Muhsin replied considerately, “Last year Uncle Hanafi wrote to me. I answered him and sent you my greetings. Shouldn’t I reply to the one who writes me?”
Zanuba said immediately, “Have pity on me—if only I knew how to read and write. Last year I said repeatedly to your uncles they should write a letter for me. One time they were too lazy. The next they said, ‘We’ve already sent our letter with more than enough news.’ That’s the way with letters. But this year, by the Prophet, you will receive a letter from me personally, because Saniya, may God’s name protect her, is going to write it for me.”
Muhsin became agitated and asked impetuously, “Saniya?”
She nodded her head yes and told him Saniya had called her just then to ask her to hurry and come over to their place as she had promised. She had apologized, saying she was busy getting Muhsin’s things ready. At this mention of Muhsin, Saniya had asked Zanuba delicately not to forget to send her greetings and those of her mother whenever she wrote him. So Zanuba had told her that she was upset because her brothers wouldn’t write a letter for her except under the most exhaustive pressure. Right away Saniya had proposed that she would write whatever Zanuba dictated. She was ready to write to Muhsin whatever Zanuba wanted: one letter, two, or three. So Zanuba had thanked her and was delighted. She praised God that He was going to spare her from depending on a person like Hanafi.
But Zanuba’s delight could not be compared with young Muhsin’s bliss. He was picturing himself receiving a letter written by Saniya’s hand. His heart danced, and for the first time, he began to look forward to the trip, for the sole reason of waiting for this cherished letter.
Night fell, and the folks assembled around Muhsin before he went to bed. They bade him farewell and reminded him of the gifts they wanted him to bring them from the country on his return. One of them wanted pots of rice with pigeon. Another asked for curdled milk and sorghum bread . . . and so on.
Muhsin went to bed happy and instructed Hanafi to wake up quickly in the morning since he was to leave on the first train. It was Hanafi Effendi’s duty to accompany Muhsin to the station and buy his ticket because he served as the responsible president of the family.
Muhsin did not sleep that night. Images from his happy day flowed in succession through his imagination. He kept impatiently anticipating the morning. He was delighted to be traveling to see his family after a long absence, to see the countryside, and especially to await the promised letter.
Dawn’s harbingers appeared. Then the alarm clock, which they had set the previous night for five, went off. Muhsin leapt up and headed straight for Hanafi’s bed to wake him. He knew he had an arduous task.
He removed the covers from Hanafi’s head and called him, but Hanafi didn’t respond. Muhsin repeated the call once, twice, and three times—to no avail.
Finally, Hanafi Effendi turned over in bed and said peevishly, “Good grief! You disturb my sleep in the middle of the night. It’s not time to leave.”
Muhsin shouted at him, “Middle of the night, huh? The sun’s up!”
Hanafi grumbled, sleep weighing down his lids, “The alarm hasn’t gone off yet!”
Muhsin said sarcastically, “Oh yeah? You were asleep. It rang and rang.”
Hanafi wasn’t convinced at first. So Muhsin began to try to persuade him with words. A discussion and debate arose between them over the hour, the alarm clock, and whether the bell had rung. This was all procrastination to gain time for Hanafi to lie in bed. Abduh finally heard the argument, rose angrily, and went to wake Hanafi in the tried-and-true fashion. He said it was the only thing that worked on Hanafi.
* * *
• • •
By six-thirty Hanafi and Muhsin were at Mahattat Bab al-Hadid, the railway station. Muhsin stood with his parcel and his suitcase under the station clock, waiting for Hanafi, who had gone to buy the ticket a quarter of an hour earlier and hadn’t returned yet. Muhsin fidgeted and looked anxiously at the clock. He saw passengers rushing in droves to the train. Some more minutes passed. There were only five minutes left before the train was scheduled to depart, and Hanafi had not appeared.
The first bell rang, and Muhsin looked right and left in agitation, searching for him. But there was no trace of Hanafi. Time passed and late arrivals were racing toward the train. The porters were shouting that only a minute remained. In despair, the youth began watching the hand on the large clock over his head. Finally the conductor shouted, “Watch your feet!” Then the train whistled and moved slowly off . . . leaving the station and disappearing from sight. But Hanafi had not returned yet.
Muhsin suppressed his rage and decided to call a porter to mind his luggage while he went looking for Hanafi. Then, suddenly, the honorary president, who had the ticket in his mouth, came running up, dripping with sweat. When he drew near to Muhsin, he thrust the ticket at him and shouted, “Take it. Get on right away. There’s no time.”
Muhsin looked at him coldly. He stood frozen in place and asked him languidly but wrathfully, “Where’s the train?”
Hanafi looked at the platform where the train normally stood. Not seeing it, he relaxed and calmed down. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then he asked, “Hasn’t it come yet? Didn’t I tell you we woke too early?”
The youth flared up and said angrily, “Hasn’t come? The train left an hour ago.”
Hanafi didn’t seem to believe him and asked, “What are you saying? Left? Are you sure?”
Muhsin asked him coldly, “Where were you? Where did you go, sir?”
The honorary president replied, “Brother, when I went to buy you a ticket, I found a terrible crowd of people at the window. So I told myself: I’ll sit and wait a little on the bench.”
“What bench?”
“Do I know? A green bench over there with a back.”
Muhsin retorted quickly, trying to restrain in his rage, “You fell asleep!”
VOLUME 2
Arise! Arise, Osiris. I am your son Horus.
I have come to restore life to you.
You no longer have your true heart, your past heart.
—The Book of the Dead
CHAPTER 1
Muhsin took the next train. Immediately after selecting a window seat in the corner of a compartment, he isolated himself from the other travelers to be alone with his imagination and memories and Saniya and what had happened the day before . . . and so on and so forth.
Gone were the clamor of the station, the anxiety of waiting, and the effort of traveling, of getting ready and prepared. Here he was now doing it. The train had carried him far away from his beloved Cairo. He had left Hanafi Effendi on the platform running behind the train waving good-bye to him and shouting with a moving artlessness, “Good-bye, Muhsin.”
This President Hanafi with whom Muhsin had been furious shortly before—what a good person he was! Dripping with sweat, he had carried the parcel and suitcase for Muhsin into the second-class carriage.
Was this for real? Was he truly leaving Cairo with such speed? And his comrades, his uncles, the folks, with Hanafi their honorary president? Was he to spend the night in another community and another bed? Muhsin was moved and somewhat depressed. His one consolation was remembering that his trip was only for a short time and that he would gain a letter from Saniya, a letter that he was already anticipating even before it was sent. It would be his most precious possession.
One other thing helped console him about leaving Cairo: He would see his dear mother and his father.
When Muhsin eventually turned to his fellow travelers around him, he found there were a lot of them, some wearing traditional turbans and others modern fezzes. They filled the compartment, not leaving an empty seat in it. Till that time they had been quiet, although they had been glancing at each other as though they weren’t comfortable with silence and isolation and wished someone would start talking.
The man entered with his bundle and sat down. At that, an effendi among the compartment’s passengers leaned toward his neighbor and addressed him in a voice that started out soft and deferential and soon became public and loud, as though he wanted everyone else to hear what he was saying. The others in fact began to turn their eyes toward him with pleasure and interest as though hearkening to an orator at a mosque or a preacher in a church.
The speaker was emboldened by the response of his fellow passengers and launched into an impromptu oration, gliding from topic to topic.
He began by commenting on how they had made room for the new passenger. He praised this gesture, offering a tribute to the sense of kinship and of heartfelt solidarity among the people of Egypt. He said, “If this had happened in Europe, not one of the passengers would have moved, even if he was acquainted with the newcomer and his friend. No one will decrease his comfort for the sake of another, no matter who he is.”
He added, with reference to Europe, that he had once traveled by train in one of the countries there. Then one of the turbaned travelers interrupted him with naive admiration, “Sir, you’ve traveled overseas?”
The effendi smiled and answered him modestly, “I’ve been to Austria, England, and France on business.”
The effendi returned to his topic and said that he was once a passenger in a train in Europe and spent a day and a night in it without a word escaping anyone’s lips, neither his nor his fellow passengers’ in that same compartment, as though each one of them was an extraterrestrial, not all earthlings with the same kind of heart and emotions.
A shaykh in a corner of the compartment cleared his throat and said, “It’s a country without Islam.”
The effendi did not respond. The color of his face changed a little. He put out his hand and pretended to be busy shaking the dust of the trip from his fez, as though slightly embarrassed and annoyed.
At that, one of the passengers noticed a cross tattooed on the man’s wrist and realized that the shaykh had said something with the best of intentions but that his comment had not been well received. He intervened gently to set it right: “You mean, Mr. Shaykh, it’s a land without hearts, not like our country where we are all brothers, whether Copts or Muslims.”
Another passenger, an enlightened man, noticed the same thing. He entered into the discussion and began adroitly to amend the statement until he showed those present that the word “Islam,” which was current in Egyptian use at all levels of society, really had no religious or sectarian stamp. Its meaning and import were, rather, the emotion of mercy, a goodness of heart, and a union of hearts. These were emotions to be found in Egypt and not in Europe. There, the poison of utility had spread through the souls of the Europeans. A dog-eat-dog strife prevailed with emphasis on the personal welfare of the individual.
Everyone, both the turbaned and the befezzed, pondered this statement and this gloss. He seemed to have disclosed to them a reality that had previously been concealed under the cloak of that word. They liked what he had said and appreciated it. The topic was closed.
One of those present still wanted to go back to the effendi who spoke first and to what he had said. He asked him, “So, Mr. Effendi, a person overseas can bear not speaking to his neighbor in a train?”
Another volunteered, “While one of us, no offense, rides our narrow-gauge railroad train for half an hour and gets off knowing all the passengers.”
A third said, “Why look so far? Here we are—we’re not to Banha yet—and we’ve been blessed by the company of all present.”
Then he looked at each of them in turn with a smile as though greeting them. Finally his glance fell on young Muhsin, who was crouched in a corner, where no one had paid attention to him. His eyes rested on him a little, as though he was surprised at his silence when everyone else had spoken. Wishing to draw him out of his isolation, he leaned toward him politely and asked him gently, “Isn’t that right, young effendi?”
The youth turned toward him in confusion and stammered shyly a few words. Then he turned his face to the window, going back to his quiet isolation. His interlocutor left him alone and did not persist. He attributed Muhsin’s behavior to his youth, shyness, and diffidence about speaking when surrounded by adults.
They all recommenced their discussion of various topics, until they reached Banha station, where one of them leaned from the window and bought butter cookies, eggs, oranges, and tangerines. Another spread on his lap a napkin that was full of food and invited those present: “Help yourselves.”
They responded, “A long life!”
The train started moving and left Banha. The passengers were busy eating for a while, except for the effendi who had spoken first. He started talking again and made this observation: “With regard to ‘help yourselves,’ one of those passengers in Europe would pull out a cigarette or eat and drink without so much as acknowledging the existence of his neighbor.”
The people present incredulously asked God’s deliverance. Each one had an opinion to express about that. The effendi went on to boast, “The people of Egypt are a deeply rooted nation. Why, we’ve been in the Nile Valley for seven thousand years. We knew how to plant and cultivate, had villages, farms, and farmers at a time when Europe hadn’t even achieved barbarism.”
The man with the bundle, after spitting voluminously out the window, said, “You’re right: It all depends on one’s lineage, Mr. Effendi.”
Here, the enlightened effendi said, as though he had just thought of it, “You’re right, sir. We are without doubt a social people by instinct, for we have been an agricultural people since ancient times. Back then, other peoples lived by hunting in a barbarous and isolated fashion with each tribe or family in a different place. We, however, from prehistory on, have had villages of a civilized type and have dwelt in the Nile Valley. Social organization was in our blood. Social life is a natural characteristic that has developed among us through many generations.”
CHAPTER 2
When the train finally reached the Damanhur station, Muhsin looked down at the platform and found the Nubian butler and Mr. Ahmad, the coachman, waiting for him. No sooner had they recognized him than they attached themselves to the railway carriage and shouted, “Praise God for your safe arrival, bey.”
“Fetch the luggage, Bilal, and be quick.”
“What about the young bey?”
“I’ll bring down the young bey. Come, bey.”
Thus the youth got down and walked between the two servants as though at a loss. The word bey rang in his ears strangely, although for once he didn’t mind. He felt an unaccustomed pride and wished Saniya could have been present to see and hear.
He climbed into the horse-drawn carriage, which transported him through this unpretentious city. People on both sides of the street, in coffeehouses and shops, gazed at him as though asking themselves who this youth was who was riding in the carriage of a local dignitary. When he reached home, he found his mother waiting for him at the top of the steps. As soon as she saw him, she opened her arms to him. The moment he saw her, he rushed to her instinctively. They embraced and tears of emotion and joy glistened in the mother’s eyes. Whenever she finished hugging him, she started again.
At last she began to examine him from head to toe, inspecting him and touching him, as though conducting a limb-by-limb review. Finally she smiled, saying to him, “In God’s name, God’
s will be done! You’ve put on some weight, Muhsin.”
She brought him into the parlor and sat him down beside her. She began to ask him about Cairo and his aunt and uncles. Then his father came in. Muhsin rose and hastened to kiss his hand. He remained standing until his father sat down. His father then asked, “So, Muhsin, how was the midyear exam?”
The youth fidgeted a little and said, “There wasn’t one this year. They canceled it.”
His father replied with surprise and dismay, “Canceled it? How come? They don’t have the right at all.”
He then began to ask him about his courses and teachers and the competency examination that Muhsin would sit this year. Finally his mother intervened, chiding her husband, “Bey, you’re wrong. Can’t you let him catch his breath? Yes, ask him first about his health and that of his uncles. Why are you so thoughtless?”
Then, noticing her husband’s shoes, she asked, “Are you still wearing them? Didn’t I tell you to get rid of those shoes? It just doesn’t fit your rank at all to wear shoes like these. You have a lot of shoes—why wear these? You’re an important figure in this community.”
Removing them, her husband replied, “I forgot. Here you go, madam. Don’t be angry. Ali! Ali!”
Another Nubian answered his call, not the man Muhsin had seen at the station. He was wearing a white caftan with a red sash at the waist. The senior bey ordered him to bring another pair of shoes right away.
That was when Muhsin began to peer at the expensive carpets and sumptuous furniture surrounding him. He glanced politely at his mother and noticed the expensive clothes she was wearing.
His mother was looking at him at the same time. She immediately said, “I don’t like what you have on, Muhsin.” The boy mumbled some unintelligible words. His mother continued, “You just won’t grow up like me.”
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