Muhsin stayed with her for a bit but remained silent, as if he could not think of anything to say. Finally he started to move away. He wanted to burst out into the open again, to be alone. She stopped him, however, and scolded him. “Muhsin, you’re always in the field! Won’t you stay with me a little?”
He came back and sat down. He masked his annoyance with a smile.
His mother came toward him. She felt that her link to her son risked being hardly more than a legality. She had observed how reserved their relationship was for a long time and didn’t know whether the cause was his separation from her for the past years to go to school in Cairo under the tutelage of his uncle Hanafi, the schoolteacher, or a difference of their natures as the boy approached the age of reason. Their tastes did seem to differ. For a time she had noticed he preferred to be alone or to play with young friends rather than to sit with her. Or was it her fault and that of her temperament, which was less interested in motherhood and its cares than in other desires and hopes? She didn’t know. What made her think of this now was a strange feeling—perhaps jealousy or selfishness—when she observed the interest of the boy in Zanuba’s letter. After contemplating him for a long time, she observed, “I think, Muhsin, you love your aunt more than me.”
The youth did not reply. What he had in mind was something else: to rush out to the field and sit, this time in the shade of the turning waterwheel, to read the letter again.
CHAPTER 8
Muhsin could not bear to be away from Cairo a second more after that. What would keep him now that he had received the letter and read it a hundred times till he memorized it?
He told his parents he intended to leave and when. He gently reminded them about the rural presents he ought to take to his uncles. He deftly let them know that they should be generous this time with the presents. His secret intention was to encourage his aunt Zanuba to share some of them with Saniya. By the next day everyone had started to make preparations for Muhsin’s trip. The baskets and the parcels were ready. They were filled with pots of rice mixed with pigeon and chicken, pastries, minin biscuits, country-style sorghum bread, and thin phyllo sheets folded like handkerchiefs, along with two jugs of honey, two tins of clarified butter, two baskets of rice, and approximately five hundred eggs.
These abundant presents were lined up in a long row, which Muhsin inspected with pride and satisfaction.
It was time to leave, and Muhsin put on his suit. He was happy and joyous, because he would be in Cairo in three hours. Yes, in only three hours he would be arriving at the home of his uncles next door to Saniya’s house. For the first time Muhsin realized that he was Saniya’s neighbor. For the first time he sensed the meaning and value of this. How many truths pass by a man without his seeing or grasping them until too late, until these truths have turned into sepia prints? It almost seemed man was destined to see in life nothing but dreams and images. Yes, he had always lived in the building next to hers, but he had never focused on that or appreciated it until today, when he was far away.
He was in front of the mirror putting on his fez. His eyes wandered as he reflected on these thoughts. When he had that feeling of being separated from her only by the wall between the two buildings, he felt drenched with bliss. His eye fell on his image in the mirror. He was delighted by it and looked at his reflection for a long time. His father suddenly came in, holding a watch, to remind him of the time. Muhsin roused himself, somewhat anxiously, and began to look around as though trying to make certain he wasn’t forgetting any of his things. Then he headed for the door, following his father.
His mother had finished supervising the transportation of the goods. It had been decided that the baggage should precede Muhsin to Damanhur in a cart drawn by a pair of mules, while Muhsin would follow after it in the stately carriage, accompanied by his father. Muhsin’s mother came toward him. The bey turned to his son and exhorted him, “Say good-bye to your mother right away. Otherwise there won’t be enough time.”
The youth went to his mother, who embraced him, instructing him to write regularly. Then she turned to her husband and asked him if he had given Muhsin his allowance. He answered quickly, “At the station!”
She said to him, gesturing in a way he understood, “Give him just what I told you. Otherwise, he’ll be giving the money to his uncles.”
Muhsin was offended and gave her a critical look to protest about the money. He said that his uncles had no need to take his money and that they were too good-hearted to do that. The youth did not know why those words stung him or what he felt for his uncles, who were also his companions.
His father noticed and said quietly, to avoid angering his wife, that he sent Hanafi Effendi a regular amount every month for Muhsin to stay with him and that the amount wasn’t excessive.
The lady said rather dryly that all she meant was that Muhsin didn’t like money and hadn’t shown any interest in it since he was a child. She still remembered festival days when she had given him a riyal for the feast, thinking he would spend it like other children to purchase a flute, a balloon, or chocolate, but no. He had played with the silver coin for a while and then returned it. Astonished, she had asked, “What happened, Muhsin?”
He had replied, “All done.”
Amazed, she had pressed him to say more. “All done how?”
He had said, “All done. I’ve played with it and now I’m done.”
The lady was silent for a little. The bey said to her, “But today Muhsin hasn’t asked for any more than the normal monthly amount.”
The lady grew angry and said sharply and coldly, “Fine . . . fine . . . I know! I’m the one who is wrong. My point is that you should keep track so afterward you don’t say it’s the banquets that have used up all the money.”
* * *
• • •
The train came and the servants stormed it with the bags and bundles. Muhsin climbed aboard, and the train moved off. He waved good-bye to his father on the platform. Then he sat down and withdrew into himself, trying to reconstruct the impact of the countryside on his soul or at least to retain a last image of his parents, whom he had just left. He found, however, that his head contained only one picture: Cairo-Saniya. There was nothing in his heart except the letter from her in his pocket. This letter was his entire past. His entire future was Saniya. Meanwhile, his soul was empty even now, as though he had never been in the country, hadn’t seen anything, and hadn’t met anyone.
Similarly, Muhsin had no desire to look at his fellow travelers or keep track of what was happening around him. Instead he took the letter from his pocket and began to read and reread it, pondering every expression. When he reached Cairo, the letter was still in his hand. Muhsin’s father had sent a telegram to Hanafi Effendi giving the arrival time of the train so Muhsin would be met at the station. As soon as the train stopped, Muhsin rose and dusted himself off. Looking out the window, he gazed at the platform with terrific happiness. He ought to let his uncle Hanafi know where he was. It amazed him to find not only Hanafi but all his other comrades. The folks, all of them—Abduh, Salim, Mabruk, and Hanafi—had been standing there, watching the train thunder down upon them. Mabruk with laughable naiveté had his arm in the air, waving to no avail at the coach where he thought Muhsin was sitting. Muhsin didn’t have sufficient time or a calm enough mind then to wonder why they had all come to greet him. Were they that eager to see him? Yes, the comrades in fact felt they had lost something when their fifth member departed. As soon as the telegram arrived, they joyfully hastened to meet him. Was that the only reason? Muhsin didn’t know but was happy to see them. When he looked out the train window and saw Mabruk, who was pointing and talking in his usual way, Muhsin’s heart filled with laughter; he felt he had returned to his native habitat.
CHAPTER 9
The setting didn’t allow Muhsin more than a first quick greeting. When he mentioned to them the quantity of luggage he had with him, eve
ryone rushed onto the train, with Mabruk in the lead. Each one carried what he could till they reached the station plaza, where they asked Mabruk to negotiate for them with the owner of a cart. When they had finished piling the bags and parcels on it and putting Mabruk on top of the bags and parcels, they took the carter’s number and told him, “Go, boss, to Salama Street, number thirty-five.”
Captain Salim said, “Pay attention to the baggage, boss.”
Abduh counted the parcels and said, “Watch out, boss. Don’t let any of the parcels drop on the way.”
Hanafi said, “If you can’t find the house, boss, ask around Al-Sayyida. There are a thousand who can show you.”
The carter pulled on the reins and answered, “Giddap, you dog’s donkey! No fear! How could I get lost? Didn’t you say Salama Street in Al-Sayyida district?”
President Hanafi added to be certain, “There’s a coffeehouse facing the building. All you need, boss, is to ask Master Shahhata, the owner of the coffeehouse.”
Here Mabruk shouted at them from the top of the cart to protest that they were ignoring his existence. “And me—all kidding aside—am I nothing but a package on the cart?”
Muhsin laughed and acknowledged he was right. Hanafi looked at him and said apologetically, “You’re right, Mr. Mabruk. Our mistake. Drive on, boss, and if you get lost ask the effendi who’s on top of the baggage.”
The driver raised his hand with the whip, and the cart started off, heading tipsily through Maidan Bab El Hadid. The donkey wore brass anklets, and Mabruk on the summit swayed back and forth. He looked back to his comrades with a smile as they watched him disappear. He started waving for them to hurry to the house at once to meet him.
The comrades headed for the streetcar stop after that. They got on and rode to Al-Sayyida Zaynab district. All the way they were asking Muhsin about his parents, Damanhur, and what he had seen. He answered them while observing their faces and voices. He seemed to notice a change in them. There was an unfamiliar resonance to what they said. He couldn’t tell yet whether his observation was correct or just the imaginings of a new arrival. He glimpsed a quiet sorrow on their faces. Their voices had a tendency to fade away, followed by a long silence. They seemed to feel no happiness or joy. Yet, amazingly, he sensed they were closer to him than before. He felt that the only happiness any of them experienced now was occasioned by his return.
Muhsin wasn’t able to sort this out at the time; he was on the streetcar. But this was his first impression on seeing them. He kept wanting to ask about that on the way. He was afraid, however, that his feelings were erroneous and that all this was occasioned by the impact of their first meeting. Moreover he had to answer their questions and narrate the events of the journey. He didn’t want to ask them too impetuously. There would be plenty of time. They too, for their part, withheld their news, as though they didn’t want to be hasty or to seem preoccupied by their affairs.
They reached the house. When Muhsin’s eyes fell on the neighboring residence that had a brass plate with the name of Dr. Ahmad Hilmi engraved on it, his expression changed and his heart beat faster. Abduh and Salim may have been watching him at this moment, for they exchanged glances. They were filled with something, but it was impossible to say whether it was peace or pity.
They all went up the stairs. On their way, Muhsin passed the first-floor apartment occupied by their neighbor Mustafa Bey. He smiled and remembered at once his aunt Zanuba. He turned to one of his companions and asked if this rich neighbor still lived here or whether he had moved. Glances were exchanged again. Then he heard Salim reply in an odd voice, “Still here, sir!”
They finally reached their floor and entered the familiar apartment. Zanuba met them, praising and glorifying God and welcoming Muhsin’s return, asking him about his parents’ health and looking at him. She said, “May you be safe and well fed here.”
Then she commenced to recite charms over him and to pray for him to God and Umm Hashim. Muhsin looked around the house, acquainting himself with what he had left a week ago, as though he had been absent for a year. He looked at the table set in the middle of the hall. He remembered them gathering around it. Then he craned his neck to see the bedroom with the four beds lined up side by side. He turned his head to study the stairway to the roof, to the place he had met Saniya for the first time. He looked into Zanuba’s room with the cabbage-colored mattress spread on the ground on top of the old red kilim where his aunt would sit with him while he naughtily devised stratagems to get news about Saniya from her without exciting her suspicion. He saw all of that; it shot through his mind in a flash. He found nothing changed from before in the apartment’s arrangement or furnishings.
Yes, nothing had changed, but all the same he had some inkling that something had changed. What? Muhsin turned to his comrades’ faces to investigate them. He found them silent and inscrutable.
He turned to Zanuba. At first he was unable to discern anything unusual in her expression or to observe in her voice and gestures anything to inspire some special feeling in him. Yet, it did not escape him, when he scrutinized her eyes, that there was something in them that did not fit with that happy smile and delight with which she received him. Yes, her eyes looked sad, but she lowered them at once when he gave her this searching look. She asked him if he was hungry. He replied he would only eat with his uncles after the luggage arrived, because he was bringing them pots of rice with pigeon and chicken. Their spirits were raised; they rejoiced and smiled when chicken and pigeons were mentioned. Zanuba told Muhsin to change his clothes while waiting for the luggage. Muhsin went to the communal bedroom, approached the large collective wardrobe, and opened it. He cast a glance at the clothing of different sizes and colors it contained. It reminded him of the displays at Suq al-Kanto. Then he went to his bed, which was next to President Hanafi’s. While Muhsin was unbuttoning his clothes, Hanafi said cheerfully in welcome, “Greetings to my neighbor!”
Captain Salim gestured with his hand to the room and the bed and said to Muhsin in a playful way but with a murky, anxious ring to his voice, “You’ve returned to the barracks, hero.”
Hanafi said with a smile, “The barracks are at full force now!”
He recalled that he had felt something was lacking whenever he had remembered that Muhsin’s bed was empty. The feeling of deprivation had prevented him from sleeping at times.
Muhsin laughed. Looking at Hanafi he said, “Kept you from sleeping? Impossible! There’s nothing that could keep you from sleeping, ever. Remember the day you fell asleep in the station and made me miss the train?”
He turned to the others, wanting to tell them what happened so they could join in the fun. But Hanafi signaled to him, entreating him not to share this information with the folks.
Silence crept over them for a moment. Abduh, who hadn’t uttered a word since he entered, said, “We’re short Mabruk.” These words turned everyone’s thoughts in another direction. They rose to look out the window for the arrival of the cart with Mabruk on top.
Hanafi got off his bed, where he had been sitting and said, “They must have gotten lost. With Mabruk in it, will it ever arrive? I bet he fell off the cart without the driver noticing or stopping.”
A thought suddenly came to Muhsin. He stopped removing his clothes and rebuttoned his jacket. The presents would arrive shortly, and he could go meet Saniya. Yes, he knew it would be impossible to wait patiently until tomorrow to see her.
Muhsin had scarcely finished putting his clothes back on when he heard his comrades shouting at the window, “Here it is!”
That was followed by the commotion President Hanafi stirred up when he crowded against his comrades at the window. He put his spectacles on his nose and focused his eyes where his colleagues were looking. He confirmed that the cart was in fact in sight, at the end of the street. It was shaking and jumping about like a sinking ship as it made its way over the washboard road and its pot
holes. On top was Mabruk. To those watching him from afar he seemed to rise and fall. Sometimes only his hand or arm could be seen directing the driver toward the house; at other times the entire top half of him appeared. He was clasping a small package!
The cart finally reached the house and stopped at the doorway. Abduh suggested they should all go down to help Mabruk get the parcels up. As soon as he said that, he headed for the door of the apartment and hurried down. The rest of the folks were right after him, including the honorary president. Muhsin remarked that Hanafi Effendi descended the stairs with amazing energy, ready for work. He laughed to himself, grasping the secret: By God, what’s set Uncle Hanafi in motion today is the pots of rice.
Zanuba was at that time in her room waiting for Muhsin to finish changing his clothes. When she heard the noise they were all making on the stairs, she went out and looked down at them from above. She asked what was happening. President Hanafi answered her with innocent satisfaction, as he brushed against Salim’s shoulder at the bottom step, “The cart’s here! Get the trenchers, pots, and dishes.”
In less than ten minutes the parcels were lined up in the dining hall. All the folks gathered after paying the driver for his services. Zanuba stepped forward. They had authorized her to open the items, distribute them, preserve them, and to deal with them according to the dictates of wisdom and justice. She took a knife and began to cut and undo the bands on the baskets and to take out the baked goods—minin, battaw, and ghurayba—to put in a large dishpan.
Mabruk watched the motion of her hand going from basket to pan. He stared at the sorghum bread, and his mouth watered. Finally, no longer able to wait patiently, he hazarded a comment. “I’m telling you, Miss Zanuba, pray for the Prophet!”
Zanuba did not respond. She was preoccupied with her work and paid no attention to him. He grudgingly remained quiet for a bit. Then he resumed his attack by clearing his throat. He approached her at last and said, “I don’t have any right to interfere—all kidding aside. Give me what’s mine and then tell me to go to hell.”
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