Hence, Lenin’s sentence was reduced—and he was appointed as a spiritual guide!”

  “Who did he get?” Raouf asked breathlessly.

  “The well-known writer, Mustafa Mahmud.”

  “And was Stalin, too, appointed anyone’s guide?”

  “Certainly not. Stalin was condemned for having murdered millions of workers, rather than teaching and training them for a better life.”

  “Maybe he’s living now in our alley,” Raouf pondered.

  “No, he is toiling in one of the pit mines of India,” said Abu.

  After receiving Lenin, Abu was done with his scheduled appointments, so he accompanied Raouf on a tour through the First Heaven. No sooner had the idea occurred to them than they were already on their way, in response to their inner wish, without needing even to use their feet. They soared like birds, intoxicated with an integral ecstasy that sprang from their magical powers to make any desired movement with ease and delight. They sluiced through the silvery air over the land embroidered with green below, the sky overhead illuminated with glowing white clouds. They passed by countless faces of multifarious races and colors, each absorbed in their lofty enterprise: to help the people of earth achieve progress and victory. In so doing, they seek to repent and purify themselves in order to resume their own rise through the levels of spiritual creativity, to be nearer to the Great Truth itself. They labor relentlessly, driven by warm, eternal passions toward perfection, right, and immortality.

  “It seems to me,” Raouf said, “there is no less suffering here than in its counterpart on earth.”

  A smiling Abu replied, “They are two sorts of suffering which join into one. The only difference is that here people experience it with a purer heart, a smarter brain, and a clearer goal.”

  “Please spell that out for me, Abu.”

  “You on the earth dream of a world containing the virtuous city, founded on individual freedom, social justice, scientific progress, and overwhelming power over the forces of nature. For the sake of all this, you wage war and make peace, and challenge the Opposing Power that—in your own terminology—you call reactionism. That is all fine and beautiful, but it is not the final objective, as you imagine it to be. Rather, it is but the first real step in a long road to spiritual elevation, which seems even to those who dwell in our First Heaven to be without end.”

  Raouf was immersed in contemplation until Abu asked him, “Of what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking how much dreadful, daily crime is perpetrated by the Opposing Power.”

  “That is crime in which the good take part by passively abstaining in the fight for the right,” said Abu. “They fear death—and death is what you see here!”

  “What a life!” said Raouf.

  “It is a battlefield—nothing more, and nothing less.”

  Raouf thought until the very thinking wore him out, then returned to his previous passion for learning the destinies of people who interested him. “I’d like to know what’s become of my country’s leaders,” he told Abu.

  “You could wait until you see them—or ask me now about whomever you like,” the ex-High Priest replied.

  “What about al-Sayyid Umar Makram?”

  “He is the guide to Anis Mansur,” said Abu.

  “And Ahmad Urabi?” Raouf asked.

  “He is working with Lewis Awad.”

  “And Mustafa Kamil?”

  “He is helping Fathi Radwan.”

  “Muhammad Farid?”

  “The mentor to Osman Ahmed Osman,” said Abu.

  “And what of Sa‘d Zaghlul?”

  “He has reached the Second Heaven,” intoned Abu.

  “Because of his personal sacrifices?” said Raouf, expectantly.

  “Because of his triumph over his own human weakness!”

  “Again, please tell me what you mean.”

  “You may be aware that he suffered from the sin of ambition before the revolution,” said Abu. “Afterward, however, he rose to become an exquisite vision of courage and devotion—and hence merited acquittal.”

  “And Mustafa al-Nahhas?”

  “He was attached to Anwar al-Sadat,” noted Abu. “But when October6 came, and freedom was restored, he, too, rose to the Second Heaven.”

  “Then what about Gamal Abd al-Nasser?” the slain man asked.

  “He is now guiding al-Qaddafi.”

  At the end of the brief training period, Abu told Raouf, “You are now the spiritual guide to your murderer, Anous, Qadri the Butcher’s son.”

  Raouf accepted the order with zealous resolve.

  “Rely on your own mind for inspiration—for it has great power if you master its use,” instructed Abu. “When necessary, you may even resort to dreams—and may the Lord be with you.”

  4

  Raouf Abd-Rabbuh landed in the alley. He could see and hear clearly, though no one saw or heard him. He moved from place to place like a natural breeze through his beloved quarter, with all its solid and familiar scenes, its people engrossed in the affairs of life. All his memories were unchanged, along with his previous hopes and pains. He enjoyed a clarity of mind like a brilliant light. Scores and scores of laborers, both men and women, toiled away with furtive eyes and brawny forearms. The laughter floated over the curses, like sweet butter spoiled by bitter mold. And there was Boss Qadri the Butcher in his shop. No resemblance between his face and Hitler’s, but his body was bloated from sucking people’s blood. And here is Lord Balfour—that is, Shakir al-Durzi, the shaykh of our alley, who throws the law under the butcher’s feet. And there is the bogus wali, Shaykh Ashur, who foretells the future to flatter his lord and master.

  My poor alley. May God be with you! How and when shall you burst these binding fetters?

  Evidently, his own absence—that of Raouf—had stirred the alley’s tongues as well as its hearts. The women gathered round his weeping mother.

  “This is the third day since he disappeared,” she moaned.

  “Umm Raouf, you should tell the police,” they urged.

  “I’ve already told ‘Uncle’ Shakir al-Durzi, shaykh of the hara,” she said.

  The shaykh’s voice came to them scornfully, “Do young people today have no shame?”

  “My son has never spent a whole night away from his home,” she said, still weeping.

  And here is Rashida returning from her institute, the beauty of her tawny face marred by melancholy. Her mother said to her, “Take care of yourself—you can’t replace your health when it’s gone.”

  Choking back tears, she said, “I know. My heart never lies to me!”

  Raouf stared at her with sympathy. I believe you, Rashida. A loving heart is the most reliable receptor of truth. Yet we will meet again one day. Love is undying, Rashida, not like some people imagine it to be.

  And here is the killer, swaggering home from the university. He holds a book in one hand, while he commits murder with the other! I am never out
of your thoughts, yet you have no idea that I’ve been appointed your spiritual mentor. Shall you yield to me today, or persist in your error? Everything calls out to reassure you, Anous. Your father casts his shadow over all. The government and all authority are his loyal subjects—you can get any false testimony you need. Yet my image never leaves you. And why not? Did not people say that our friendship was proverbially close? Though trained in criminality, you didn’t practice it like your father. In the course of your education, you learned, or at least heard, of beautiful things. By committing this travesty, did you dream you would win Rashida’s heart? What was this that you slew and buried in the desert? What you have done has not hurt me more than it has you. I was your eternal companion, as you shall see. Confess, Anous. Admit your crime. Tell the truth and stick with me—and you will have a better part to play in all this.

  Here is my tormented mother, blocking your path.

  “Master Anous,” she pleaded, “do you have any news of your friend?”

  “None at all, by God,” he swore.

  “He told me as he went out that he was going to see you.”

  “We met for a few minutes,” said Anous, “then he told me he had to do an important errand, and that we would meet tonight at the café.”

  “But he hasn’t come back,” the distraught mother said.

  “Didn’t I visit you asking about him?”

  “That’s true, my dear boy, but I’m about to lose my mind.”

  “I’m as upset as you are,” declared Anous.

  Believe me, Anous. I see the distress in your soul like a blemish on your face. But you are malignant and cruel. You are from the Opposing Power, Anous—don’t you see the danger in that? We grumble all the way down the Path of Light—so what do you think about while sliding down the Path of Darkness? I am stuck to you. If you don’t taste that roasted chicken, then the fault is yours. If you can’t concentrate on the book you’re reading, that’s your own problem, as well. I will never leave you, nor shall I ever grow tired. You may as well stay up late, for you shall not know sleep before dawn.

  When he rose back to the First Heaven, Raouf encountered Abu deep in discussion with Akhenaten.

  “Every time I told him to go right, he went left!” the defunct pharaoh fumed.