“You're a skeptic, and there's no end to your doubts. What behavior would have been ideal?”
“He should have persisted in his rejection of the British ultimatum for him to become prime minister. Regardless of the outcome, he should not have yielded.”
“Even if the king had been deposed and a British military government had taken control of the country?”
“Yes.”
Huffing furiously, Riyad exclaimed, “We're having a pleasant chat over a water pipe. But a statesman has to shoulder tremendous responsibilities. In these delicate wartime conditions, how could al-Nahhas have agreed to let the king be deposed and the country be ruled by an English soldier? If the Allies are victorious - and we must realize that this is possible then we would be counted among the defeated enemies. Politics isn't poetic idealism. It's realist wisdom.”
“I still believe in al-Nahhas, but perhapshe's made a mistake. I don't say he's a conspirator or a traitor
“The responsibility rests with those troublemakers who supported the Fascist cause behind the backs of the English as if the Fascists would respect our independence. Don't we have a treaty with the English? Doesn't honor oblige us to keep our word? Besides, are we not democrats who should be interested in seeing the democratic nations triumph over the Nazis, since they place us at the bottom level of the world's peoples and races and stir up antagonism between the different races, nationalities, and religious groups?”
“I'm with you on all that, but when he yielded to the British ultimatum our independence was reduced to a legal fiction.”
“The man protested the ultimatum, and the British deferred to him.”
Isma'il laughed out loud and then said, “How admirable the protest was!” But he soon added in earnest, “I agree with what he did. If I had been in his place I would have done the same thing. He was humiliated and forced out of power, even though he had a majority. And he's known how to exact revenge. The fact is that our independence is nothing but a fiction. What purpose would be served by having the king deposed and our country governed by an English military ruler?”
Riyacl's expression looked even glummer. But Kamal smiled and said with odd detachment, “Others have made mistakes, and al-Nahhas is having to deal with the consequences of those errors. No doubt he has saved the situation. He's saved the throne and the country. Moreover, all's well that ends well. If, after the war, the English remember appreciatively what he did, no one will bring up the ultimatum of the fourth of February.”
After clapping his hands to order more charcoal for the water pipe, Isma'il scoffed, “If the English remember his good deed! I tell you right now they'll sack him long before that.”
Riyad said with conviction, “The man has stepped forward to assume the greatest responsibility in the most trying circumstances.”
Smiling, Kamal replied, Just as you will step forward to assume the greatest responsibility of your life.”
Riyad laughed. Rising, he said, “If you'll excuse me,” and headed off toward the rest room. Then Isma'il leaned in Kamal's direction and gleefully remarked, “Last week a bunch you surely remember visited my mother.”
Looking at him inquisitively, Kamal asked, “Who?”
Smiling in a knowing way, the other man answered, “A'ida.”
For Kamal this name had an odd ring that eclipsed all the emotions it might otherwise have evoked. At first this name appeared to have emerged from deep inside him, not from his friend's lips. Nothing could have been more unexpected, and for some moments the name seemed meaningless. Who was Ai'da? Which A'ida was it? That was all ancient history. How many years had passed since he had heard that name? Since 1926 or 1927… sixteen years… long enough for a boy to reach the prime of adolescence, fall in love, and experience heartbreak. He really had grown old. A'ida? How did this memory affect him? It had no i mpact on him aside from a sentimental interest mixed with emotions like those of a person who remembers a former painful a nd critical condition as his hand probes the scars of a surgical operation. He murmured, “A'ida?”
“Yes. A'ida Shaddad. Don't you remember her? The sister of Husayn Shaddad.”
Becoming nervous under Isma'il's scrutiny, he said evasively, “Husayn! I wonder what's new with him.”
“Who knows?”
He was conscious of how ridiculous his subterfuge was, but what could he do when he sensed that his face was starting to burn in spite of the intensely cold February weather? Although the comparison was a bit odd, love seemed to him to resemble nothing so much as food. “When it's on the table,” he mused, “we are intensely aware of it. We are still conscious of it to a lesser degree as we digest it. But when it has been incorporated into our blood, our relationship to it is quite different. Then it is absorbed into the cells, and they are renewed. Eventually no trace of it remains, except perhaps for an inner echo we term ‘forgetfulness.’ A person may unexpectedly encounter a familiar voice, which will move this forgetfulness toward the level of consciousness. Then somehow he will hear this echo”. If this was not correct, then why washe so shaken? Of course, he might pine for Aida, not because he had once loved her for that relationship had vanished never to return but because she represented love, which he had often sorely missed over the years. She was nothing but a symbol, like a deserted ruin that evokes exalted historic memories.
Isma'il continued: “We talked for a long time - Aida, my mother, my wife, and I. She narrated for us how she and her husband in fact, all the other diplomats - retreated from the advancing German forces until they ended up taking refuge in Spain. They are finally being transferred to Iran. Then we reviewed the past and laughed a lot.”
No matter how dead his love was, hisheart felt an intoxicating longing. Inside him, chords once silent reverberated softly and sadly. He asked, “What does she look like now?”
“She's possibly forty. No, I'm two years older than she is. Aida's thirty-seven. She's filled out a little but is still slender. Her face looks just about the same, except for the earnest and serious expression of her eyes. She said she has a son of fourteen and a daughter who is ten.”
So this was A'ida then. She was not a dream, and he had not imagined his time with her. There had been moments when that part of his past had seemed an illusion. She was a wife and a mother. She remembered the past and laughed a lot. But what was her true image? How much of it did he still retain in his memory? Impressions might easily be transformed during their stay in one's memory. He would have liked to get a good look at this person, in order to discover the secret that had enabled her to exert such enormous influence on him in the past.
Riyad returned to his seat. Although Kamal feared that Isma'il would drop this topic, he continued: “They asked about you!”
Looking from one friend to the other, Riyad realized that they were involved in a private conversation and turned his attentions to the w ater pipe.
Kamal felt that the phrase “They asked about you” posed as great a threat to his immune system as the most virulent germs. Doing bis utmost to appear natural, he inquired, “Why?”
“They asked about one and another of their friends from the old days. Then they asked about you. I said, 'He's a teacher in al-Silahdar School and a great philosopher who publishes articles that 1 don't understand in al-Fikr magazine, which I don't even open.' They laaghed and then asked, ‘Hashe gotten married?’ And I answered, 'Absolutely not.'”
Kamal found himself asking, “What did they say then?”
“Something I don't remember what diverted us from this topic.”
The dormant disease threatened to flare up again. Anyone who has had tuberculosis must beware of catching a cold. The phrase “They asked about you” resembled a children's song, for its meaning was as simple as its impact on the soul was profound. Circumstances may arise for a soul to relive in all its fury a former emotional state that then dies away again. Thus, for a fleeting moment Kamal felt he was that lover from the past, resonating with love's joyous and mournful mel
odies. But he was not in serious jeopardy, for he was like a sleeping man who is distressed by a dream and yet senses with relief that what he sees is not real. All the same, he wished at that moment for a heavenly dispensation allowing him to meet her, if only for a few minutes, so she could confess that she had reciprocated his affection for a day or even pait of one and that what had kept them apart had been the difference in their ages or something similar. If this miracle ever came to pass, it would repay him for all his pains, past and present, and he would consider himself a happy person, aware that his life had not been in vain. But wishful thinking like this was as false an awakening as that of death. He should content himself with forgetfulness. That would be a victory, even if tinged with defeat. He should let his consolation be the fact that he was not the only person to suffer failure in life.
He asked, “When are they leaving for Iran?”
“They were to leave yesterday, or at least that's what she said during her visit.”
“How did she take her family's disaster?”
“I naturally avoided the subject, and she did not refer to it.”
Pointing straight ahead, Riyad Qaldas exclaimed, “Look!” Glancing toward the left-hand side of the balcony, they observed a strange-looking woman in her seventh decade. Skinny and barefoot, she was attired in an ankle-length shirt like a man's and wore a skullcap from which no wisp of hair protruded. Her scalp was either bald or diseased, and her face was so coated with makeup that it appeared ridiculous and disgusting. Her front teeth were missing, and her eyes radiated beaming messages of affectionate ingratiation in all directions.
Riyad asked with interest, “A beggar?”
Isma'il replied, “A crazy woman, more likely.”
She stood looking at the empty chairs on the left. Then choosing one, she sat down. When she noticed that they were looking at her, she smiled broadly and said, “Good evening, men.”
Riyad responded warmly to her greeting, “Good evening, my good woman.”
She emitted a laugh that, as Isma'il said, reminded him of the Ezbekiya entertainment district in its days of glory. Then she answered, “Good woman'! Yes, I am that, if you mean ‘good’ as in 'good times.'”
The three men laughed. Encouraged by this reaction, she said enticingly, “Treat me to tea and a pipe, and God will make it up to you.”
Riyad clapped his hands together energetically to place her order. Leaning toward Kamal's ear, he whispered, “This is the way some stories begin.”
The old woman laughed delightedly and said, “What old-fashioned generosity! Are you members of the wartime rich, my sons?”
Laughing, Kamal replied, “We're members of the wartime poor, in other words civil servants, my good woman.”
Riyad asked her, “What is your distinguished name?”
Raising her head with ludicrous pride, she responded, “The celebrated Sultana Zubayda, in person.”
“The Sultana?”
“Yes,” she continued jovially. “But my subjects have all died.”
“May God have mercy on them.”
“God have mercy on the living. It's enough for the dead that they're in the presence of God. Tell me who you are.”
A smiling waiter brought her a water pipe and tea. Then, approaching the three friends, he asked, “Do you know her?”
“Who is she?”
“The entertainer Zubayda, the most famous vocalist of her time, but age and cocaine have reduced her to the state you see today.”
It see tried to Kamal that he had heard the name before. The interest of Riyad Qaldas intensified, and he urged his friends to introduce themselves as she had requested, in order to encourage her to talk.
Isma'il presented himself: “Isma'il Latif.”
Gigghng and sipping her tea before it could grow cold, she remarked, “Long live names! Even when a charming one like this doesn't lit the person
They laughed, and Isma'il cursed her in a low voice she could not hear. But Riyad said, “Riyad Qaldas.”
“An infidel? I had one of you for a lover. He was a merchant in the Muski, and his name was Yusuf Ghattas. He was a world-beater. I used to crucify him on the bed till dawn.”
She laughed along with them, her pleasure obvious from her face. Then she turned her eyes to Kamal, who said, “Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad.”
She w as bringing the glass of tea to her lips. Her hand stopped in midair as she experienced a fleeting moment of lucidity. Staring at his face, she asked, “What did you say?”
Riyacl Qaldas answered for him, “Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad.”
She took a drag on the water pipe and said as if to herself, “Ahmad Abd al-Jawad! But there are lots of people with the same name, as many as there once were piasters”. Then she asked Kamal, “Is your father a merchant in al-Nahhasin?”
Kamal was astonished and replied, “Yes.”
She stood up and walked toward them. Coming to a stop in front of him, she roared with a laughter that seemed to exceed by far the powers of her emaciated skeleton. Then she exclaimed, “You're Abd al-Jawad's son! O son of my precious companion! But you don't resemble him! This really is his nose, but he was as handsome as the full moon shining by night. Just mention the Sultana Zubayda to him, and he'll tell you more than enough about me.”
Riyad and Isma'il burst into laughter. Kamal smiled as he tried to conquer his disquiet. Only then did he remember that long ago Yasin had told him the story - in fact the many stories - about his father and Zubayda the entertainer.
She asked Kamal, “How is al-Sayyid Ahmad? It's been ages since I moved out of your neighborhood, which spurned me. Now I'm one of the people of Imam al-Shafi'i. But I get homesick for al-Husayn and visit on rare occasions. I was ill for so long that the neighbors got disgusted with me. If they had not been afraid of censure, they would have thrown me into the grave alive. How is my master?”
Kamal replied rather despondently, “He passed away four months ago.”
She frowned a little and said, “To God's mercy… what a pity! He was a man unlike any other.”
She returned to her seat and suddenly laughed loudly. Shortly thereafter the proprietor of the coffeehouse appeared at the entry to the balcony and warned her: “That's enough laughter! ‘When we did not scold him the first time, he brought in his jenny.’ The gentlemen are to be praised for their generosity to you, but if you're rowdy again, I'll show you the door.”
She kept quiet until he left and then smiled at the men. “Are you like your father or not?” she asked Kamal as she made a lewd gesture with her hand.
The friends laughed, and Isma'il said, “He's not even married yet!”
In a bantering tone of disbelief, she said, “It's clear that you're trying to make a sucker out of me.”
They laughed. Riyad rose and went to sit beside her. He remarked, “We're honored by your company, Sultana. But I want to hear about the days of your reign.”
156
TWENTY MINUTES before the lecture was to begin, Ewart Hall at the American University was almost full. According to Riyad Qaldas, Mr. Roger was a noted professor and especially memorable when discussing Shakespeare. There had been a suggestion that the lecture would contain political allusions, but that was hardly worth considering when the speaker was Mr. Roger and the topic William Shakespeare. Even so, Riyad was glum and despondent. Had he not invited Kamal, he would have stayed away. His distress was entirely natural for a man as preoccupied by politics as he was. With obvious passion, he whispered to Kamal, “Makram Ubayd has been expelled from the Wafd! Why are all these outrageous things happening?”
Kamal, who also still felt stunned by the news, shook hishead dejectedly without any comment.
“It's a national catastrophe, Kamal. Things should not have deteriorated this far.”
“Yes, but who was responsible?”
“Al-Nahhas! Makram Ubayd may be high-strung, but the corruption that has infiltrated the government is a fact that should not be hushed up.”
Smiling, Kamal replied, “Let's not talk about corruption in government. Makram's revolt was less about corruption than about his loss of influence.”
With a trace of resignation, Riyad asked, “Would a committed nationalist like Makram abandon the struggle on account of a transitory emotion?”
Kamal could not restrain his laughter as he replied, “You've abandoned your struggle for the sake of a transitory emotion.”
Without smiling, Riyad insisted, “Answer me!”
“Makram has an emotional personality like a poet's or a singer's. If he can't be everything, he'd rather be nothing at all. He discovered that his authority was shrinking and rebelled by openly criticizir g instances of favoritism and by making an issue of it in the cabinet. So he precluded any chance for reconciliation and cooperation. It's regrettable.”
“And what's the result?”
“No doubt the palace blesses this new split in the Wafd Party and will embrace Makram at an appropriate time, just as it has embraced other rebels in the past. From now on, we will see Makram playing a new role with the minority parties and palace agents. Otherwise, he will be out of the picture. They may hate him as much as they do al-Nahhas, or worse, and there are some who hate the Wafd because of Makram. But they will embrace him in order to destroy the Wafd. What happens then is anybody's guess.”
Frowning, Riyad said, “A hideous picture! Both men were at fault, al-Nahhas and Makram. My heart senses that no good will come of this”. Then in a lower voice he continued: “The Copts will have no one to turn to. Or they will seek protection from their archenemy, the king, and his defense of them will not last long. If the Wafd is now treating us as unfairly as the other parties have, what is to become of us?”
Pretending not to understand, Kamal inquired, “Why do you exaggerate the importance of this incident? Makram is not all the Coptic Christians, and the Copts aren't Makram. He's a political figure who has lost power, but the nationalist principles of the Wafd Party will never be abandoned.”
The Cairo Trilogy Page 139
