The Journey of Ibn Fattouma

by Naguib Mahfouz

  The old man roared with laughter, disclosing where he was missing front teeth. “As you do in your country?” he said.

  “Certainly, in which case I would take her along with me on my journey so that we could return together to my homeland.”

  The man looked at his daughter. “What do you feel, Arousa?”

  Arousa said happily, “On condition he undertakes to return me to Mashriq if I want.”

  “I grant you that, Arousa,” I said without hesitation.

  “But I do not possess the right of final agreement, for we are all the slaves of the overlord and he is our legal owner. So go to the palace and propose to the chamberlain that you buy Arousa.”

  This obstacle, with which I had not reckoned, stood in my way, but I realized that I must without fail surmount it. I spent half the day with Arousa in deep relaxed happiness. On returning to the inn I announced to Fam what was worrying me and he promised to accompany me to the chamberlain. Thus it was decreed that I should pass through the door of the palace and view a part of its garden, resplendent with flowers and palm trees, on my way to the chamberlain. He was seated in the center of a spacious room on a large couch of rosewood, spread with soft pillows and cushions. He was over sixty, portly, with poor sight, and he was enveloped in an air of seclusion and haughtiness. Fam kissed his hand and presented my request, but the chamberlain waved his hand in a sign of refusal. “We have prohibited selling,” he said, “because of our need for additional numbers of slaves.” Then he looked at me. “Join us if you wish, as Fam has done, and you will be included in the general body of slaves and enjoy security, contentment, and the slave girl as well.”

  I thanked him for his generosity and left the palace with a heart weighed down with frustration and grief. On our way to the inn Fam said, “Enjoy your girl until you are sated—and you’ll be quickly sated!” Without knowing it, he increased my sorrows. Then he went on, “The time was not opportune for making a success of your endeavors, for there is news of Haira preparing to declare war on us.”

  “For what reason?” I asked anxiously.

  “Greed for the riches of the overlords and the rich pastures,” he said, laughing bitterly. “And they will not lack a pretext for invasion.”

  I was assailed by anxiety and my worries increased. Near the market we parted and I went at once to Arousa’s tent. I was met by the old man, who scrutinized my face. “By the moon, your efforts have been unsuccessful.”

  Arousa gave a meaningless laugh, and I replied sadly, “My efforts have been unsuccessful.”

  “She awaits you,” the old man laughed, indicating Arousa.

  “It pains me that my relationship with her should be transitory.”

  “Every relationship is transitory, stranger,” mocked the old man.

  “I had hoped it would be permanent!” I said fervently.

  “What an egotistical traveler you are!” he said, guffawing with laughter. “Beware of complications, for we are simple people who love simplicity.”

  “It’s as though you don’t know what love is.”

  “We know that it is the pleasure of a night or a week, a month or a year in crazy circumstances. What do you want more than that?”

  “What do you suggest for a madman like myself?” I asked seriously.

  “Rent her for a renewable period.”

  “Shall I go back to the chamberlain for that too?”

  “Not at all. That is my right as her father. What period would you like?”

  “The longest possible.”

  “I shall rent her out month by month.”

  “So be it.”

  “But the agreement will come to an end if she so desires.”

  I lowered my head in agreement.

  “It will be three dinars a month,” he said.

  The agreement was concluded and I went off with Arousa to my room at the inn. I determined not to spoil my happiness and to consider the present moment as though it were the whole of life. But I begged her to let me cover the beauty of her body. To this she replied in annoyance, “Don’t make a laughingstock of me.”

  So I changed my mind and resigned myself to everything. She took on for me the appearance of a happy illusion that threatened to vanish, so I joined her with a heart pursued by the specter of separation and sadness. And yet life became good with the wonderful young girl and gave promise of stability and security to heart and nerves. She loved to roam freely in the pastures and to wander round the market, so we would go out joyfully together. One day al-Qani ibn Hamdis saw me and approached. “We are traveling with the dawn,” he said.

  “But I am staying,” I answered with embarrassment.

  “You will find a caravan every ten days,” he said, laughing.

  Immersed in love, I was not concerned with time. For me now the journey and the important matter on which I was engaged had no significance, even if I were to remain here till the end of my life. Then appeared the harbingers of motherhood with their joys of the heart and sicknesses of the body, so I sought refuge in them from the vicissitudes of unruly feelings and impetuous desires. I craved a settled existence, even if it were to tie me in the end to Mashriq and to change my whole way of life and my dreams. “It seems,” I said to myself sardonically, “that I was created for love and not for journeys!”

  Time passed and brought the night of the full moon, when the people hurried off to the square of worship. We went to the square as man and wife and squeezed ourselves into the crowd. “This is the night of the god,” she said to me solemnly, “during which husband and wife are separated.”

  She fled and melted into the crowds, and I remained alone, disturbed and angry, robbed of willpower and happiness. The rites were performed one after another while I asked myself what she was doing with some stranger. When the moment of embracing came I found myself facing a woman of forty possessed of a certain beauty, who opened her arms to me. It occurred to me that what was happening to me was also happening elsewhere to Arousa. Cup bearers passed round with date wine and I drank a glass. Out of my mind, I joined in the prayers of Mashriq. At dawn I collapsed and squatted at the entrance to the inn until Arousa appeared, staggering as she approached. Speechless, I went up to her and led her off to our room.

  “Did you like the woman?” she asked me.

  “We have dirtied a sacred relationship, Arousa,” I said bitterly.

  “You are not a believer, Qindil, and I can do nothing about that,” she said with annoyance. Then, coming up to me with a smile, she said, “I still love you, you are still my only man.”

  I confess that my own love had not weakened and that fear of being separated had kindled it. She had become both my happiness and my misery.

  I was scorched by the summer, which was like hellfire; all vegetation was obliterated and the cattle ate dried fodder. Autumn came, the fiery heat subsided a little, and it drizzled with rain from time to time. Then came the winter with its pleasantly mild weather and heavy rains, and the earth came to life, the cattle were delighted, and those who were naked remained naked. Arousa gave birth to her first child; he was named Ram the son of Arousa—as though she had produced him on her own and I had nothing to do with it.

  Her father said to me, “Here you are entering your second year and she still loves you. Are you some magician, stranger?”

  The first signs of a new motherhood broke forth and she gave birth to Aam, and a year later he was followed by Lam the son of Arousa. Then she became pregnant for the fourth time and our relationship became famous amongst the people for being exceptional: it was said that I was embracing her with a magical strength that I had learned in the lands of Islam.

  Without knowing it, I was driven to bring Ram up on the principles of Islam. He was growing quicker and stronger than his companions because of the care and food I gave him, and he was put forward as an ideal of what the children of Mashriq should be, were it not for the oppression and servitude. By teaching him the principles of Islam, I expiated my inevit
able neglect of my faith in deference to the country which was harboring me, though Arousa did not conceal her displeasure. “You are bringing him up in godlessness,” she said seriously, “and preparing him for a life of misery in his own country.”

  “I am saving his soul,” I said gently, “just as I once had hoped to save yours.”

  “I shall never permit you to do that,” she said severely.

  She showed herself so stubbornly that I grew fearful for my love. She disclosed her worries to her father when we were on a visit to him. He was greatly upset and shouted at me, “Keep away from our son, stranger.”

  It seemed that the news leaked out, despite our having kept it to ourselves, and looks of anger seared me as I walked in the street. Pursued by feelings of unease, I told myself, “The building is threatened with collapse.”

  My conjectures were correct, for Fam came and took me from my room to his own, where I found a police officer waiting for me.

  “Are you Qindil Muhammad al-Innabi?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, my mouth dry.

  “It has been established that you are trying to bring up your eldest son to godlessness,” he said sternly.

  “How has that been established?” I asked in alarm.

  “We know best how to perform our duty. Listen, for I have not come to discuss things with you: the overlord’s order has been issued that you should be separated from your mistress and her children and that you should depart from Mashriq with the first caravan.”

  I was about to speak, but he said roughly, “I did not come to talk. You are under arrest so that they may take the woman and the children to her father. You shall remain under guard until you join the caravan.”

  “Let me say goodbye to them,” I pleaded.

  “You have received the most lenient punishment, so be grateful,” he said gruffly.

  An hour later I returned to my room, which had been turned into a prison. I found it empty of mother and children, of love and hope. A moment of gloom spread over the depths of my soul, and life stripped away the veil from a dream and an illusion. Fam joined me, gazing at me with sympathy. “Put up with it as befits a man who is a traveler.”

  “I am distraught, Fam,” I said, my voice shaking.

  He scrutinized my face for a while, then said, “Let your tears flow—men sometimes cry.”

  Trying to control my tears, I said, “The pleasures of life have evaporated.”

  “They will be renewed and will come with solace.”

  He patted me on the shoulder and said, “You must know that a traveler should not strive after a permanent relationship.”

  3

  The Land of Haira

  The caravan moved off in a darkness that betrayed the first glimpses of dawn. My heart was pulled backwards, my throat was tight with sadness and tears. The stars were grouped above us, they looking at us and we at them, and all solace was absent. Just as I had left my homeland some five years before, frustrated by the betrayal of mother, of sweetheart, and of those in power, so once again I had turned into a traveler thinking of countries and notebooks—but where was the heart, the mind? These stars, I told myself, were nearer to me than Arousa and the children. Caravans continue to make their way carrying riches and hopes. Who, though, carries sorrows? The darkness vanishes and light shines, and the desert shows itself without boundaries, like extinction. I wondered what they were saying about me back home, and why I had not again come across al-Qani ibn Hamdis. I told myself, “The best thing you can do, traveler, is to see and hear and record and to shun experiences, to resume your dreams of the land of Gebel, and to bear off healing remedies for the wounds of your mother country.”

  We traversed the distance between Mashriq and Haira in one month, and made camp in the vicinity of the Zemam Oasis, so that we might enter Haira at midnight. With nightfall we continued on our way until there loomed before us the town walls under the light of the stars, and we drew nearer to its great gateway.

  In front of the entrance, in the light of torches, stood the director of customs. It seemed, from his helmet, breastplate, sword, and short loincloth, that he was a military man. He spoke in a strong voice that carried to the whole of the caravan. “Welcome to Haira, capital of the land of Haira. Everywhere here you will find policemen, so ask them about what you want. By following their instructions precisely you will make of your journey a pleasant memory with nothing to spoil it.”

  “Both a welcome and a warning,” I thought.

  We went through the gateway, then divided up, the traders going to the market inn, while a guide took me off to the inn of the foreigners. We went through pitch-darkness, in which floated here and there like stars the torches of the policemen. As we approached the inn I saw its great entrance in the light of the flares, and light shone from some of the windows. A large stone building, it consisted of a single story. I quickly made my way behind my traveling bags, which were being borne off to my room. The room was of medium size and contained a bed that stood a cubit from the floor; this had a purple covering well suited to the mild autumnal weather. There was also a cupboard for clothes, a small sofa, and a candelabrum. In an aperture in the center of the candelabrum burned a thick candle. The floor was covered by an elaborately designed rug. Civilization was, no doubt, to be found here. What a difference between this and Mashriq!

  I had hardly got out of my traveling clothes and put on my nightgown when there appeared a brown-skinned man of medium height. He was in his fifties and wore a thin cloak.

  “I’m Ham,” he said, “owner of the inn.”

  I shook him by the hand. “Qindil Muhammad al-Innabi, traveler.”

  “Do you want supper?”

  “I had it on the way.”

  “The night, board and lodging,” he said with a smile, “is one dinar. Payment in advance.”

  I estimated that my stay would extend to ten days, so I handed him ten dinars.

  “From what country are you?” he asked me.

  “From the land of Islam.”

  “Here,” he said cautioningly, “only the religion of Haira is practiced.”

  This reminded me of my tragedy in Mashriq, and I asked him, “And what is the religion of Haira?”

  “Our god is the king.” At this he bade me farewell and left.

  I blew out the candle, then went to bed, saying to myself, “After the moon, now the king. What delusion and error! But let me not be hasty. Does not the ruler in my own homeland act like a god? Enjoy repose after the hardships of the journey and take refuge in sleep from all the troubles of life.”

  I woke earlier than I had expected and at once realized that it was a great noise erupting in the street that had wrenched me from my slumbers. Opening a window, I saw by the light of early day that a huge army—cavalry and foot soldiers—was advancing towards the city gate to the beating of drums. I watched and wondered what it was about. When the street had emptied I asked for breakfast, and I was brought a brass tray of milk, butter, cheese, and bread, with a bunch of grapes. I was about to inquire of the servant about the passing of the army but I was constrained by caution. I put on my clothes to go out and found the entrance jam-packed with people, all deep in discussion.

  “It’s war, just as many had expected.”

  “Against Mashriq without doubt.”

  “To liberate a people from five tyrants.”

  “It will mean a new history for Mashriq under the rule of a just god.”

  I was depressed, and my thoughts took flight to hover around Arousa and her children. What would their fate be? It was not the desire to liberate the people of Mashriq that had driven Haira to war but greed for pastures and the treasures of the five overlords. Harsh coercion would be employed to transform the people from worshipers of the moon to worshipers of the king. Spirits would be stifled to death, reputations torn to shreds, and thousands made homeless. Does that not happen even in wars that break out between peoples with a single religion calling for unity and brotherh
ood? Ham came to me before I left. “It has been decided to raise the daily rate to one and a half dinars in order to meet the burdens of the war.”

  I paid over the difference grudgingly and he said, smiling, “It is not much to pay in the cause of freeing slaves.”

  Secretly I cursed him just as I have cursed all false slogans. Deeply disquieted, I went to the market inn, where I found my merchant companions gathered in the hallway. I sat down with them and followed their conversation.

  “Days of war are insecure.”

  “Our wealth may be lost to the last dirham.”

  “But prices will also rise.”

  “And the extra toll dues?”

  “Wars never cease,” said the owner of the caravan, “and their benefit to trade is greater than their harm. I do not imagine that this war will go on for very long, for Haira is immeasurably stronger than Mashriq. Everything will be over in less than a week.”

  My thoughts became concentrated on my missing family and I decided to stay on in Haira, close to Mashriq. I was enticed by a new hope—namely, that after Mashriq was joined to Haira I would be able to travel to Mashriq, where God might, in His mercy and kindness, unite me with my family. Perhaps I would be able to marry Arousa and continue, together with her, on my journey to a new home and a new religion. My life became agreeable with this new hope, and my heart grew joyful at making the rounds of Haira and exploring its capital city.

  I walked around it tirelessly, looking and listening and recording everything in my memory. It was a city like those of my own country: it had squares and gardens, streets and alleyways, great structures, houses, schools, and hospitals; it was teeming with people, and everywhere there were policemen, while places of dancing and singing were plentiful. Its market was large and extensive with numerous booths, exhibiting goods from Haira itself and from all countries. The mild autumnal weather induced in me limitless energy, and so the days of discovering and viewing and recording continued. From time to time I would visit the market inn and meet my companions, or sit with the owner of the caravan, who once said to me, “The weather of Haira is in general mild; its summer is bearable and its winter reasonable.”