The Cairo Trilogy

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Abd al-Muni'm seconded that suggestion: “That makes sense, Umm Hanafi. Why don't we go out and play in the street?”

  Umm Hanafi replied firmly, “You have the courtyard, which is as big as the universe. And you also have the roof terrace. What more do you want than that? When Mr. Kamal was young, he only played in the house. When I finish my work, I'll tell you stories. Wouldn't you like that?”

  Ahmad protested, “Yesterday you told us you'd finished all your stories.”

  Drying her eyes, Na'ima said, “Aunt Khadija knows more stories. If Mama washere we could sing together.”

  Umm Hanafi said ingratiatingly, “I keep begging you to sing for us and you refuse.”

  “I can't sing here. I can't sing when Uthman and Muhammad are sick.”

  Sighing, the woman said, “I'll fix supper for you, and then we'll go to bed. How about some cheese, watermelon, and cantaloupe?”

  Kamal was sitting in a chair on the open side of the roof, next to the arbor of jasmine and hyacinth beans. He was scarcely visible in the darkness except for his loose-fitting white house shirt. His legs stretched out languidly, he looked at the sky studded with stars. He was lost in thought, and the silence encompassing him was broken only by an occasional voice from the street or a cluck from the chicken house. The family's affliction during the last two weeks had left its imprint on his face. During this time the normal household routine had been disrupted, and his mother had disappeared except for rare moments. The atmosphere of the house was transformed by the complaints of the three young prisoners who hs.d roamed its expanses asking for Papa and Mama until Kamal had run out of stratagems for cajoling and amusing them.

  Over on Sugar Street, Aisha no longer sang or laughed in the way that had once caused so much talk. She stayed up nights with her beloved family of invalids - her husband and her sons. Kamal had yearned for Aisha to return to her old home when he was young. Now he was extremely apprehensive that she would be forced to return, her wing broken and her heart shattered.

  His mother had whispered to him, “Don't visit Sugar Street, and if you do, don't stay long”. He did go there occasionally and would leave with his hands smelling strangely of disinfectants and hisheart overwhelmed by anxiety.

  The most amazing thing was that typhoid germs, like other ones, were incredibly tiny and invisible to the naked eye but capable of stopping the flow of a life, deciding the destiny of men, and breaking up a family. Poor Muhammad had been the first to fall ill. Uthman had been next. Finally and unexpectedly, the father had succumbed.

  The maid Suwaydan had come to tell Kamal that his mother would spend the night at Sugar Street. Quoting his mother without comment, she had added that there was no cause for concern. If that was so, why was his mother staying over? Why did his breast feel such forebodings? Despite all this, it was always possible that the gloom might disperse in the twinkling of an eye. Khalil Shawkat and his two darling sons might recover. Aisha's face might sparkle and shine. Could he forget how the household had suffered through a similar ordeal only eight months before? And now his father was up and about, hishealth totally restored. His muscles had regained their strength and his eyes their attractive sparkle. He had returned to his friends and loved ones like a bird to the leafy tree. So who could deny that it was possible for everything to change in the twinkling of an eye?

  “You're here alone!”

  Kamal recognized the voice. Turning toward the door of the roof, he rose and stretched out his hand to the newcomer, saying, “How are you, brother? Have a seat.”

  Kamal got a chair for Yasin, who was breathing heavily after climbing up the stairs. Filling his chest with the scent of jasmine, he sat down and said, “The children have gone to sleep and Umm Hanafi has too.”

  Resuming his seat, Kamal asked, “What time is it? The poor kids won't rest and won't let anyone else rest either.”

  “It's eleven. The air here's a lot better than on the street.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Back and forth between Palace of Desire and Sugar Street. By the way, your mother's not coming home tonight.”

  “Suwaydan told me that. What's new? I've been extremely apprehensive.”

  Sighing, Yasin said, “We're all anxious. Our Lord is gracious. Our father's there too.”

  “Atriiishour!”

  “I left him there”. After a pause he continued: “I was at Sugar Street until eight this evening. Then a messenger came from Palace of Desire Alley to say that my wife's labor had begun. I went immediately to Umm Ali, the midwife, and took her to my house, where I found my wife was being cared for by some neighbors. I stayed there an hour but could not bear the moaning and screaming for long. I went back to Sugar Street again and found Father sitting with Ibrahim Shawkat.”

  “What does this mean? Tell me what you think.”

  In a low voice Yasin said, “Their condition's extremely grave.”

  “Grave?”

  “Yes. I came here to try to calm my nerves. Couldn't Zanuba have picked some other night to have a baby? I'm exhausted from going back and forth between Palace of Desire and Sugar Street, between the doctor and the midwife. Their condition's critical. When Widow Shawkat looked at her son's face she cried out, ‘Protect; us, Lord. You should have taken me first.’ Your mother was very alarmed, but the old lady paid no attention to her and said in a hoarse voice, ‘This is what members of the Shawkat family look like when they die. I saw his father and his uncle die, and his grandfather before them.’ There's nothing left of Khalil but a shadow, and the children are the same way. There's no power or might save with God.”

  Kamal swallowed and said, “Perhaps these suspicions are unfounded.”

  “Perhaps…. Kamal, you're not a child anymore. You ought to know at least what I do. The doctor said the situation's critical.”

  “For all of them?”

  “All! Khalil, Uthman, and Muhammad. O Lord! How wretched your luck is, Aisha….”

  In the darknesshe imagined Aisha's laughing family as he had seen them in the past. They were joyful, happy individuals who pursued life as though it were an innocent entertainment.

  “When will Aisha be able to laugh again?” Kamal wondered. “Fahmy was snatched away. The English or typhoid, it's all the same … like any other cause. Belief in God makes death seem a bewildering but wise decree, when actually it's nothing but a cruel joke.”

  “That's the most atrocious thing I've ever heard.”

  “That it is, but what can anyone do? What has Aisha done to deserve this? O God, forgiveness and mercy….”

  “Is there any sublime philosophy that can justify mass slaughter?” Kamal asked himself. “Death follows the rules for jokes precisely. Yet how can we laugh when we're the butt of the joke. Perhaps I'd be able to meet it with a smile if I could always confront it with contemplation, understanding, and impartiality. That would be a victory over both life and death. But what would any of this mean to Aisha?”

  “My head's spinning, brother.”

  In the sagest voice Kamal had ever heard him use, Yasin remarked, “This is the way the world is. You must come to know it as it really is”. Then he rose suddenly and said, “I've got to go now.”

  Kamal implored him, “Stay with me a little longer.”

  But Yasin answered apologetically, “It's eleven. I must go to Palace of Desire Alley to reassure myself about Zanuba. Then I'll return to Sugar Street to be with them. I won't sleep an hour tonight, it seems. And by God I know what's awaiting us tomorrow.”

  Kamal stood up and said with alarm, “You talk as though it was all over. I'm going to Sugar Street right away.”

  “No, you must stay with the children until morning. Try to get some sleep. Otherwise I'll regret speaking so frankly to you.”

  Yasin left the roof of the house and Kamal accompanied him downstairs to the door. When they passed the top floor, where the children were sleeping, Kamal said sorrowfully, “What poor kids! Na'ima's wept bitterly during the pa
st few days, as though her heart sensed what would happen….”

  Yasin replied frankly, “The children will soon forget. Pray for the grown-ups.”

  As they went into the courtyard, they could hear a voice from the street crying out, “Special edition of al-Muqattamy"

  Kamal murmured inquisitively, “A special edition for the paper?”

  In a sad voice, Yasin said, “Oh! I know what it's about. When I was on my way here, I heard people spreading the news. Sa'd Zaghlul has died.”

  Kamal cried out from the depths of hisheart, “Sa'd?”

  Yasin stopped walking and turned toward his brother to say,“Don't take it so hard. We have enough problems of our own.”

  Kamal stared into the darkness without speaking or moving. He seemed oblivious to Khalil, Uthman, Muhammad, and Aisha, to everything except the death of Sa'd Zaghlul.

  Yasin walked on and remarked, “He died after receiving his full share of life and greatness. What more would you wish for him than that? May God be merciful to him.”

  Still stunned, Kamal followed him silently. He did not know how he would have received this news in circumstances that were not so grim. When disasters come at the same time, they compete with each other. Thus Kamal's grandmother had died soon after Fahmy had been slain, at a time when no one had tears to spare for her. So Sa'd was dead. The hero of the exile, the revolution, the liberation, and the constitution had died. Why should he not mourn for Sa'd Zaghlul, when the best qualities of his personality came from Sa'd's guidance and leadership?

  Yasin stopped once more to open the door. Then he held out his hand to Kamal. After shaking hands with him, Kamal remembered something that had slipped his mind for too long. Embarrassed that he had forgotten, he told Yasin, “I pray to God that you'll find your wife has given birth safely.”

  Starting to leave, Yasin replied, “God willing. And I hope you sleep soundly.”

  SUGAR STREET

  116

  THEIR HEADS were huddled around the brazier, and their hands were spread over its fire: Amina's thin and gaunt, Aisha's stiff, and Umm Hanafi's like the shell of a turtle. The beautiful pure-white ones were Na'ima's. The January cold was almost severe enough to freeze water at the edges of the sitting room, which had retained its time-honored appearance with its colored mats and the sofas distributed around the sides. The old lantern with its oil lamp had vanished, and hanging in its place was an electric light. The location had changed too, for the coffee hour had returned to the first floor. Indeed the entire upper story had moved downstairs to make life easier for the father, whose heart was no longer strong enough for him to climb to the top.

  The family members had changed as well. Amina's body had withered, and her hair had turned white. Although barely sixty, she looked ten years older, and her transformation was nothing compared to Aisha's decline and disintegration. It was ironic or pathetic that the daughter's hair was still golden and her eyes blue, when her listless glance gave no hint of life and her pale complexion seemed the symptom of some disease. With a protruding bone structure and sunken eyes and cheeks, her face hardly appeared that of a thirty-four-year-old woman. Although the years had settled on Umm Hanafi, they did not seem to have marked her in any essential way, hardly diminishing her reserves of flesh and fat. Instead, they had accumulated on her skin and around her neck and mouth like crusts or earthy deposits. But her grave eyes glinted from participation in the family's silent sorrow.

  Na'ima stood out in this group like a rose growing in a cemetery, for she had developed into a beautiful young woman of sixteen. Her head enveloped by a halo of golden hair and her face adorned by blue eyes, she was as lovely as her mother, Aisha, had been - or even more captivating - but as insubstantial as a shadow. Her eyes had a gentle, dreamy look suggesting purity,[innocence, and otherworldliness. She nestled against her mother's side, as though unwilling to be alone even for a moment.

  Rubbing her hands together over the brazier, Umm Hanafi said, “The builders will finish the project this week after working for a year and a half….”

  Na'ima responded sarcastically, “A building for Uncle Bayumi the drinks vendor….”

  Aisha raised her eyes from the brazier to look at Umm Hanafi for a moment but made no comment. They had previously learned that the house once belonging to Mr. Muhammad Rid-wan would be torn down to allow construction of a four-story building for Uncle Bayumi the drinks vendor. This project had stirred up many old memories about Maryam and her divorce from Yasin what had become of Maryam? - and about Maryam's mother and her marriage to the drinks vendor Bayumi, who had gained possession of the house half by inheritance and half by purchase. Back then life had been worth living, and hearts had been carefree.

  Umm Hanafi continued: “The most beautiful part of it, my lady, is Uncle Bayumi's new place for soft drinks, ice cream, and sweets, tt has lots of mirrors and electric lights, with a radio playing day and night. I feel sorry for Hasanayn the barber, Darwish the bean seller, al-Fuli the milkman, and Abu Sari' with his snack shop. They have to look out of their dilapidated premises at the store and apartments of their former comrade.”

  Pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Amina said, “Glory to God who gives blessings….”

  With her arms around her mother's neck, Na'ima commented, “The building blocks off our roof on that side. Once it's inhabited, how can we spend any time up there?”

  Amina could not ignore the question raised by her beautiful granddaughter, if only out of concern for Aisha. She answered, “Pay no attention to the tenants. Do as you like.”

  She glanced at Aisha to see what impression her gracious reply had made. She was so afraid for her daughter that she was almost frightened of her. But Aisha was busy looking at herself in the mirror above the dresser between her room and her father's. She had not abandoned the custom of examining her reflection, even though it had become a meaningless exercise. With the passing days her face's withered appearance had ceased to alarm her.

  Whenever a voice inside asked, “Where is the old Aisha?” she would answer indifferently, “And where are her sons, Muhammad and Uthman, and her husband, Khalil?”

  Observing this, Amina was saddened, and her gloom quickly affected Umm Hanafi, who was so much a part of the family that their worries were hers.

  Na'ima rose and went to the radio, which stood between the doors to the parlor and the dining room. Turning it on, she said, “It's time for the records, Mama.”

  Aisha lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Amina stared at the smoke, which spread out in a thin cloud over the brazier. A voice on the radio sang, “Companions from the good old days, how I wish you would return.”

  Na'ima resumed her seat, tucking the robe around her. Like her mother, she loved singing. She listened carefully so she could memorize the song and sing it in her pleasing voice. This interest was not dampened by the religious feelings that dominated her entire emotional life. She prayed conscientiously and had fasted during the month of Ramadan since the age often. She frequently dreamed of the mysteries of the spiritual realm and welcomed with limitless delight her grandmother's invitations to visit the mosque of al-Husayn. All the same she had never weaned herself from a love of singing. She sang whenever she was alone, in her room or in the bath.

  Aisha approved of everything her one remaining child did, for Na'ima was the only bright hope on otherwise gloomy horizons. As pleased by her daughter's piety as by her voice, Aisha even loved and encouraged the girl's excessive attachment to her, not tolerating any comment on it. In fact, she had no patience for any kind of criticism, no matter how trivial or well-intentioned. Her only occupations at home were sitting, drinking coffee, and smoking. Whenever her mother invited her to help with the housework, not from a need for assistance but to distract Aisha from her thoughts, she was annoyed and uttered her famous phrase: “Oh, leave me alone”. She would not let Na'ima lift a finger to help with the work either, since she feared the least exertion for her daughter. If she could
have performed the prayer ritual for Na'ima, she would have, to spare her the effort.

  Amina frequently chided Aisha about this, telling her that Na'ima was almost old enough to marry and needed to learn the duties of a housewife. Aisha always responded angrily, “Don't you see she's like a specter? My daughter can't bear any exertion. Leave her alone. She's my sole hope in the world.”

  Then, heartbroken, Arnina would abandon the conversation. Gazing sadly at Aisha, she saw the personification of shattered hopes. When she looked at this unhappy face, which seemed to have lost all its vitality, Amina's soul was overcome by sorrow. Apprehensive about distressing her daughter, she had learned to greet Aisha's rude answers and harsh comments with affectionate forbearance.

  The voice kept on singing, “Companions from the good old days,” while Aisha smoked and listened to the song. She had been fond of singing once, and sorrow and despair had not killed her taste for it. Perhaps they had even enhanced it, since so many of the lyrics were plaintive and melancholy. Of course nothing could ever bring back her companions of the good old days. She wondered at times if that past had been a reality or a dream, a figment of her imagination. Where was that happy home? Where was her fine husband? Where were Uthman and Muhammad? Did only eight years separate her from that past?

  Amina rarely liked these songs. The prime attraction of the radio for her was that it allowed her to hear recitations from the holy Qur'an and the news. The sad themes of the songs worried her. She was concerned about their effect on her daughter and remarked to Umm Hanafi one day, “Don't they sound like funeral laments to you?”

  She could not stop thinking about Aisha and almost forgot the trouble she was having with high blood pressure. Visits to al-Husayn and to the other saints in their shrines were the only relief she found. Thanks to al-Sayyid Ahmad, who no longer restricted her movements, she was allowed to hurry off to God's sanctuaries whenever she felt the need. Amina herself was no longer the same woman she had once been. Grief and ill health had changed her considerably. With the passing years she had lost her amazing diligence and her extraordinary capacity for tidying up, cleaning, and running her home. Except for services to al-SayyLd Ahmad and Kamal, she paid little attention to the house. Satisfied to supervise, she had turned over the oven room and the pantry to Umm Hanafi and was remiss even in this supervision. Her confidence in their servant was boundless, for Umm Hanafi was part of the household. A lifelong companion, she had shared Amina's good and bad times and had been absorbed into the family, so that she identified with all their joys and sorrows.