The Mirage

by Naguib Mahfouz

  She stared at me in horror.

  “Who said that about you?” she asked me tartly.

  “All the other students,” I said hesitantly.

  “Well, their tongues ought to be cut out!” she cried, furious. “They just envy you for your perfect manners and the carriage that takes you to school while they dawdle along on foot! Don’t you dare make friends with any of them.”

  As if I were in need of such advice! Thus, I endured life at school alone, with hostility and hatred peering at me from all sides. If I’d taken part in the pleasures school afforded, it might not have been all that bad. However, my inordinate shyness forced me to boycott the various activities others were involved in, from scouting, to ball, to physical education. My mother wouldn’t even agree to let me go on field trips for fear that some harm might come to me. The other students would talk about the pyramids, the Sphinx, the Museum of Antiquities, and Fustat while I listened in on their conversations feeling bewildered and disheartened, as though I were listening to tourists relating stories about distant lands. I can hardly describe the embarrassment that came over me when I realized that all I’d seen of vast, far-flung Cairo—the only city I’d ever inhabited—were a few streets within walking distance of our house. My sole consolation during those days was to sit alone with my mother on the balcony or in our room, where we would talk for hours on end. Thinking of the teacher’s rod would remind me that there was a homework assignment I needed to do before going to bed. So I’d take to the book in loathing and disgust, studying wearily and without enthusiasm until, before long, I’d begin nodding off and sleep would dim my eyes.

  One day in religion class the following verse from the Qur’an was recited to us: “At length, when there comes the Deafening Noise, that day shall a man flee from his own brother, and from his mother and his father.” I can’t recall ever being as upset by anything as I was by those words. I couldn’t bear the thought of fleeing from my mother on any day, no matter how horrible it happened to be, or of abandoning her to such a day’s horrors with her delicate, willowy frame and her gentle green eyes. Not realizing what I was doing, I interrupted the teacher, crying, “No! No!”

  My interruption caused an astonished silence to fall over the classroom, since I usually didn’t utter a word, and no one understood what I’d meant. However, it wasn’t long before they broke into raucous laughter. Furious, the teacher held me responsible for disturbing the peace. Coming up to me in a rage, he gave me a forceful, exasperated slap in the face. I welcomed the slap as an excuse to cry, since I’d been fighting back the tears valiantly, but to no avail.

  These words from the Holy Qur’an shook me to the core. They were the first portent to me of life’s tragedy.

  8

  It was a monotonous life, but I endured it despite my aversion to it. Even so, it wasn’t without its earth-shaking tremors. One evening my grandfather came home early. This worried my mother, since he generally didn’t come home before dawn. He burst into the room, his face full of foreboding. My mother rose, anxious to discover what the matter was, and I looked up from my book. But before she could ask him what was wrong, he struck the edge of his shoe with his cane and said brusquely, “Zaynab, there’s been a disaster in the family. It’s a scandal that will make us the talk of the town.”

  “Lord have mercy, what’s happened, Baba?” cried my mother, her voice trembling and panic in her eyes.

  His green eyes grew hard and he said crustily, “Your daughter … Radiya … has run away.”

  Her face went pale and her eyes darted nervously about the room. Then she cast my grandfather a look of incredulity as though she couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Ran away …,” she murmured in what sounded like a moan. “Radiya! That’s impossible!”

  He stomped his foot on the floor until the corners of the room shook.

  “Impossible?” he bellowed. “Well, that’s exactly what’s happened! It’s the naked, appalling truth, and it will deal the death blow to our honor!”

  My mother made no reply, as though she’d lost the ability to speak.

  His breathing slightly labored, my grandfather said as if to himself, “What sort of madness has robbed her of her senses? This corrupt, infernal blood doesn’t belong to us! Yet its rotten fruit points to its source. After all, her grandfather died calling down curses on her father’s head, and the curse has fallen on his children.”

  “God, what a catastrophe!” murmured my mother in horror, swallowing with difficulty. “That drunken good-for-nothing has ruined her life! How miserable she must be!”

  “Don’t make excuses for her,” my grandfather said indignantly. “There’s nothing in the world that could justify her doing something so disgraceful.”

  “I’m not making excuses for her,” my mother murmured in a feeble, pathetic voice. “But she is miserable. There’s no doubt about it.”

  A gloomy silence fell, and they sat there exchanging looks of grief, worry, and desperation. I listened to their conversation with rapt attention, understanding its more trivial parts while missing its true significance. It had to do with a sister of mine whom I’d never laid eyes on. But why had she run away? And where had she gone?

  “Why didn’t she come to us?” I wondered aloud.

  “Shush!” shouted my grandfather in exasperation.

  Then he flung himself onto a chair and continued, “Her paternal uncle came to see me at the casino and told me the news. He said he didn’t know the details, but that Medhat had wired him, asking him to come immediately, and he’d come without delay. Then the young man had told him of his sister’s disappearance. As for that degenerate carouser, all he had to say was, ‘To hell with her.’ Then the uncle and I went to see a friend of his who works for the governorate. We informed him of the shocking situation and asked for his help.”

  My grandfather paused for a minute, then went on, saying, “Damn that old sot! He’s the one who’s to blame for this tragedy, and I swear to God, I’ll go and bash his head in!”

  My mother’s eyes flickered with distress.

  “No, no!” she said fearfully. “That would only make our situation worse!”

  “He should be repaid evil for evil,” insisted my grandfather.

  “He’s no concern of ours,” said my mother imploringly. “Let’s just focus our attention on finding the girl in the hopes that we might be able to straighten her out.”

  Eyeing her skeptically, my grandfather asked, “Why do you insist on preventing me from going to see him?”

  “I’m afraid of things getting worse,” she murmured with a flustered look on her face.

  Exasperated, my grandfather retorted, “Rather, what you’re afraid of is that if we have an argument, he might take Kamil away from you. You don’t care about anything but yourself. Damn the whole lot of you!”

  Such a pall descended on the household after that, you would have thought it was in mourning. Black days came upon us and life turned cheerless. I nearly suffocated in that dismal atmosphere. Meanwhile, my grandfather changed his lifestyle. He abandoned his usual evenings at the casino and would stay out all day long without our knowing a thing about his whereabouts. As for my mother, she spent her days grave-faced or in tears.

  Then one evening my grandfather came to us, and when he saw my mother he hailed her with the words, “We’ve finally found what we were looking for!”

  “Really?” she cried as she came running up to him. “O Lord, have mercy on us!”

  In a tone of joy and satisfaction he said, “The crazy girl sent a letter to Medhat informing him that she was living with her husband in Banha. She asked him to forgive her for the way she’d acted, saying that she’d had no other choice.”

  Her eyes welling up with tears, my mother heaved a deep sigh and said, “Didn’t I tell you? Radiya is an upstanding girl, but she’s had miserable luck. Lord! Where is she now? Tell me everything you know!”

  “Her uncle, Medhat, and I went to Banha,” my grand
father said calmly, “and we found her living with a kind, respectable family. We met her husband, a young man by the name of Sabir Amin who works at the Ministry of Justice. He told us he’d rented a flat on Hidayet Street in Shubra and that he’d be moving into it this week. Radiya said that her husband had asked for her hand, but that her father had turned him rudely away. She said that he’d also turned away another young man who had asked for her hand before this. Perhaps on account of the liquor, he seemed to have lost the last vestiges of his humanity, as a result of which he’d forgotten his duties and frittered away his income. So, overcome by despair, she’d eloped with the young man. They’d gone straightaway to his family, where the justice of the peace was waiting for them.”

  As she listened to him, my mother wept hot tears, but they were tears of both sadness and joy.

  Then she said, “I’ll go see her tomorrow.”

  “You’ll find her at home whether you go tomorrow or the day after,” replied my grandfather reassuringly.

  Then she wondered aloud, “Why didn’t she come to me?”

  As if to apologize for the girl, my grandfather said, “Maybe she would have been embarrassed to bring her fiancé to us when she was running away from her father. In any case, let’s praise God for this happy ending, an ending happier than any we could have dreamed of.”

  9

  We all got in the Victoria together for the first time ever. My grandfather and my mother rode in front and I sat in the back. My mother was in a state of utter elation. After all the worry and grief she’d suffered in the days that had passed, she looked as though she’d regained her early youth. Her eyes sparkled with joy, and her tongue was uttering praise and thanks to God. Her joy was infectious, and I too rejoiced in the happy journey we were embarking on. I began thinking in amazement and delight about this sister of mine whom I’d be seeing for the first time in just a few minutes. At the same time, my thoughts were accompanied by a sense of anxiety that I couldn’t explain. What do you suppose she looks like? I wondered. And how will she receive us? Will she like us?

  My train of thought was interrupted when my mother asked my grandfather eagerly, “Will Medhat be there?”

  Resting his hands on the grip of his cane, my grandfather replied, “Most likely he will. We’d agreed that he would be.”

  A look of warmth and anticipation glimmered in her eyes.

  As the carriage made its way to Shubra, I entertained myself by watching the pedestrians, other carriages, and the tram. At last the Victoria reached its destination and turned down Hidayet Street, then stopped in front of a medium-sized, three-story house. We got out of the carriage and went up to the second floor as my mother said in a near-whisper, “My heart is pounding so hard!” My grandfather rang the bell and opened the door. As we entered, I saw a girl and two young men, but before I’d had a chance to get a good look at them, two of the three came running up to my mother. Then all I could see was heartfelt embraces, and all I could hear were tearful sighs. I gaped at the three of them in perplexed, timid silence. The hugging went on for a long time, as did the crying.

  At last my grandfather intervened with a laugh, saying to my mother, “Meet your daughter’s husband, Sabir Effendi Amin!”

  The young man approached my mother and kissed her hand, and she kissed his forehead.

  Before long, however, I found everyone looking at me.

  Smiling through her tears, my mother said, “Your brother, Kamil.”

  My sister rushed over to me and pressed me to her bosom. Then she proceeded to kiss me warmly while I stood there in resignation, not moving a muscle and not uttering a word.

  “My Lord!” she cried joyfully. “You’re a young man! He looks just like you, Mama!”

  Then my brother gave me a squeeze and a kiss, saying happily, “What a shy young man he is!”

  Up till that moment I hadn’t taken a good look at any of their faces. Instead, I’d kept my head bowed, my forehead and my cheeks burning with self-consciousness. Then they took us to the sitting room. My mother sat between Radiya and Medhat, my grandfather sat next to my brother-in-law, and my sister had me sit beside her.

  Drying her tears, my mother said, “Mercy! You were children when you were taken away from me, and here you are, all grown up! Praise and thanks be to God!”

  Moved by the occasion, my brother-in-law said, “What a tragic life it’s been for you! I thank God for letting me be the occasion for this reunion!”

  Long-felt yearnings came pouring out in animated conversation that seemed to know no end as memories and thoughts came over them in waves. Every one of them spoke of his worries and heartfelt concerns, and tears mingled with smiles. Every now and then there would be a glimmer of amazement in my mother’s eyes, as though she couldn’t believe that God had brought the family back together again after it had been scattered for so long. When they got so busy with each other that they forgot about me, I began to get over my shyness and regain my composure. Feeling myself now to be more or less alone, I breathed a sigh of relief. However, it wasn’t long before a sense of anxiety and distress came over me, and I began stealing glances at Radiya and Medhat. I was dazzled by my sister’s beauty. She was slightly shorter than my mother, with a whitish complexion and a figure that was full and voluptuous. Her face was an exact replica of my mother’s, and of my own as well, with her limpid green eyes and her delicate, straight nose. As for Medhat, he represented another type: stocky but not obese, with a round face and head, a fair but rosy complexion, and black eyes. Even though he was just eighteen, he exuded an air of masculinity and strength. He would break into loud laughter for the slightest reason, and he seemed happy and in robust health.

  After stealing a number of curious, interested glances in their direction, I felt drawn to them by a feeling of love and affection, and I was reassured by their buoyant spirit and conviviality. My sense of aloneness didn’t last long, as glances began coming my direction and efforts were made to draw me into the conversation and encourage me to share with them in their happiness. However, I went on not saying a word, content to do nothing but smile back at them. Everything around me was a cause for delight. Even so, I couldn’t seem to rid myself of a vague apprehension that more than once gave me the urge to leave.

  Radiya said to me warmly, “Yours was a difficult delivery. God knows how Mama suffered having you. Medhat and I were in the other room crying. Then finally they let us come in and we saw you all wrapped up, this tiny little thing that was hardly bigger than a fist, and we started kissing you all over!”

  “I wanted to feed you a piece of chocolate,” Medhat added with a laugh, “so they carried me out!”

  “When we were alone at our father’s house we would try to picture how you were. We’d say, ‘Maybe he’s crawling by now,’ or ‘Maybe he’s walking and playing,’ or, ‘It’s time for him to start school.’ By the way, what year are you in school now?”

  I could feel the warmth of a blush in my cheeks and my tongue was tied. Answering for me, my grandfather said in a tone not lacking in scorn, “He’s repeating first grade at the age of ten.”

  “Like me!” replied Medhat with a chuckle. “I enrolled in agricultural school after failing two years of secondary school!”

  “Your grandfather wants to make him into an officer,” said my mother.

  “He’ll have to finish the baccalaureate, then,” Medhat replied with a nod.

  My grandfather, who’d enrolled in military school when he was primary school age, said derisively, “Today’s baccalaureate isn’t worth yesterday’s grade-school diploma!”

  Then the conversation turned to life in my father’s house.

  Radiya said, “Actually, we lived by ourselves. We’d only see Baba once a day in the early morning. The rest of the day we’d spend together, studying, playing, or talking. And we praised God for that isolation.”

  Taking special note of the last part of what Radiya had said, my mother heaved a sigh of pity.

  “I
f your father really did exempt you from his company, then he did a good thing for which he deserves to be thanked!” declared my grandfather.

  The whole day passed in an atmosphere overflowing with love and nostalgia, and we went back to Manyal consoled and comforted. After this we were in regular communication with my sister, and Medhat would come to see us whenever he had the chance.

  It was an exciting year that brought with it a mix of confusion, curiosity, and harsh experience. The year had opened with the shock of my sister’s elopement and the subsequent news of her marriage, then her pregnancy, then her giving birth to a baby girl. I asked myself, and my mother as well, what all this meant. Why had she run away from my father to a strange man? Why hadn’t she come to us? Why had she married him? How had she gotten pregnant? And how had little Zaynab come into the world? Ill at ease in the face of my insistence and intrusiveness, sometimes my mother would concoct evasive answers, and at other times she would tell me I needed to wait till I was older. If I was too importunate, she would put on an unaccustomed air of firmness, and my efforts yielded nothing to satisfy my curiosity. At the same time, I felt that some sort of secret was being kept from me.

  It was then that help came whence I’d least expected it. The servant girl volunteered to reveal that which had so perplexed me and fired my imagination. She was years older than I was and quite unattractive, but she devoted all her free time to serving me and every now and then, on those rare occasions when my mother was too busy to oversee us due to some task or necessity, she would be alone with me. It seems that one day she’d overheard the conversation between me and my mother concerning the mysteries that had awakened me from my slumber. Thus, she declared to me that she knew certain things that were worth knowing. Interested and pleased, I was drawn to her despite her ugliness, and I entered into the experience with ingenuousness and delight. However, those days were short-lived, since it wasn’t long before my mother caught us in the act. Seeing the frigid, forbidding look in her eyes, I realized that I’d committed a serious mistake. Grabbing the girl by the hair, she escorted her out and I never laid eyes on her again. I waited, fearful and shamefaced. Then she came back, still looking dour and unforgiving. Describing what I’d done as wicked and disgraceful, she spoke to me about the punishment such things call for in this world and the torments they merit in the next.