Hasan Salim made no reference to the past, and his face gave no indication that he thought about it at all. Yet doubtless at each session that brought them together, he saw a living witness to his victory: Kamal. This thought hurt Kamal a good deal. He suffered a lot and felt the torment penetrating his marrow. The delirium of suffering affected his thinking. His worst agonies stemmed from the grief of separation, the bitterness of defeat, and the anguish of despair. Even more atrocious than all of these was his sense of abasement at being expelled from the garden of her good graces aud deprived of the beloved's melodies and illuminations. As his spirit shed tears of grief and sorrow, he began to repeat, “You deformed creature, what are you compared with those blissful fellows?” What meaning would life have if she persisted in concealing herself? Where would his eyes find light or hisheart warmth? What rapture was there for his spirit to enjoy? So let the beloved appear at whatever price she stipulated. Let her appear and love anyone she pleased, Hasan or someone else. Let her appear and mock hishead and nose as much as her sense of humor and her playfulness wanted. His craving to contemplate her form and to hear her voice exceeded the human norm so what then of a pleasant look to remove the resentment, despair, and desolation from his breast and to cheer a heart deprived of happiness as a blind man is deprived of the light? Let her appear even if she ignored him, for in that case, although he would be denied the pleasure of being acknowledged by her, he would not miss the happiness of seeing her and thus of seeing the world her magnificent light revealed. Otherwise, life would be nothing but successive moments of pain racked by insanity. Her withdrawal from his life was equivalent to extracting the spine from a body, which, having once known a balanced perfection, is then reduced to a sentient blob.
His pain and anxiety made him restless. He could not bear to wait for Friday to come, and he would go with friends to al-Abbasiya and circle around the mansion at a distance, on the chance that he might see her at a window, on a balcony, or as she walked when she thought she was far from his eyes. One of the consolations of waiting patiently in his home on Palace Walk was despair. In his feverish condition hovering near the shrine of the beloved was comparable to putting sticks of dynamite around a pillar of flame. He never saw her. Several timeshe saw one of the servants going or coming on the street. Then he would follow the fellow with amazed and curious eyes, as if asking the fates why they singled out this person to be near the beloved, to associate with her, and to observe her in various different modes whether lying down, singing, or daydreaming. Why should all this good fortune befall a man who lived in her prayer niche with a heart oblivious to her worship.
On one of his jauntshe witnessed Abd al-Hamid Bey Shaddad and his treasured wife as they left the mansion to get into the Minerva automobile, which was waiting for them at the gate. Thushe saw the two happy individuals whom, more than anyone else in the whole world, Ai'da venerated and respected. They occasionally gave her orders, which she had to obey. This precious mother had carried Ai'da in her belly for nine months. Doubtless A'ida had once been a fetus and then a newborn, like those creatures Kamal had stared at for a long time when they first appeared in Aisha's and Khadija's beds. No person knew more about the childhood of his beloved than this happy and precious mother
The pains would remain, or at least their effects would not be erased, so long as he wandered through life's labyrinth. To what avail were those nights in January when he buried his eyes, flowing with tears, in the pillow? He spread out his hands in prayer to the Lord of the heavens, pleading with total commitment, “O God, tell this love to be as cold as as hes, just as You commanded the fire burning Abraham: 'Be cold and safe'” (Qur'an, 21 y6g). He wished that love was concentrated in one location in the human being, for perhaps then it could be surgically removed the way a diseased limb is amputated. With a humble heart he uttered her beloved name to hear it echo in the silent room, as though someone else had summoned her. To revive a dream of lost happiness, he imitated her voice speaking his name. He ran his eyes over the pages of his diary to confirm that what had happened was a reality, not a figment of his imagination.
For the first time in yearshe thought regretfully of his life before love, as if he were a prisoner harking back to memories of lost freedom. Yes, he could think of no condition more like his than the prisoner's. Yet prison bars seemed easier to break and less confining than love's invisible shackles, which take total control over the heart's emotions, the mind's thoughts, and the body's nerves and then refuse to let go.
One day he wondered whether Fahmy had experienced this kind of rorment. Memories of his late brother haunted him like a mournful song sighing in the hidden recesses of his soul. Kamal remembered how once in Fahmy's presence he had recounted Maryam's flirtation with the British soldier Julian. Kamal had plunged a poisoned dagger into his brother'sheart, recklessly and carelessly. He summoned Fahmy's face into his conscious memory, recalling his brother's deceptive composure at the time. Then he re-created the contractions of pain on that handsome face when Fahmy had gone off by himself. He invented the plaintive monologues Fahmy had no doubt indulged in, like Kamal now, with moans and groans. Kamal felt the pain in his own heart and concluded: “Fahmy felt something worse than a bullet in hisheart, even before the lead ripped into his chest.”
Strangely enough, Kamal found that the political activities of the day presented an enlarged version of his life. When he read about developments in the newspapershe could have been reading about the events at Palace Walk or on Palaces Street. Like Kamal, Sa'd Zaghlul was as good as imprisoned and the victim of outrageous attacks, unjust charges, and the treacherous betrayal of friends. They had suffered because of contacts with people distinguished both by the loftiness of their aristocratic backgrounds and by the baseness of their deeds. The personal distress of the great nationalist leader also resembled the vanquished state of the nation. Kamal felt the same emotion and passion about the political situation as he did about his personal condition. He might just as well have been referring to himself when he asked of Sa'd Zaghlul, “Is this unjust treatment appropriate for such a sincere man?” He might easily have meant Hasan Salim when he said of Ahmad Ziwar Pasha, who replaced Sa'd Zaghlul as Prime Minister, “He has betrayed our trust and resorted to unfair tactics to gain control”. A'ida could have been on his mind when he said of Egypt, “Has she dismissed the one man she could trust at a time when he was busy defending her rights?”
92
THE SHAWKAT residence on Sugar Street did not enjoy the blessings of peace and quiet, not merely because the three floors were crowded with members of the Shawkat family but because of Khadija most of all. The elderly matriarch resided on the bottom Qoor, an d Khalil, Aisha, and their children Na'ima, Uthman, and Muhammad were on the top one. But the uproar for which they were responsible was nothing compared with that raised by Khadija, whether it came from her directly or was provoked by her. Various changes in the management of the household had been made with an eye to confining the reasons for disputes to the narrowest possible limits. Khadija, who had been given her own living quarters and kitchen, had also ousted her mother-in-law's chickens from the roof so that she could raise chickens there herself and establish a modest garden patterned after the one on the roof of her childhood home. All these steps should have lessened domestic turmoil a great deal, but it had not decreased, or only to an imperceptible degree.
On this particular day Khadija's normally contentious spirit was afflicted by a certain listlessness. There seemed to be no secret about the reason, for Aisha and Khalil had come to help relieve the crisis. Yes, it was a crisis one Khadija had precipitated. The two brothers sat on a sofa in the living room and the two sisters, their wives, were on the opposite one. They all looked serious, and Khadija was frowning. They exchanged eloquent glances, but no one wished to address the subject that had brought them together.
Finally, in a tone both plaintive and resentful, Khadija said, “Every household has quarrels like these. That's the way
the world has been since our Lord created it. But there's no reason to broadcast our troubles to everyone and especially not to people who ought to be spared idle gossip. But she wasn't satisfied until she transformed our private affairs into public scandals. I can only trust in God and His blessings.”
Ibrahim shifted around inside his overcoat as though trying to get comfortable on the sofa. Then he laughed briefly in a manner that left the others in doubt as to the exact import. Khadija looked at him suspiciously and asked, “What do you mean, 'ha-ha'? Is there nothing in the world that can make an impression on your heart?”
She turned away as though despairing of any assistance from him. Then, addressing Khalil and Aisha, she continued: “Are you happy that she went to see my father at the shop to complain about me? Is it right to drag men especially ones like my father into women's disputes? No doubt he was annoyed by her visit and complaint. If he wasn't so polite, he would have told her that frankly. But she kept at him until he promised to come. What disgusting conduct! My father wasn't made for petty matters like these. Do you approve of this behavior, Mr. Khalil?”
Khalil frowned disapprovingly and said, “My mother made a mistake. I told her so frankly, and she poured out her anger on me. But she's an old lady. You know people her age need to be treated with flattery and discretion, almost like children. Fine
Ibrahim interrupted him irritably: “ 'Fine, fine'!… How many times are you going to repeat 'Fine'? I'm sick of it. As you observed, Mother's an old lady, but her blow has landed on a person who refuses to show any mercy.”
Khadija glared at him with a scowling face and flaring nostrils. She exclaimed, “God! God! All that's left is for you to repeat these outrageous comments in front of Papa.”
Expressing his regret with a wave of his hand, Ibrahim answered, “Papa isn't here yet. And if he does come, it won't be to listen to me. I'm just stating the truth, which everyone acknowledges and even you can't deny. You can't bear my mother and can't stand the sight of her. I take refuge in God. Why is all this necessary, reverend lady? With a little discretion and cleverness you would be able to hold her in the palm of your hand. But the moon would be easier to obtain than your moderation. Can you deny a word I've said?”
She looked back and forth from Khalil to Aisha in order to draw their attention to this screaming injustice. They seemed to be wavering between truth and personal safety. At last Aisha, although she was apprehensive about the result, muttered, “Mr. Ibrahim means that you might show a little forbearance with her foibles.”
Khalil nodded hishead in agreement, with all the relief of a man who has reached a fire escape in the nick of time. Then he said, “That's right. My mother has a quick temper but should be shown the same respect as yours. If you'll be a little more understanding, you'll spare your nerves the discomfort of feuding with her.”
Khadija huffed and said, “It would be much more accurate to say that she can't bear me or stand the sight of me. She's made me a nervous wreck. We never meet without her volunteering something, either directly or by insinuation, that makes my blood boil and poisons my nerves. Then I'm asked to be forbearing, as though I'm made of ice …. Isn't it enough that Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad try my patience to the breaking point? Hear my prayer: Where can I find someone who will treat me fairly?”
With, a smile Ibrahim said sarcastically, “Perhaps you'll find this equitable person in your father.”
She shot back, “You're enjoying my bad luck. I understand everything. But our Lord is present.”
In a strained voice, suggesting both resignation and defiance, Ibrahim answered, “Calm down so you'll be relaxed when you see your father.”
How could she relax? The old lady had devised the most terrible vengeance. Shortly Khadija would be summoned before her father. Her blood ran cold at the thought of this encounter. Then Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad's screams resounded through the closed door of their room. These were followed by Ahmad's sobs. Khadija, despite her plumpness, jumped up quickly and headed for their bedroom. Pushing the door open, she entered and screamed, “What's the meaning of this? Haven't I forbidden you to fight a thousand times? The one I'm after is whoever started this.”
Once' she had disappeared behind the door, Ibrahim said, “The poor dear seems to have a deep-rooted antagonism against tranquillity. Beginning first thing in the morning, she wades into a long series of skirmishes lasting the whole day. She doesn't quiet down until she goes to bed. Everything has to yield to her will and design - the servant, the food, the furniture, the chickens, Abd al-Muni'm, Ahmad, and me. Everything must adjust to her system. [feel sorry for her. I assure you that our residence could enjoy the most systematic order without any need for this obsessive behavior.”
Smiling, Khalil said, “May our Lord come to her aid.”
“And help me too!” Ibrahim added as he smilingly shook hishead. Then he took his cigarette case out of the pocket of his black overcoat. He rose to offer it to his brother, who accepted a cigarette.
Ibrahim invited Aisha to have one as well, but she laughingly declined. Pointing to the door behind which Khadija had disappeared, she said, “Let's give the hour every possible chance of going smoothly.”
Ibrahim resumed his seat and lit a cigarette. Gesturing toward the same door, he remarked, “A court of law. There's a trial being conducted in there now. But she'll treat the two defendants mercifully, even if that's against her better judgment.”
Khadija returned, grumbling, “How can I enjoy any peace in this house? How and when?”
She sat down and sighed. Then, addressing Aisha, she said, “I looked out through the balcony peephole and saw that the mud left behind by yesterday's rain is still covering the road. So tell me, by your Lord, how my father's supposed to walk through it? Why this stubbornness?”
Aisha asked her, “What about the sky? What does it look like now?”
“Overcast! All the alleys will be lakes by nightfall, but is that enough to make your mother-in-law postpone, even for a day, the evil she's hatching? No, she went to the store despite the hardship walking there posed. And then she hounded the man until he promised to come. Anyone hearing her complain about me in the store under such adverse conditions would have thought I was a cold-blooded killer like those dreadful women in Alexandria: Rayya and Sakina.”
They all laughed, seizing the opportunity she had provided to release their tension. Ibrahim asked, “Do you think you're less dangerous than the thieving sisters Rayya and Sakina?”
They heard someone knock on their door. When Khadija's servant opened it, the maid Suwaydan's face appeared. She glanced fearfully at Khadija and said, “My senior master has arrived”. Then she speedily vanished.
Khadija's color drained from her face, and she said in a faint voice, “Don't leave us alone together.”
She waited for Aisha to cast a searching look at her reflection in the mirror to see that her face was free of makeup. Then they left the apartment together.
Directly under a portrait of the late Mr. Shawkat, al-Sayyid AJhmad Abd al-Jawad sat on a couch in the center of a room decorated in the old style. Widow Shawkat, the mother of Khalil and Ibrahim, was sitting in a nearby armchair wearing a thick coat, which despite its bulk did not conceal her scrawniness or her bent back. Hier face had grown thin, and her deep wrinkles were surrounded by folds of dry skin. Nothing about her remained the same except her gold teeth.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad was no stranger to this room or its antique furnishings, the age of which detracted in no way from the magnificence. If the curtains had faded and the velvet of some of the chairs and couches had become bald or torn on the arms or backs, the Persian carpet had a lasting splendor and an increasing value. The room was fragrant with a delicate incense of which the old lady was enamored.
Leaning on her parasol, she said, “I told myself that if al-Sayyid Ahmad didn't come as he promised, he's not my son and I'm not his mother.”
He smiled and said, “God forbid. I'm obedient to your command. I
'm your son and Khadija's your daughter.”
She made a face and said, “All of you are my children. Mrs. Amina is a fine daughter to me. You're a prince of a man. But Khadija…” She looked at him, and her eyes grew wide as she continued: “Khadija did not inherit a single quality from her excellent parents”. Then, shaking her head, she added, “O Gracious One, be gracious to us.”
Al-Sayyid Ahmad responded apologetically, “I'm shocked that she's made you so angry. The matter comes as an immense surprise to me. I won't stand for this at all. But won't you tell me what she's done?”
Frowning, the woman said, “This has been going on for a long time. We've kept everything from you out of respect for the pleas of her mother, all of whose attempts to reform Khadija have failed. But I won't say anything behind her back, al-Sayyid, sir, as I declared to you at the store.”
At that moment the group arrived. Ibrahim entered first, followed by Khalil, Aisha, and finally Khadija. They shook hands with al-Sayyid Ahmad one by one until it was Khadija's turn.
She leaned over with exemplary politeness to kiss her father's hand. The old lady could not restrain herself from saying in astonishment, “Lord, what is this charade of manners? Are you really Khadija? Don't let appearances deceive you, al-Sayyid Ahmad.”
Khalil said to his mother critically, “Won't you give our father a chance to catch his breath? There's really no need for a tribunal.”
The woman's voice grew louder as she replied, “Why are you here? What's brought all of you? Leave her with us, and the rest of you can go in peace.”
Ibrahim said gently, “Think of God.”
She shouted at him, “I'm acting more devoutly than you, you mule. If you were a real man, there would have been no reason for me to call in this fine gentleman. Why are you here? Shouldn't you be sound asleep as usual?”
The Cairo Trilogy Page 90
