The Mirage

by Naguib Mahfouz

  Hence, when dream day came, I’d take off straightaway for my new pub in the vegetable market, then order the infernal carafe that had become my only consolation in life.

  29

  As I stood at the tram stop before sundown, I still peered up at the balcony and the window. However, from the time she’d spurned me, my beloved had shown me no mercy. On the contrary, she’d shunned me cruelly, and my life had been consumed with grief. Winter was at its coldest, black clouds cast their heavy shadow on the ground, and a frigid wind was blowing. Standing there wrapped in my black coat, I would cast the beloved house an occasional look of longing and despair.

  Then suddenly I heard a gentle voice saying, “Excuse me, sir.…”

  I turned around in surprise, and my surprise intensified and mingled with dread when I saw before me one of the two men I suspected of loving my sweetheart. It was the dignified-looking gentleman who lived in her building.

  “Pardon?” I muttered disconcertedly.

  In a calm, placid voice and with an air of solemnity he said, “Would you mind if we walked together for a bit?”

  “What for?” I asked uncertainly, though my heart sensed what he wanted to say to me.

  “There’s something I’d like to speak with you about,” he replied with a smile.

  “Of course,” I said, seeing that I had no real choice in the matter.

  Looking up at the sky, he said, “It’s quite cold. What do you say we take the tram to Ismail Square and sit in the café? I’d just like to speak with you for a couple of minutes? Do you mind?”

  So we got on the tram, got off, and sat down. Realizing beforehand what the subject of conversation would be, I felt afraid. However, my sense that the conversation would revolve around my sweetheart left me no choice but to accompany him without hesitation. In fact, I went with him out of an irresistible longing. I kept wondering what he was going to say and what he hoped to accomplish. As we sat together at a small table, I got a close look at him for the first time. He was around forty, with a thin face and delicate, small features. One of his fingers was adorned with a diamond ring, and his thick spectacles made the look in his eyes appear sharper than it really was. Fiddling with the chain to a gold watch that dangled from the buttonhole in his vest, he asked me politely what I preferred to drink, and when I made no reply, he ordered tea.

  “Pardon me for this intrusion,” he said, “but you’re certain to appreciate my position once you know what’s led me to extend you this invitation. But first of all, allow me to introduce myself: Muhammad Gawdat, director of operations at the Ministry of Works.”

  The word “director” struck terror in my heart.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, bey,” I replied. “I’m Kamil Ru’bah Laz, an employee at the Ministry of War.”

  As the waiter brought glasses of tea, I was thinking about the huge disparity between us as employees: he a director of operations, and I a typist in the warehousing section. Behind him I caught sight of a mirror on the wall, and I saw my image reflected on its surface. As I looked at my rectangular face and green eyes, I was consoled by a sense of satisfaction and admiration.

  As for my companion, he said to me, “Mr. Kamil, I’ve invited you to a brotherly consultation, and I hope you’ll appreciate the desire of a man like me—whom you can count as your older brother—for honest mutual understanding. I’m not one to accuse others for no reason. However, I hope we can be frank.”

  Feigning surprise, I said, “I hope you’ll tell me what’s on your mind, sir, and you’ll find me at your service.”

  He chuckled softly. Then, after some hesitation he said, “Will you forgive me if I ask a question I have no right to ask?”

  Lord! I was dying to hear it. True, I was certain that his question wouldn’t bring glad tidings. Even so, to me it seemed like the one thing most to be desired.

  “Of course,” I replied with an awkward smile.

  Resting his elbows on the table and weaving his fingers together, he said, “I’ve noticed that you take special interest in a particular person. Perhaps you know who I’m referring to.” Here my heart pounded violently. “I hope you won’t hold it against me if I ask you about the true nature of this interest of yours. Is there a particular desire or intention on your part, or some bond between you?”

  I nearly pretended to be surprised again and claim ignorance of the matter. However, I thought better of it. How many times had our eyes met at the tram station, and how many times had I seen him watching me as I looked up at the balcony? Similarly, he’d seen me watching him as he aimed his gaze at the same target. Hence, he knew everything, and he knew that I knew. So what would be the use of claiming ignorance if he was going to expose my lies?

  Consequently, I forced a smile and said, “You’ve misunderstood, sir. You’ve concluded that I’m interested in a particular person, when in fact, I look at her the way I look at everyone else. It’s nothing but a bad habit!”

  I laughed, pretending to think the whole thing an amusing joke. He smiled at me and in his eyes I could see a look of disbelief.

  Then he added, “You’re a gentleman as I’d expected you would be. So I ask you please just to tell me honestly: Do you have a relationship with this girl? If you answer me in the affirmative, I’ll shake your hand in congratulation and go my way.”

  My heart breaking inside, I said, “I have no relationship with her.”

  He hesitated for a few moments. Then with no little embarrassment he asked, “Haven’t you thought of asking for her hand?”

  A succession of conflicting emotions came over me. At first I felt indescribable torment, after which I felt a kind of covert pleasure because I was sure that the man addressing me was a coward like me, since otherwise, he would have made his way to my sweetheart’s house without thinking twice about me. In fact, I was convinced he must be afraid of me, which satisfied my pride in a way that mitigated some of my pain. Then, feeling myself compelled to make false claims for myself, I said unequivocally, “If I’d thought of doing what you’ve suggested, there would have been nothing to prevent me from doing it long ago.”

  Silence then reigned. He began looking searchingly into my face with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. What would have prevented me? How ironic. Everything seemed like a bizarre dream. Were we really talking about my sweetheart? And had I truly never thought of asking for her hand nor felt a desire to do so? Lord! What a cruel torment this was! I was gripped by a despair the likes of which I hadn’t known in all the years of my despair-ridden life.

  Then at last the bey emerged from his silence, saying, “I apologize again for my intrusiveness. The fact is that, now that the considerations that have kept me for so long from thinking of marriage no longer apply, I’ve finally decided to ask for the young woman’s hand. I thought it best to speak with you about the matter for fear of trespassing on someone else’s territory. And now, all I can do is thank you.”

  He was the weak type, or so it seemed to me. However, he happened to have met someone weaker than he was, so he was lucky, of that there was no doubt. Seeing that there was no more reason for me to stay, I got up to leave, saying, “Congratulations.”

  He rose politely and extended his palm. As he squeezed my hand gratefully, I imagined him squeezing my neck, and toward the joy that danced in his eyes I felt a burning hatred. Then I bade him farewell and left the café. My feet took me aimlessly hither and yon and I let them take the lead, since I had nowhere in particular to go. Taking a deep breath, I said to myself, “Praise be to God.” Then I said it again out loud as though I were congratulating myself. Perhaps I was really congratulating myself on my despair, while holding out the hope of deliverance from the anxiety, torment, and pained longing that had been my constant companions over the long months since love had taken up residence in my heart. I’m happy, I said to myself, and no one deserves happiness more than I do. My sufferings are over for good. It seemed to me that if I’d thrown myself off al-Malik al-Salih Brid
ge the way I should have done that day in the past, I would have flown rather than fallen, so happy was I! I tasted the sweetness of despair with a kind of weird, frenzied pleasure, and I passed through moments of madness. Now I knew why it was that my sweetheart had disappeared from view. I began coming out of my ludicrous, ill-founded rapture as jealousy plunged its venomous fangs into my heart. Could this really be happening? I couldn’t believe it. Why? Maybe it was on account of my unshakable faith in the merciful God and His providence. Yet who could have believed that fortune would lead me to the state I was in now? As I heaved a bitter sigh of despair, a shiver went through me from the biting cold. It was the first time I’d noticed the chill in the air since I left the café, and I wrapped my coat more tightly about me for fear of catching cold as I tended to do during the winter. Then a strange desire came over me, namely, to be bedridden. With a kind of satisfaction I imagined myself lying there, surrounded by tender, loving care. Then without warning, my nerves collapsed under the terrible pressure I’d endured, and I had a dreadful urge to cry. Encouraged by the darkness that surrounded me on all sides, I surrendered to it and wept. I gave in to the urge more and more until I began to gasp and sob like a little boy.

  30

  At ten o’clock the next morning, I was on my way to Hilmiya to see my father. How had I come to this, especially given the fact that not even a month had passed since my last, harrowing visit? It was desperation. I’d had a miserable, sleepless night in which I hadn’t so much as closed my eyes. I’d pondered my situation long and hard until my thoughts took on human flesh and shouted at me, “Go to your father no matter what, no matter what it costs!” Hesitation wasn’t an option in a situation like mine. I’d lost my senses, and pain had distracted me from my usual feelings of hesitation, shyness, and fear. Besides, my father—despite everything—was the only hope I had left.

  I’d chosen to visit him in the morning since, if he wasn’t drunk yet, I might find him in a better state than the one I’d found him in on the previous, ill-fated visit. Besides, I didn’t have the patience to wait till late afternoon. I put in a call to the warehousing section explaining that I wouldn’t be coming in, then headed for my destination. A headache was pounding on my skull with its hammer after a night of sleeplessness and worry. I maintained my composure, however, drawing an unaccustomed strength from my desperation. I reached the house a little after ten in the morning. When I arrived, Uncle Adam rose respectfully. I greeted him, then went in without requesting permission, either because I refused to request permission to enter a house which I considered my own, or simply because, in my anxiety and distress, I’d forgotten to. I proceeded in the direction of the veranda, clearing my throat as I ascended the steps, but I found it empty. As I stood there feeling ill at ease, Uncle Adam caught up with me, opened a door that led inside and walked ahead of me, saying, “Kamil Bey is here.”

  He stepped aside to let me pass and I crossed the threshold with a self-assured gait. I found myself in a large, rectangular room at the far end of which were two doors. Between the doors there hung a life-sized picture of my father in the prime of his youth. The floor was covered with a costly, ornate carpet, and along one side of the room there was a row of couches. The curtains on the windows and doors were all drawn. I saw my father sitting cross-legged on a couch in the center of the room’s left wing, and on an elegant table in front of him I saw his drinking paraphernalia which, given the fact that it had never been parted from him, seemed like an extension of his body. But he wasn’t alone. The barber, who was standing nearby and gathering his instruments into his satchel, bade him a courteous farewell and went his way. Once the barber had left, Uncle Adam withdrew and closed the door behind him. As I walked up to my father, my eyes gravitated toward the bottle, and I found that it hadn’t been touched. Feeling relieved and hopeful, I extended my hand to him, and he took hold of it with his thick, coarse hand.

  A wan smile crossed his lips. “Welcome. Are you on vacation?”

  I didn’t like the way he’d received me, but I overlooked it. The truth is that the sufferings of the previous night, the headache that was digging its nails into my head, and my deep despair had overruled my natural tendency to be shy, fearful, and spineless, and I said, “Yes, I’ve taken a day off especially to meet with you.”

  He cast me a worried glance without any attempt to conceal what he was feeling, and I for my part felt angry and resentful.

  “Is it something important?” he asked me tersely.

  Oblivious to everything but my excruciating pain and my lingering hope, I said with an irritability that was betrayed by my tone of voice, “Very important. Or rather, it has to do with my life and my future.”

  Repeating my words after me, yet without coming out of the lassitude and stupor that had become second nature to him, he said, “Your life and your future!”

  Imploringly I said, “My marriage that I talked to you about. There’s a man who’s about to ask for the hand of the girl I want to marry. So if I don’t propose right away I’ll miss my chance, and my life will be lost.”

  My heart shrank in dread. Will he shoot back some sarcastic reply the way he usually does? I wondered. He wasn’t delirious or quarrelsome, but he seemed lethargic, sickly, and dazed. In fact, he seemed dead. I had every reason to despair, but I refused to despair. My overworked mind was fixed on a single idea and I was blind to all else in the mad race in which I’d embroiled myself.

  I waited apprehensively until he said, “Don’t worry. No one’s life will be lost by losing a woman.”

  “I know better than anyone else about my life!” I shouted fervently.

  “That’s your business, son,” he replied nonchalantly. “I don’t interfere in what doesn’t concern me.”

  I retorted stubbornly, “As I’ve told you before, I’m in desperate need of money.”

  “And what did I tell you?” he asked in a bored-sounding tone of voice.

  Gripped with rage, I concluded that he was more despicable sober than he was drunk.

  “I’ve got to get the money I need,” I said, defending myself with an anguished tenacity. “I ask you to recognize the terrible straits I’m in. If I miss this chance, I’ll have no more hope in life.”

  He glanced over at the bottle, then furrowed his brow slightly and said, “You’re asking for money, but I don’t have any!”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s an indubitable fact!”

  I concluded from his tone of voice, his indifference, and his impatience that it would be easier for me to reach the heavens above than to arouse his concern and compassion. With my despondency, my headache, and my indignation all conspiring against me, I said in a loud voice that filled the huge room, “Never in your life have you spent a red cent on me. So what harm would it do you to give up a few hundred pounds for me now?”