“You son of Jamil al-Hamzawi!” Kamal exclaimed to himself. “The bridegroom of a cabinet official's daughter… her mother-in-law would be from the working-class district of al-Mubayyada. Even though he justified the presence of evil in the world, I defy Leibniz to justify this.”
Kamal said, “You consider marriage a…”
Before he could complete this statement, Fuad laughingly interrupted: “At least that's better than not considering it at all.”
“But happiness…”
“Don't philosophize! Happiness is a subjective art. You may find bliss with the daughter of a cabinet minister and nothing but misery with a girl from your own background. Marriage is a treaty like the one al-Nahhas signed yesterday. It involves haggling, realistic appraisals, shrewdness, perspicacity, gains and losses. In our country this is the only door to advancement. Last week a man not yet forty was appointed a senior judge for the appeals court, while I could devote a lifetime of diligent and tireless service to the judicial system without ever attaining such an exalted position.”
What was the primary-school teacher to say? He would spend his entire life at the sixth level of the civil service, even if philosophy did fill hishead to overflowing.
“Your position should save you from having to resort to such stratagems.”
“If it weren't for strategic alliances of this kind, no prime minister would ever be able to assemble a cabinet.”
Kamal laughed lifelessly and observed, “You're in need of some philosophy. You would benefit from a spoonful of Spinoza.”
“Sip as much of it as you want, but spare us. Tell me where a man can have a good time and find something to drink. In Qena I had to take my pleasures cautiously, on the sly. A position like mine forces a man to be discreet and private. The constant struggle between us and the police means that we must be extra careful. A public prosecutor has a tedious and sensitive job.”
“We're returning to talk that threatens to make me explode with bitterness,” Kamal noted to himself. “Compared to yours, my life seems disciplined and refined, but it's also the greatest possible test in life for my skeptical philosophy.”
“My circumstances,” Fuad continued, “bring me together with many important people, and they invite me to their mansions. I feel obliged to refuse their invitations in order to avoid any possible conflict of interest in the performance of my duties. But their mentality is such that they don't understand this. All the leading citizens of the region accuse me of being a snob, although I am entirely innocent of the charge.”
Although saying “Yes” agreeably to his friend, Kamal thought, “You're a conceited snob who is solicitous about his position.”
“For similar reasons I lost favor with the police force. Dissatisfied with their crooked procedures, I attempted to entrap them. I had the law on my side, while they had the brutality of the Middle Ages on theirs. Everyone hates me, but I'm right.”
“You're right,” Kamal reflected. “That's what I've always known about you. You're shrewd and honest. But you don't and can't love anyone. You don't cling to what's right simply because it is right but out of conceit, pride, and a feeling of inferiority. This is what men are like. I run into people like you even in lowly callings. A man who is both pleasant and forceful is a myth. But what value does love have? Or idealism? Or anything?”
They talked for a long time. When preparing to leave, Fuad leaned toward Kamal and whispered, “I'm new in Cairo. You naturally know of an establishment - or probably several… one that's very private, naturally….”
Smiling, Kamal replied, “A teacher, like a public prosecutor, must always take care to be discreet.”
“Excellent. We'll get together soon. I'm busy arranging the new apartment now, but we'll have to spend some evenings together.”
“Agreed.”
They left the room together, and Kamal accompanied his friend all the way to the street. Passing by the first floor on his return, he met his mother, who stood waiting for him at the door. She inquired anxiously, “Didn't he say anything to you?”
He understood what she meant, and that tormented him terribly. But he pretended not to understand and asked in turn, “About what?”
“Na'ima?”
He answered resentfully, “Absolutely not.”
“Amazing!”
They exchanged a long look. Then Amina continued: “But al-Hamzawi spoke to your father about it.”
Concealing his fury as best he could, Kamal said, “Perhapshe spoke without having consulted his son.”
Amina retorted angrily, “What a silly idea. Doesn't he know how lucky he would be to get her? Your father should have reminded him who he is.”
“Fuad's not to blame. Perhaps his father, with all the best intentions, spoke rashly, without thinking it over.”
“But he must have told his son. Did Fuad refuse… that boy who was transformed into a distinguished civil servant by our money?”
“There's no need to talk about that.”
“Son, this is unimaginable. Doesn't he know that accepting him into our family does us no honor?”
“Then don't be upset if it doesn't happen.”
“I'm not upset about it. But I'm angered by the insult.”
“There has been no insult. It's just a misunderstanding.”
He returned to his room, sad and embarrassed, telling himself, “Na'ima's a beautiful rose. Yet, since I'm a man whose only remaining merit is love of truth, I must ask whether she is really a good match for a public prosecutor. Although he comes from a modest background, he will be able to find a spouse who is better educated, from a more distinguished family, wealthier, and prettier too. His good-natured father was too hasty. But he's not to blame. Still, Fuad's remarks to me were impudent. He certainly is impertinent. He's bright, honest, competent, insolent, and conceited, although it's not his fault. It's the result of the factors dividing, men from each other. They infect us with all these maladies.”
130
AL-FIKR MAGAZINE occupied the ground floor of number 21 Abd al-Aziz Street. The barred window in the office of its proprietor, Mr. Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti, overlooked the tenebrous Barakat Alley, and therefore the light inside was left on both night and day. Whenever Kamal approached the magazine'sheadquarters, the gloomy premises and shabby furniture reminded him of the status of thought in his land and of his own position in his society. Mr. Abd al-Aziz greeted him with an affectionate smile of welcome. This was hardly surprising, for they had known each other since 1930, when Kamal had begun sending the magazine his essays on philosophy. During the past six years his collaboration with the editor had been mutually supportive, if unremunerated. In fact, the magazine paid none of its writers for their efforts, which were undertaken solely for the advancement of philosophy and culture.
Abd al-Aziz welcomed all volunteer contributors, even specialists in Islamic philosophy, which was his own field. After receiving an Islamic education at al-Azhar university, he had traveled to France, where he spent four years doing research and auditing lectures without obtaining a degree. His real estate holdings, which provided him with a monthly income of fifty pounds, spared him from having to earn a living. He had founded al-Fikr magazine in 1923 and had kept publishing it, even though the profits were not commensurate with the labor he poured into it.
Kamal had scarcely taken a seat when a man his own age entered. Wearing a gray linen suit, he was tall and thin, although less so than Kamal, and had a long profile, taut cheeks, and wide lips. His delicate nose and pointed chin lent a special character to his full face. Smiling, he came forward with light steps and stretched out his hand to Mr. Abd al-Aziz, who shook it and presented the visitor to Kamal: “Mr. Riyad Qaldas, a translator in the Ministry of Education. He has recently joined the group writing for al-Fikr, infusing fresh blood into our scholarly journal with his monthly summaries of plays from world literature and his short stories.”
Then he introduced Kamal: “Mr. Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad. Perhaps y
ou've read his essays?”
The two men shook hands, and Riyad said admiringly, “I've read them for years. They are essays of value, in every sense of the word.”
Kamal thanked him cautiously for this praise. Then they sat down on neighboring chairs in front of the desk of Mr. Abd al-Aziz, who remarked, “Mr. Riyad, don't wait for him to return your compliment and say that he has read your valuable stories. He never reads stories.”
Riyad laughed engagingly and revealed gleaming regular teeth with a gap between the middle incisors. “Don't you like literature?” he asked. “Every philosopher has a special theory of beauty arrived at only after an exhaustive examination of various arts literature included, naturally.”
Rather uneasily, Kamal ventured, “I don't hate literature. For a long time, I've used it for relaxation, enjoying both poetry and prose. But I have little free time.”
“That must mean you've read what short stories you could, since modern literature consists almost entirely of short stories and plays.”
Kamal replied, “Over the years I've read a great number, although I…”
Smiling in a knowing way, Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti interrupted: “It's up to you, Mr. Riyad, to convince him of the truth of your new ideas. For the moment it will suffice if you realize that he's a philosopher whose energies are concentrated on thought”. Then, turning toward Kamal, he asked, “Do you have your essay for this month?”
Kamal brought out an envelope of medium size and silently placed tt in front of the editor, who took it. After extracting the article and examining it he said, “On Bergson? … Fine!”
Kamal explained, “The idea is to give an overview of the role his philosophy has played in the history of modern thought. Perhaps later I'll follow up on it with some detailed studies.”
Riyad Qaldas was listening to the discussion with interest. Gazing at Kamal in an endearing way, he asked, “I've read your articles for years, starting with the ones you did on the Greek philosophers. They have been varied and occasionally contradictory, since they have presented rival schools of philosophy. I realize that you're a historian of ideas. Yet all the same I've tried in vain to discover your own intellectual position and the school of philosophy with which you're affiliated.”
Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti observed, “We're relative newcomers to the field of philosophical studies. So we must commence with general presentations. Perhaps in time Professor Kamal will develop a new philosophy. Possibly, Mr. Riyad, you'll become one of the adherents of Kamalism.”
They all laughed. Kamal removed his spectacles and began to clean the lenses. He was capable of losing himself rapidly in a conversation, especially if he liked the person and if the atmosphere was relaxed and pleasant.
Kamal said, “I'm a tourist in a museum where nothing belongs to me. I'm merely a historian. I don't know where I stand.”
With increasing interest Riyad Qaldas replied, “In other words, you're at a crossroads. I stood there for a long time before finding my way. But I wager there's a story behind your current posture. Usually it's the end of one stage and the beginning of another. Haven't you believed strongly in various different causes before reaching this point?”
The melody of this conversation revived the memory of an o]d song that was rooted in Kamal'sheart. This young man and this conversation…. The previous barren years had been completely devoid of spiritual friendship. Kamal had grown accustomed to addressing himself whenever he needed someone to talk to. It had been a long time since anyone had been able to awaken a spiritual response like this in him… not Isma'il Latif, not Fuad al-Ham-zawi, not any one of the dozens of teachers. Had the time come for the place vacated by Husayn Shaddad's departure to be filled?
He put his glasses on again. Smiling, he said, “Of course there's a story. Like most people, I began with religious belief, which was followed by belief in truth….”
“I remember that you discussed materialist philosophy with suspicious zeal.”
“My enthusiasm was sincere, but later I was troubled by skeptical doubts.”
“Perhaps rationalism was the answer.”
“I quickly felt skeptical about that too. Systems of philosophy are beautiful and tranquil castles but unfit to live in.”
Abd al-Aziz smiled and said, “These are the words of one of their denizens.”
Kamal shrugged his shoulders to dismiss that remark, but Riyad continued questioning him: “There's science. Perhaps it could save you from your doubts.”
“Science is a closed world to those of us who know only its most obvious findings. Besides, I've learned that there are distinguished scientists who question whether scientific truth matches our actual world. Some find the laws of probability perplexing. Others are averse to asserting that there is any absolute truth. So I became even more tormented by doubt.”
Riyad Qaldas smiled but made no comment. Then Kamal continued: “I've even plunged into modern spiritualism and its attempts to contact the other world. That made my head revolve in a frightening emptiness, and it's still spinning. What is truth? What are values? What is anything? Occasionally when I do the right thing I feel the prickings of conscience that I normally experience on doing something wrong.”
Abd al-Aziz laughed out loud and said, “Religion has taken its revenge on you. You fled it to pursue higher truths only to return empty-handed.”
Apparently more from politeness than conviction, Riyad Qaldas commented, “This skeptical stance is rather delightful. You observe and ponder everything with total freedom, acting like a tourist.”
Addressing Kamal, Abd al-Aziz said, “You're a bachelor in both your thought and your life.”
Kamal noted this chance phrase with interest. Was his single status a consequence of his philosophy or vice versa? Or were both a product of some third factor?
Rdyad Qaldas said, “Being single's a temporary condition. Perhaps doubt is too.”
Abd al-Aziz replied, “But it seemshe's averse to ever getting married.”
Amazed, Riyad asked, “What's incompatible about love and doubt? What's to prevent a lover from getting married? A persistent refusal to marry cannot be justified by doubt, which admits no persistence in anything.”
Without believing it himself, Kamal asked, “Doesn't love require a certain amount of faith?”
Riyad Qaldas answered laughingly, “Of course not. Love is like an earthquake, rocking mosque, church, and brothel equally.”
“An earthquake?” Kamal asked himself. “What an appropriate comparison! An earthquake destroys everything and then drowns the world in deathly silence.”
“What about you, Mr. Qaldas?” Kamal inquired. “You have praised doubt. Are you a skeptic?”
Abd al-Aziz laughed and said, “He's doubt incarnate.”
They roared with laughter. Then Riyad, as though to introduce himself, commented, “I was a skeptic for a long time before renouncing it. I no longer have any doubts concerning religion, because I've abandoned it. But I believe in science and art. I always shall, God willing.”
Abd al-Aziz asked sarcastically, “The God you don't believe in?”
Smiling, Riyad Qaldas answered, “Religion is a human artifact. We know nothing about God. Who can really say he doesn't believe in God? Or that he does? The prophets are the only true Believers. That's because they see and hear Him or converse with messengers bringing His revelations.”
Kamal inquired, “Yet you believe in science and art?”
“Yes.”
“There's some basis for belief in science. But art? I'd rather believe in spiritualism than in the short story, for example.”
Riyad stared at him critically but said calmly, “Science is the language of the intellect. Art is the language of the entire human personality.”
“What a poetic statement!”
Riyad received Kamal's sarcasm with an indulgent smile and replied, “Science brings people together with the light of its ideas. Art brings them together with lofty human emotions. Both help m
ankind develop and prod us toward a better future.”
“What conceit!” Kamal exclaimed to himself. “He writes a two-page short story every month and imagines that he'shelping mankind progress. But I'm as nauseating as he is, for I summarize a chapter from Hoffdmg's History of Modern Philosophy and then deep inside claim to be the equal of Fuad Jamil al-Hamzawi, public prosecutor for al-Darb al-Ahmar. But how would life be bearable otherw:se? Are we insane, wise, or merely alive? To hell with everything!”
“What do you say about scientists who do not share your enthusiasm for science?”
“We should not interpret the modesty of science as weakness or despair. Science provides mankind with its magic, light, guidance, and miracles. It's the religion of the future.”
“And the short story?”
For the first time it became clear that Riyad was offended, even though he attempted not to let it show. Kamal corrected himself almost apologetically, “I mean art in general.”
Riyad Qaldas asked emphatically, “Can you live in absolute isolation? People need confidential advice, consolation, joy, guidance, light, and journeys to all regions of the inhabited world and of the soul. That's what art is.”
At this juncture Mr. Abd al-Aziz said, “I have an idea. Let's get together with some of our colleagues once a month to talk about intellectual concerns. Then we can publish our discussion under the title 'Debate of the Month.'”
Looking at Kamal affectionately, Riyad Qaldas said, “Our debate will continue. Or that's what I hope. Shall we consider ourselves friends?”
Kamal replied with sincere enthusiasm, “Most certainly! We must meet as often as possible.”
Pervaded by happiness because of this new friendship, Kamal sensed that an exalted side of hisheart had been awakened after a profound slumber. He was more convinced than ever of the important role friendship played in his life. It was vital and indispensable for him. Without it, he was like a thirsty man perishing in the desert.
The Cairo Trilogy Page 124
