Respected Sir, Wedding Song, the Search

by Naguib Mahfouz

  “There’s no good in me,” he confessed. “That is the fact of the matter.”

  She shied away as if she had been stabbed. She put on her dress in a hurry, but she collapsed again onto the settee, overcome by fatigue. She rested her head in the palm of her hand and closed her eyes; he thought she would faint. His heart beat violently, rousing him from his impassive cruelty. If the unthinkable happened, he might well face a scandal with profound repercussions. The path was rough and arduous enough in spite of his good reputation. What would happen if he suddenly found himself involved in a scandal of the kind the newspapers like to gloat over? He nearly changed his whole attitude and risked a new lie, but at the last moment she moved. She got up with some difficulty, made her way, subdued and crestfallen, to the door and disappeared from his view. He sighed deeply with relief, then stood up and walked to the window. He looked out at the alley, nearly covered in darkness, until he saw her pass, swiftly and ghostlike, out the front door. She went on through the alley toward the end leading to al-Jamaliyya and soon vanished completely into the dark.

  Nobody, he told himself, knew the unknown, and for that reason it was impossible to pass comprehensive judgment on any of our actions. Yet for man to define a goal for himself provided him with a guide in the darkness and a justification in the clash of fortunes and events. It was also an example of the design Nature seemed to adopt in her infinite progression.

  Twenty-Seven

  He loved Onsiyya Ramadan. He had to confess that before his own conscience and before God. Since the time of the ancient drinking fountain his heart had not sung so sweet a song. And for this reason he should be more afraid of her than of any other woman on earth. What made it even worse was that she too loved him; yet a wife who could not push you forward would only pull you back. He might perhaps have married her without hesitation if there had been only one step between him and the Director General’s position. But things being what they were, what would he gain from marriage save the daily troubles and cares which consumed a man’s energy in ways it had not been created for?

  One day Mr. Husayn Jamil brought him the mail as usual. When he had put his signature to it with his instructions, the man did not leave as he normally did. He was a young Archives employee who had worked under Othman for five successive years and who was known for his perseverance and good manners.

  “Is something the matter, Husayn?”

  The young man was quite clearly confused. There was something he wanted to say. What could it be?

  “What’s wrong? Is it something to do with your work?”

  The youth came closer as though to make sure his voice was not heard by others.

  “I’m afraid something is the matter, sir,” he said.

  “What is it, my son?”

  “I’m awfully sorry, but I must speak up.”

  “Well, I’m listening.”

  He was quiet for a moment while he pulled himself together.

  “It’s something to do with Miss Onsiyya Ramadan.”

  Later on Othman told himself that he probably had not heard the name uttered or that he had heard it without comprehending what it meant.

  “Huh?” he said, stupefied.

  “Onsiyya Ramadan!”

  “Your colleague? What about her?”

  “The truth is,” came the almost inaudible answer, “I’m in love with her.”

  Othman frowned and his heart missed a beat.

  “And what has that to do with me?” he asked angrily.

  “I wanted to propose to her.”

  “Fine! But what have I got to do with it?”

  The youth looked down and mumbled, “But Your Excellency…”

  Othman’s limbs were trembling. The questioning stare he gave the young man was tantamount to surrender.

  “Yes?”

  “Your Excellency knows everything.”

  “How do you mean, please?”

  “The truth is, if it hadn’t been for you, I would have proposed to her.”

  Othman was certain it was all up with him. Nothing was any longer of value. Not even life itself.

  “If it hadn’t been for me?”

  “I’ve seen everything…here and outside,” came the despondent reply.

  With the strength of despair, Othman prepared to defend himself to the end. He was not so much sorry for his lost love as he was afraid for his official position.

  “Young man, you have a nasty mind. What is it you’ve seen, you wretch? But of course, this is just what lovers do! I’ve always treated her as if she were my own daughter: a totally innocent relationship. I’m very much afraid you have damaged her good name without knowing what you were doing.”

  “I know when and how to bury my sorrows and protect the reputation of someone I love.” There was a certain nobility in the young man’s innocent and grave rejoinder.

  “Good…good…” sighed Othman. A wave of sorrow swept over him. “You’ve behaved like a man.” The force of the initial shock and the relief brought by his unexpected escape were so jarring that he felt sick. “A man like you deserves to be happy with the person he loves.”

  His tormentor left him and he remained alone with his sorrow, a sorrow as solid and as gigantic as fate itself. It brought back to him old memories of long, sad nights. He thought to himself that if life was measured by its share of happiness, it was certain that his own had been a sheer waste. Why did the pursuit of glory demand such suffering?

  Twenty-Eight

  He asked Onsiyya to meet him in the desert by the Pyramids on a Friday morning. This time he planned the assignation with more caution than was his custom, stealthily giving her a piece of paper on which he had scribbled the arrangements and the route each of them should separately take. It was one of those wintry mornings, dry and cold, though both of them felt the sun’s rays warm and invigorating. He watched her all the time with genuine anguish, though he was conscious that the role he was playing was cruel and debasing. From the first, the girl seemed unusually anxious.

  “I had such a strange feeling when I read your note,” she said. “My heart just shriveled up inside me.”

  Woman, he thought to himself, possessed an instinct which guided her in the knowledge of her most intimate affairs without recourse to the intellect; and if humanity as a whole had this sort of instinctive access to the unknown, it would not have remained unknown.

  “The truth is,” he said with increasing sadness, “we’ve got to think about this thing.”

  “Which thing do you mean?”

  “Our close and sacred relationship.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You must have wondered at my silence. We’ve talked about everything except the most essential, and naturally you may never have realized that all the time I’ve been suffering the torments of hell.”

  She touched his arm concernedly.

  “I must admit you’re making my heart shrink even more!”

  “And I must admit that I’m a selfish man.”

  “No. You are not selfish at all,” she protested.

  “Yes. Selfish in the full meaning of the word. And because of my selfishness I’ve led you on and given you false hopes. I shall never forgive myself.”

  “You’ve been so kind and good to me.”

  “Don’t try to acquit me. You must have often wondered, ‘When is that man going to speak? What does he want of me? How long shall we go on meeting and parting without really getting any further? Is he toying with me?’ ”

  “I’ve never thought ill of you.”

  “In fact I have asked myself these questions many times, but the illusion of happiness has always got the better of me, and I wasn’t able to face up to reality before things got out of hand. How often have I been determined to tell you the truth, but then weakened and given in!”

  “What truth?” she asked in a tone of frustration.

  “Er…Why I haven’t proposed to you…”

  Her eyelids quivered when she
heard the beloved word. She stared at him in alarm and then turned away, raising her eyes to the unknown as though in silent prayer to ward off disaster.

  “Surely you must have asked yourself this question? Otherwise what’s the meaning of life?”

  She fixed her gaze on the ground as though, expecting only the worst, she no longer wanted to know more.

  “I’m ill,” he went on.

  “No!” she exclaimed in genuine fear.

  “I’m not fit for marriage.”

  She stared at him, stunned.

  “Don’t let my appearance deceive you…My illness is not fatal, but it makes it impossible for me to marry.”

  He looked down in distress. The sharp sigh he heard transfixed his heart. He was on the point of casting off the shackles of his ambition, throwing himself down and kissing her feet and begging her to accept him as husband. But another force held him back and paralyzed him.

  “I’ve spared no effort. I’ve been to more than one doctor. I never lost hope, or else I would have told you a long time ago. But it’s no use. I should put an end to my selfishness, otherwise I will have destroyed your future forever.”

  “But how could I live without you?”

  “You’re still young. The wounds of youth are quick to heal.”

  “I can’t believe it. It must be a nightmare.”

  “It wouldn’t be wise for us to carry on together any longer.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Sudden disasters are always hard to believe, but life sometimes seems a series of sudden disasters. What matters is that you should find your way before it’s too late.”

  “What do you want to do?” Her voice broke with anguish.

  “We should stop traveling up a dead end.”

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s got to be done. It would be sheer madness to continue.”

  He avoided her eyes. He had carried out his plan successfully to the end. But success was harsh, and he now found himself alone in a wilderness of desolation, alone with his anguish and shame, without faith, without solace. Madness was the only way out, he told himself. Madness alone had room for both belief and disbelief, glory and shame, love and deceit, truthfulness and lies. For how could sanity stand the absurdity of life? How could he look up at the stars when he was sunk up to the neck in slime? Through the long night he wept and wept.

  Twenty-Nine

  It seemed that a gleam of light sought to pierce the dark clouds. He learned that Onsiyya Ramadan had become engaged to Husayn Jamil. He delighted in this happy development which made him feel secure at last, and he said to himself, “Now I can mourn for my lost love with my mind at rest and no apprehensions to bother me. I can drink out of the well of anguish until it runs dry and I gain my freedom. And in this I’m an expert.”

  Throughout his life he had met no woman more fitted than her to make him happy. Not even Sayyida. She was beautiful, intelligent, and pure and she had truly loved him. He now had come to believe that he was never going to find anyone like her again, no matter how lucky he was; and that, after all, was a just punishment.

  The tide of time brought about another event. Hamza al-Suwayfi, the Head of Administration, was absent from work one day and it was learned that his blood pressure had risen to an even more critical level than that of his first attack. Othman went to visit him. This time he found him prostrate and completely resigned, the shadow of the other world looming in his clouded eyes. His appearance moved Othman greatly and he saw in it the final scene which awaits all men, whatever their position.

  “You’ll be all right, my dear fellow,” he said. The sick man smiled, feeling grateful in his utter helpessness for any kind word.

  “Thank you. You are a good man, just as you’re a capable and efficient one.”

  “This is only a passing cloud. You’ll soon be back running the administration.”

  The man’s face contracted as he tried to hold back a tear.

  “I won’t be going back.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “It is the truth, Mr. Bayyumi.”

  “You always exaggerate.”

  “It’s what the doctor says. He told me frankly that if I did exactly what I was told I could survive this attack, but that I had to retire from my work at once.”

  Othman’s feelings were mixed, but for the moment compassion was dominant.

  “Put your trust in God’s mercy,” he said. “His miracles are endless.”

  “Work isn’t important to me anymore. I’ve married off my daughters and my youngest son is now in his final year at the School of Agriculture. I’ve fulfilled my calling and all I need now is peace of mind.”

  “May God grant your wish!”

  Despite his exhaustion, the sick man went on with an air of pride: “God be praised, I’ve done my duty toward my job and toward my family. I’ve never been in need and I’ve always had many good friends. What more could one hope for?”

  “A man of your fine character deserves all that and much more.”

  “We pass away one after another. Do you remember the late Sa‘fan Basyuni? Men go, but their good deeds remain forever.”

  “True, true!”

  The sick man stared at him for a long while and then said, “May God guide you to where your happiness lies.”

  Othman was much moved at the time and for a long while after. The moral of the situation pierced his heart as if he was returning from the burial of a close friend. But he roused himself in the nick of time and said to himself, “The sorrows of this world exist to sharpen our determination, not to dull it.”

  His thoughts were riveted on the position which would soon be declared vacant. He was by general agreement an able, honest, and upright man. In fact, nobody doubted that he was even more efficient than the two Deputy Directors of Administration. But one of them was in grade two and the other in grade three. If justice was done and efficiency alone was the yardstick, he would become Director of Administration; but how could he jump straight from grade four to grade one?

  Hamza al-Suwayfi was pensioned off at his own request and consequently a flurry of promotions took place throughout the administration from grade one down to grade eight. So Isma‘il Fayiq became Director while Othman Bayyumi moved up the scale to grade three and became Deputy Director. Thus an attack of high blood pressure had given a nudge to the wheel of fortune, bringing good luck to some and ill luck to others.

  Othman was happy with his promotion for a day or two but his happiness soon wore thin. Hamza al-Suwayfi had been an able official, but now that he had gone, nobody was better qualified to replace him than Othman; and it was really grotesque that a man like Isma‘il Fayiq should become Director of Administration.

  Othman went to His Excellency the Director General’s office to thank him. He had no doubt that of all the employees he was the one the Director General liked and valued most, relying on him in the official work of the administration as well as in his own private activities. They shook hands and Othman expressed his gratitude with his usual eloquence.

  His Excellency said, “You didn’t know the full story. I had on my desk a pile of recommendations from the Minister, the Under Secretary, and many members of Parliament…” The great man stared at him for a while before going on.

  “I told them, ‘You can have anything you want, except that one promotion must go to someone whose only recommendation is his ability and character.”

  Words of gratitude poured from Othman’s lips; the frustration he felt in his heart he did not mention. The Director General continued: “We both know that Isma‘il Fayiq is weak and ignorant.”

  “Yes, of course, Your Excellency,” he replied, annoyed at the mention of the man.

  “This means that actual responsibility will be yours alone to shoulder even though you are only Second Deputy.”

  “I shall always be at your service.”

  “What could I have done?” Bahjat Noor went on apologetically. “He is a relative
of the Under Secretary, as you know.”

  “It’s not your fault, Your Excellency.”

  “Anyway, congratulations again. And rest assured you are going to get your full rights one day.”

  He left the room satisfied in some degree, but his irritation soon got the upper hand and the joys of promotion were forgotten. He cursed everybody without exception and said to himself in terror that life went faster than any kind of promotion.

  Before he left the Archives Section, his staff came to congratulate him on his promotion and say goodbye to him. When it was Onsiyya’s turn to shake hands with him, he noticed, in a welter of confused emotions, the swelling of her belly with its promise of happiness. Already a wife and expectant mother! No doubt her husband, Husayn, would be particularly glad about his transfer to the administration.

  He took his seat as Second Deputy Director, but he felt superior to all those around him. He stood first in the Director General’s confidence, being an authority on administrative matters, regulations, and the budget, not to mention his mastery of law and economics, his general knowledge, and his erudition in languages. But he asked himself, “What’s the use of all these advantages when life flies by or a sudden illness descends?”

  He knew that both the First Deputy and the Director of Administration were younger than he. Consequently their positions were unlikely to become vacant unless an unpredictable miracle, a sudden death or a road accident, occurred.

  “Forgive me, Oh God, for my wicked thoughts!” he prayed. Each of them (he kept thinking) enjoyed good health, a carefree nature, as well as a closed mind. And nothing, nothing save the lofty position he longed for could make up for the tremendous sacrifices he had made at the expense of his life’s happiness and peace of mind. Perhaps he had never felt at any time in the past as he did now the need for the sort of wife who would help him up the ladder before he reached retirement age or fell sick or died. So he asked Omm Husni to speak again to Omm Zaynab, the marriage broker, about him, now that God had raised him to grade three as Deputy Director.