Al-Ahram Weekly Online13 - 19 December 2001Issue No.564

Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 Current issue | Previous issue | Site map

The unforgiving patriarch, the belly dancer; the forced smile, the smile sincere; kebab, whisky, and, above all, perhaps, a city so intent on its transformation as to have ended up beyond recognition: Naguib Mahfouz's fictional world, the Egypt and the Cairo of his novels accommodates them all, and much, much more.

Below, extracts from three novels, and the complete text of the short story Half a Day

Palace WalkThe dining room was on the top floor along with the parents' bedroom. On this storey were also located a sitting room and a fourth chamber, which was empty except for a few toys Kamal played with when he had time.

The cloth had been spread on the low table and the cushions arranged around it. The head of the household came and sat down cross- legged in the principal place. The three brothers filed in. Yasin sat on his father's right, Fahmy at his left, and Kamal opposite him. The brothers took their places politely and deferentially, with their heads bowed as though at Friday prayers. There was no distinction in this between the secretary from al-Nahhasin School, the law student, and the pupil from Khalil Agha. No one dared look directly at their father's face. When they were in his presence they would not even look at each other, for fear of being overcome by a smile. The guilty party would expose himself to a dreadful scolding.

Breakfast was the only time of day they were together with their father. When they came home in the afternoon, he would already have left for his shop after taking his lunch and a nap. He would not return again until after midnight. Sitting with him, even for such a short period, was extremely taxing for them. They were forced to observe military discipline all the time. Their fear itself made them more nervous and prone to the very errors they were trying so hard to avoid. The meal, moreover, was consumed in an atmosphere that kept them from relishing or enjoying the food. It was common for their father to inspect the boys during the short interval before the mother brought the tray of

food. He examined them with a critical eye until he could discover some failing, however trivial, in a son's appearance or a spot on his clothes. Then a torrent of censure and abuse would pour forth.

He might ask Kamal gruffly, "Have you washed your hands?" If Kamal answered in the affirmative, he would order him, "Show me!" Terrified, the boy would spread his palms out. Instead of commending him for cleanliness, the father would threaten him. "If you ever forget to wash them before eating, I'll cut them off to spare you the trouble of looking after them." Sometimes he would ask Fahmy, "Is that son of a bitch studying his lessons or not?" Fahmy knew whom he meant, for "son of a bitch" was the epithet their father reserved for Kamal.

Fahmy's answer was that Kamal memorised his lessons very well. The truth was that the boy had to be clever to escape his father's fury. His quick mind spared him the need to be serious and diligent, although his superior achievement implied he was both. The father demanded blind obedience from his sons, and that was hard to bear for a boy who loved playing more than eating.

Remembering Kamal's playfulness, al-Sayyid Ahmad commented angrily, "Manners are better than learning." Then turning toward Kamal, he continued sharply: "Hear that, you son of a bitch."

The mother carried in the large tray of food and placed it on the cloth. She withdrew to the side of the room near a table on which stood a water jug. She waited there, ready to obey any command. In the centre of the gleaming copper tray was a large oval dish filled with fried beans and eggs. On one side hot loaves of flat bread were piled. On the other side were arranged small plates with cheese, pickled lemons and peppers, as well as salt and cayenne and black pepper. The brothers' bellies were aflame with hunger, but they restrained themselves and pretended not to see the delightful array, as though it meant nothing to them, until their father put out his hand to take a piece of bread. He split it open while muttering, "Eat." Their hands reached for the bread in order of seniority: Yasin, Fahmy, and then Kamal. They set about eating without forgetting their manners or reserve.

Their father devoured his food quickly and in great quantities as though his jaws were a mechanical shredding device working non- stop at full speed. He lumped together into one giant mouthful a wide selection of the available dishes -- beans, eggs, cheese, pepper and lemon pickles -- which he proceeded to pulverize with dispatch while his fingers prepared the next helping. His sons ate with deliberation and care, no matter what it cost them and how incompatible it was with their fiery temperaments. They were fainfully aware of the severe remark or harsh look they would receive should one of them be remiss or weak and forget himself and thus neglect the obligatory patience and manners.

Kamal was the most uneasy, because he feared his father the most. The worst punishment either of his two brothers would receive was a rebuke or a scolding. The least he would expect was a kick or a slap. For this reason, he consumed his food cautiously and

nervously, stealing a glance from time to time at what was left. The food's quick disappearance added to his anxiety. He waited apprehensively for a sign that his father was finished eating. Then he would have a chance to fill his belly. Kamal knew that although his father devoured his food quickly, taking huge helpings selected from many different dishes, the ultimate threat to the food, and therefore to him, came from his two brothers. His father ate quickly and

got full quickly. His two brothers only began the battle in earnest once their father left the table. They did not give up until the plates were empty of anything edible.

Therefore, no sooner had his father risen and departed than Kamal rolled up his sleeves and attacked the food like a madman. He employed both his hands, one for the large dish and the other for the small ones. All the same, his endeavour seemed futile, given his brothers' energetic efforts. So Kamal fell back on a trick he resorted to when his welfare was threatened in circumstances like these. He deliberately sneezed on the food. His two brothers recoiled, looking at him furiously, but left the table, convulsed with laughter. Kamal's dream for the morning was realised. He found himself alone at the table.

From Palace Walk: The Cairo Trilogy Part 1 translated by William Maynard Hutchins and Olive E Kenny, AUC Press, 1997

Adrift on the NileShe approached, greeting him with a forced smile, clearly preoccupied.

"You do not seem to be yourself," he said.

She paced around the room, looking high and low. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"I've lost some important things," she replied.

"Here?"

"I had them yesterday, during the evening."

"What are they?"

"A notebook for my work -- and a small amount of money."

"Are you sure that you lost them here?"

"I'm not sure of anything."

"Amm Abduh sweeps up, and the man comes to take away the trash in the morning."

She sat down in an armchair. "If they were stolen," she said, "why didn't the thief take the whole bag? Why did he take the notebook and leave the purse?"

"Perhaps you dropped it."

"Anything's possible...."

"Can it not be replaced?"

Before she could reply, the houseboat shook again, and voices were heard outside. Hastily, she begged him to forget the matter, telling him not to mention it again as she went to take her place on the mattress. All the friends came in together, and soon the party was complete. Anis devoted himself earnestly and avidly to the water pipe; he was in an unfamiliar state of alertness. Deep inside him the demons began to incite him to malice. He shot a cunning glance at Samara.

Mustafa was speaking to her. "It's all clear now. You come early to be alone with Anis!"

She played along. "Didn't you realise? He is my knight in shining armor!"

"We're only boys," commented Ahmad, "While he is a mature man in his forties."

Without being summoned, Amm Abduh appeared at the screened door. "A houseboat has sunk at Imbaba," he announced.

They turned toward him in concern. "Did anybody drown?" Ahmad asked.

"No -- but they lost the entire contents of the boat."

"That's what we care about, the contents," said Khalid, "not the individuals!"

"And the rescue police came," continued Amm Abduh.

"The arts police should have come as well."

"Why did it sink?" asked Layla.

"The watchman was negligent," replied the old man.

"Or perhaps," added Khalid, "because the Almighty was angry about what went on inside."

They said amen to that, and turned again to the water pipe. When Amm Abduh had gone, Ali said: "One night I had a dream that I had become as tall and broad as Amm Abduh."

Anis broke his customary silence. "That's because you take refuge in dreams and addiction," he said.

They met his comment with laughter. "But taking refuge from what, O master of pleasures?" asked Ali.

"From your own emptiness!" replied Anis, and when the laughter had died down, he continued: "You are all modern-day scoundrels, escaping into addiction and groundless delusions..." And he turned and looked at Samara. The demons cackled inside him. A barrage of comments followed.

"At last he has spoken."

"A philosopher is born!"

All eyes were still turned on Anis. "And what about me?" Mustafa asked him.

"Escaping into addiction and the Absolute, you are hounded by the sense of your own worthlessness."

He could make out Samara's laughter among the roars of mirth, but avoided looking at her. He imagined her turmoil; he imagined her face; he imagined her innermost feelings -- and then he continued: "We are all scum, we have no morals; we are pursued by a fearful demon by the name of Responsibility..."

"This night," said Ragab, "will go down in the annals of the houseboat."

Mustafa spoke again. "I bet tonight's kif has been smuggled from Moscow!"

"Anis! O philosopher!" It was Khalid's turn. "What about me -- and Layla?"

"You are a depraved degenerate because you have no belief; or perhaps it's that you have no belief because you are depraved. As for Layla, she is a pioneer, but only in dissipation and addiction, not a martyr as she mistakenly believes."

"Hold your tongue!" shouted Layla.

But he merely pointed to Saniya, saying: "And you are a bigamist, you dope fiend!"

"You're mad!" screamed Saniya.

"No. Merely half mad. And also half dead."

"How dare you be so rude!"

Ali soothed her. "Now you are really angry, Saniya. He is the master of ceremonies, remember..."

"I will not be mocked in front of strangers," she retorted.

The thunderous atmosphere threatened to overwhelm the merriment. Ragab, however, spoke firmly. "There are no strangers here. Samara is with us all the way."

"She may be with us, but only all the way with you!"

"No," said Anis. "She doesn't care about a man who flees from his own emptiness into addiction and sex."

"What a night we're having, boys!" cried Ragab gaily.

"Who would have thought that you were Anis the Silent?"

"Perhaps he's regurgitating one of his books -- the decline of civilisation, for example."

And there is still a bomb inside me -- I'm saving it for the Director General. Let the laughter bursting inside me calm down, so that I can see things clearly. Have the mooring chains of the boat parted? The full moon charges at the fragile door of our balcony. As for the midges, I understand at last their fatal fascination with the lamp-light.

"You don't seem very happy," Ragab remarked to Samara.

She spoke without looking at Saniya, but her listless tone made it clear whom she meant. "That is how strangers are, in company," she said.

"No, I won't have it," Ragab said, "Saniya is a lovely woman -- a kindly mother even when she's in love...."

"Thank you, Ragab," Saniya said benevolently. "You're the best of all of us to make my apologies to sister Samara."

"Let's not tie the knot of peace too firmly," said Khalid. "It might get boring."

The only sound was the gurgling of the water pipe. The ripples of sound spread out in the moonlight. His racing pulse told him that sleep would be hard on this tumultuous night. That he would experience the insomnia of lovers without love. He began to recall all the verses he knew from the poetry of demented lovers. The company disappeared, and he alone remained with the shining night. He saw a horseman, his steed galloping through the air just above the water's surface, and asked him who he was. The rider replied that he was Omar Khayyam, and that he had managed to escape death at last... He awoke to the

sight of his outstretched leg next to the brass tray. Long and bony, pallid in the blue light. Hairy. Big toes with nails curved over, so long had he gone without cutting them. He could hardly believe that it was his leg. Astonishing, the way one's own limb could seem like that of a stranger ... He realised that Mustafa was speaking. "Are we really as the master of ceremonies described, do you think" he asked the company.

It was Khalid who replied. "It is not escape, or anything like that. We simply understand what we really are, as we should."

"This houseboat is the last refuge of human wisdom," added Ali.

"Is submerging yourself in dreams an escape?"

"The dreams of today are the realities of tomorrow."

"Is searching for the Absolute an escape?"

"What else can we do, for heaven's sake?"

"And is sex an escape?"

"It's creation itself, rather!"

"And what about the pipe -- is that escape?"

"Escape from the police, if you like!"

"Is it escape from life?"

"It's life itself!"

"So why did our master of ceremonies attack us like that?"

"For ten years he's led a quiet life, with no need to make a stir of any kind. He didn't want to push his luck."

"And what a night it is, boys!"

Ahmad called for a little silence, so as not to dispel the delirium. The water pipe made its prescribed and unchanging round.

The moon had risen now beyond their field of vision. He was alone in having read the miserable defeat in Samara's eyes. Their faces appeared pale and sleepy, and serious as well, in spite of themselves. Mustafa fixed Samara with a quizzical look, and asked her her opinion on it all; but Ragab said: "The end of the night was not made for discussions."

What was it made for, then? They all left, save Ali and Saniya. It was not long before he was alone in the room. Amm Abduh came as he usually did and carried out his task without their exchanging a word, and then he left. Anis crawled out to the balcony, and saw the moon again, shining in the centre of the studded dome of heaven. He spoke to it intimately. There is nothing like our houseboat, he murmured. Love is an old and worn-out game, but it is sport on the houseboat. Fornication is held as a vice by councils and institutions, but it is freedom on our houseboat. Women are all conventions and marriage deeds in the home, but they are nubile and alluring on the houseboat. And the moon is a satellite, dead and cold, but on the houseboat, it is poetry; and madness is everywhere an illness, but here it is philosophy, and something was something everywhere else but here, for here it was nothing. O, you ancient sage, summon for us your age, from which everything save poetry has melted away! Come and sing for us. Tell me what you said to the Pharaoh. Come, sage!

And the sage recited:

Your boon companions lied to you;

These years are full of war and tribulation.

I said: Recite again, sage! And he sang:

What is this which has come to pass in Egypt?

The Nile still brings its flood;

He who had nothing is rich now;

Would that I had raised my voice before.

What did you say also, sage?

You have wisdom and vision and justice,

But you let corruption gnaw at the land.

See how your orders are held in contempt!

Will you order till there comes one who will tell you the truth?

From Adrift on the Nile, translated by Frances Liardet, AUC Press, 1996

 

MiramarThey had ordered a kebab supper and a bottle of whisky. We gathered around the radio and Zohra waited on us, moving lightly. It was a cold night, but the wind was hushed. Zohra said, the sky outside was so clear you could count the stars. The drinks went round and she sat apart, next to the

screen, her eyes smiling. Only Tolba Marzuq was unable to put away all anxiety: a few days before he had confided to me: This place is becoming a hell! He was suspicious of strangers, certain that they knew his history and the circumstances of his ordeal, either from the papers or through Mansour Bahi.

Mariana had of course got all the information she could about the young men. "Monsieur Sarhan el Beheiry is one of the Beheiry family." I had never heard the name before nor, obviously, had Tolba Marzuq. "A friend of his recommended the Pension when he learned that Monsieur Sarhan wanted to give up his flat."

"And Hosni Allam?"

'He's one of the Allams of Tanta." It seemed to me that Tolba knew the family, but he made no comment. "He has a hundred feddans," she added, as proudly as if she herself were the owner. "The revolution hasn't touched him," she went on, as joyous as someone about to be rescued at sea. "He's come to Alexandria to start a business."

"Why don't you cultivate your land?" Sarhan asked him when he heard that piece of information.

"It's been let."

"You should say instead that you've never laid a hand on a hoe or a spade in your life!" mocked Sarhan. The three of them roared, but Hosni's own laugh was loudest.

"As for this young man," said Mariana, indicating Mansour Bahi, 'he's the brother of an old friend, one of the best police chiefs I've ever known in this city."

Tolba's cheeks turned pale.

"And before he left," Mariana went on, "he advised this young man to come and stay with me."

When the others were busy drinking, Tolba leaned over and whispered: "We've landed in a nest of spies."

"Anti-social behaviour is out of date," I said. "Don't be silly."

Whereupon politics erupted into the gathering.

"But the country has changed beyond recognition," Sarhan was saying passionately, as he argued on behalf of the government's land reforms, his voice rising and falling in proportion to the amount of food he had in his mouth. "And the working class! I spend my life among them. You should come to the mill and see for yourselves."

Mansour Bahi (the quietest of the young men, though even so he would sometimes burst out laughing, just like the others) asked him, "Are you really in politics then?"

"Of course, I was a member of the Liberation Organisation and then the National Union. Now I'm on the Committee of Twenty and I'm also an elected member of the Company Board, representing the staff."

"Were you in politics before the Revolution?"

"No."

"I support the Revolution wholeheartedly," said Hosni Allam. "My people consider me a rebel."

"Why not?" replied Mansour. "The Revolution hasn't touched you."

"That's not the reason. Even the poorer members of our class may not support it."

"My own conviction," Mansour remarked, "is that the Revolution has been more lenient with its enemies than it ought to have been."

Apparently Tolba thought that in the circumstances his silence might be held against him. "I've been badly hit," he started. "It would be sheer hypocrisy to deny that I've been hurt. But it would also be selfish to deny that what they have done was necessary!"

Mariana did not drink. She took some of the kebab and a glass of warm milk. "It's a pity Umm Kulthum starts so late," she complained, even though the young men were helping us pass the time in a very agreeable fashion while we waited.

Mansour Bahi turned and spoke suddenly to me. "I know a great deal of your brilliant past." I was overcome with a childish pleasure: to be able to recall my youth! "I often look through the back numbers of old newspapers for a programme I write." Delighted, I encouraged him to say more. "You go back a long way. You made a major contribution to the political currents of the past -- the People's Party, the National Party. The Wafd, the Revolution."

I seized this opportunity and took him with me at once on a voyage back into history, leading him to events that should never have been forgotten. We reviewed the parties one by one, the pros and cons of the People's Party and the National Party; the Wafd and how

it resolved long-standing contradictions -- and why, after all that, I had shifted away into independence, why I supported the Revolution.

"But you weren't interested in the basic social problem."

"I grew up in al-Azhar. Naturally I sought a compromise, a marriage of East and West."

"But isn't it strange that you should have attacked both the Moslem Brotherhood and the Communists?"

"No. It was as puzzling period of conflicting opposites. Then came the Revolution, to absorb what was best in each."

"So your dilemma is solved now?"

I said yes, but in fact what was in my mind was only my private dilemma, which no party or revolution could solve, and I sent up a lonely prayer. Then the hour struck. And with it I gave up my distress to a sea of song, hoping it would help resolve the conflicts in my soul, entreating that it would instill peace and love and purge my anguish in melody, bringing the supreme pleasure of insight to my heart and mind, which would both soften and sweeten the bitter obduracy of life.

"Haven't you heard? The Cabinet met in the houseboat that belongs to Munira al-Mahdia, the prime donna."

It was almost dawn when I retired to my room. Tolba joined me there, to ask what I'd thought of his little speech.

"Wonderful." My voice sounded strange, for I had removed my false teeth.

"Do you think anyone believed me?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I'd better look for other accommodation.'

'Nonsense."

"For me to hear people praise these murderous regulations is enough to bring on another stroke."

"You'd better get used to it."

"As you have?"

I smiled. "We've always been different, you know."

"I wish you terrible dreams," he remarked as he left.

"These young men are so attractive and well-to- do."

Mariana often expressed her satisfaction with her young lodgers. Zohra's chores multiplied, but she rose to it all with redoubled energy.

"I can't trust any of them," Tolba complained.

"Not even Hosni Allam?" Mariana enquired.

But he did not seem to listen. "Sarhan el-Beheiry is the most dangerous. He's made good under the Revolution. Let alone the Beheiry family, of which no one has ever heard. Everyone in the province of Beheira, is a Beheiry, anyway. Even Zohra is Zohra el-Beheiry."

I laughed and so did Mariana. Zohra passed us on her way out, wearing Madame's grey cardigan and a blue scarf she had recently bought with her own money. She was as graceful as a wild flower.

"Mansour Bahi is very intelligent, don't you think?" I asked. "He doesn't talk much, but just goes quietly to work. A true child of the Revolution."

"Why should he or anyone else go along with the Revolution?"

"You speak as if there were no peasants, no workers, no youth in the land."

"The Revolution has stolen the property of a few and the liberty of all."

"You speak of liberty in the old sense," I said. "And when you were top; dog you didn't even show respect for that!"

Leaving the bathroom, I caught sight of two figures in the dim passage, Zohra and Sarhan whispering to each other. At that moment he raised his voice to give her instructions about his laundry. I went to my room as if I hadn't noticed anything, but I was filled with anxiety. How could Zohra live in peace in a place full of young men? When she brought my afternoon coffee, I asked her where she spent her free afternoon on Sundays.

She beamed. "I go to the cinema."

"On your own?"

"With Madame."

"God keep you" I said gently.

She smiled. "You worry over me as if I were a child."

"You are a child, Zohra."

"No. When I have to, I can take care of myself as well as any man."

I set my old face nearer her pretty young one. "Zohra, these young men are always ready to play, but when it comes to serious intentions...." I snapped my fingers.

"My father told me all about that."

"I won't pretend I'm not very fond of you. So I'm concerned,"

"I understand. I haven't met anyone like you since my father. I'm fond of you, too."

I had never heard the words said so sweetly, and they were words that, if it had not been for an accusation made in stupidity, and which no man alive had right to make, I might have heard from the dozens of children and grandchildren of my own. That white transparent veil. The old woman nips out from the door in the little alley: "Come on, it has stopped raining." The girl in the white veil follows, stepping carefully on the slippery stones. Has time dimmed all the details of that beautiful face, leaving only the deep impression? I stand to one side and I whisper: "God be praised for creating such beauty." While my heart is still pounding, I say to myself: "Take the decision, put your trust in God! The sooner the better!"

I am alone with Mariana, who sits beneath the Madonna, her blue eyes with thought. It has been raining steadily since noon, the clouds shaken by occasional rolls of thunder. Mariana speaks.

"Monsieur Amer, I smell something fishy!"

"What?" I ask warily.

"Zohra," she says and then, after a pause, "Sarhan el-Beheiry."

My heart contracts. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"But the girl..."

"I have an instinct about these things."

"My dear Mariana, she's good honest girl."

"Maybe, but I don't like people going on behind my back"

Of course, Either Zohra stays "honest" or she works for you. I know you through and through, old woman.

I have dreams, during my siesta, about 1919, that bloody uprising, and the British soldiers afterwards forcing their way into the Azhar. I open my eyes with a brain full of shouting demonstrators, the smack of rifles and the thud of bullets. There are loud voices in the entrance hall. I put on my dressing-gown and hurry out. Others are there, watching, but Sarhan is adjusting his collar and tie with an angry sneer on his face. And there is Zohra, pale with anger, her breast heaving, her dress torn at the neckline, while Hosni Allam in his dressing-gown is just going out the door with a strange woman who screams and curses -- and who just before the door closes spits in Sarhan's face.

"My pension has a good name!" Mariana shouts, "I won't stand for this sort of thing. No, no, no!"

I am still half asleep. When there are only the three of us left, I ask Tolba Marzuq what happened.

"I haven't the faintest idea. I arrived on the scene only just before you did."

Mariana disappears into Sarhan's room, for an explanation no doubt.

"It seems the Beheiry boy is quite a Don Juan."

"What makes you think so?"

"Didn't you see her spit in his face?"

"Who was she, anyway?"

"Just a woman." He grins. "Come for her runaway boyfriend, I suppose."

Zohra comes back, still upset. '"I opened the door for Monsieur Sarhan," she tells us, though we haven't asked her anything, "and there was this woman following him. He didn't see her. Then they started fighting."

Mariana returns from Sarhan's room. "The girl was his fiancée. Or so I understand.'"

We all understand. But it is Tolba Marzuq who slyly puts the question:

"Then what's Zohra got to do with all this?"

"I tried to break it up and she turned on me."

"You've got a fine fist, Zohra"

"Let's not speak of it any more," I beg them.

"Bismallah al Rahman al Rahim

Ta. Sin. Mim.

These are revelations of the Scripture that maketh plain.

We narrate unto thee somewhat of the story of Moses and Pharaoh with truth for folk who believe.

Lo! Pharaoh exalted himself in the earth and made its people castes. A tribe among them he oppressed, killing their sons and sparing their women. Lo! he was of those who work corruption.

And we desired to show favour unto those who were oppressed in the earth, and to make them examples and to make them the inheritors!"

...

"Come with me," Mariana whispered. "Zohra's people are here."

I went out with her. Zohra's sister and brother-in- law were there, the girl herself standing proudly in the middle of the room. The man was speaking.

"It's all right that you came to Madame. As for your running away, though..."

"You shamed us," her sister cut in, "all over Zayediyya."

"It's none of anybody's business," said Zohra bitterly.

"If only your grandfather could be here!"

"I answer to no one, now my father's dead."

"How dare you! He only wanted to marry you to a good man!"

"He wanted to sell me."

"God forgive you. Come along! Get your things ready."

"I am not going back. Not even if the dead themselves come out of their graves." Her brother-in-law was about to speak, but she stopped him "It's none of your business. I have a good job here." She pointed to Mariana. "I earn my living by honest work."

It struck me that they would have liked very much to tell he what they thought of Madame, the pension, and the statue of the Virgin, but felt themselves unable to.

"Zohra is the daughter of a man I respected," said Mariana. "I treat her as a daughter and she's welcome to stay if she likes." She looked at me, as if to prompt.

"Think, Zohra," I said, "and make your choice."

"I am not going back."

Their mission was a failure. As he left with his wife, however, the man said to Zohra, "You deserve to be killed!"

Afterwards we talked it over at length until Zohra said, "What do you really think I should do?"

"I wish you could go back to your village."

"Go back to misery?"

"I said, 'I wish you could' -- that is, go back and be happy."

"I love the land and the village, but I hate that misery." And when Mariana went out of the room, she said sadly: "Here is where love is. Education. Cleanliness. And hope."

I could understand her feelings. I too had left the village with my father and after that, like her, I had loved the village but could not bear to live there. I had educated myself, as she would like to do, and I had been wrongly accused and many people had said, as they had just said to her, that I should be killed. And like her again, I had been entranced by love, education, cleanliness, hope. May your fortune be better than mine, Zohra!

From Miramar translated by Fatma Moussa- Mahmoud, AUC Press, 1985

Half a day

I proceeded alongside my father, clutching his right hand, running to keep up with the long strides he was taking. All my clothes were new: the black shoes, the green school uniform, and the red tarboosh. My delight in my new clothes, however, was not altogether unmarred, for this was no feast day but the day on which I was to be cast into school for the first time.

My mother stood at the window watching our progress, and I would turn toward her from time to time, as though appealing for help. We walked along a street lined with gardens; on both sides were extensive fields planted with crops, prickly pears, henna trees, and a few date palms.

"Why school?" I challenged my father openly. "I shall never do anything to annoy you."

"I'm not punishing you," he said, laughing. "School's not a punishment. It's the factory that makes useful men out of boys. Don't you want to be like your father and brothers?"

I was not convinced. I did not believe there was really any good to be had in tearing me away from the intimacy of my home and throwing me into this building that stood at the end of the road like some huge, high-walled fortress, exceedingly stern and grim.

When we arrived at the gate we could see the courtyard, vast and crammed full of boys and girls. "Go in by yourself," said my father, "and join them. Put a smile on your face and be a good example to others."

I hesitated and clung to his hand, but he gently pushed me from him. "Be a man," he said. "Today you truly begin life. You will find me waiting for you when it's time to leave."

I took a few steps, then stopped and looked but saw nothing. Then the faces of boys and girls came into view. I did not know a single one of them, and none of them knew me. I felt I was a stranger who had lost his way. But glances of curiosity were directed toward me, and one boy approached and asked, "Who brought you?"

"My father," I whispered.

"My father's dead," he said quite simply.

I did not know what to say. The gate was closed, letting out a pitiable screech. Some of the children burst into tears. The bell rang. A lady came along, followed by a group of men. The men began sorting us into ranks. We were formed into an intricate pattern in the great courtyard surrounded on three sides by high buildings of several floors; from each floor we were overlooked by a long balcony roofed in wood.

"This is your new home," said the woman. "Here too there are mothers and fathers. Here there is everything that is enjoyable and beneficial to knowledge and religion. Dry your tears and face life joyfully."

We submitted to the facts, and this submission brought a sort of contentment. Living beings were drawn to other living beings, and from the first moments my heart made friends with such boys as were to be my friends and fell in love with such girls as I was to be in love with, so that it seemed my misgivings had had no basis. I had never imagined school would have this rich variety. We played all sorts of different games: swings, the vaulting horse, ball games. In the music room we chanted our first songs. We also had our first introduction to language. We saw a globe of the Earth, which revolved and showed the various continents and countries. We started learning the numbers. The story of the Creator of the universe was read to us, we were told of His present world and of His Hereafter, and we heard examples of what He said. We ate delicious food, took a little nap, and woke up to go on with friendship and love, play and learning.

As our path revealed itself to us, however, we did not find it as totally sweet and unclouded as we had presumed. Dust-laden winds and unexpected accidents came about suddenly, so we had to be watchful, at the ready, and very patient. It was not all a matter of playing and fooling around. Rivalries could bring about pain and hatred or give rise to fighting. And while the lady would sometimes smile, she would often scowl and scold. Even more frequently she would resort to physical punishment.

In addition, the time for changing one's mind was over and gone and there was no question of ever returning to the paradise of home. Nothing lay ahead of us but exertion, struggle, and perseverance. Those who were able took advantage of the opportunities for success and happiness that presented themselves amid the worries.

The bell rang announcing the passing of the day and the end of work. The throngs of children rushed toward the gate, which was opened again. I bade farewell to friends and sweethearts and passed through the gate. I peered around but found no trace of my father, who had promised to be there. I stepped aside to wait. When I had waited for a long time without avail, I decided to return home on my own. After I had taken a few steps, a middle-aged man passed by, and I realised at once that I knew him. He came toward me, smiling, and shook me by the hand, saying, "It's a long time since we last met -- how are you?"

With a nod of my head, I agreed with him and in turn asked, "And you, how are you?"

"As you can see, not all that good, the Almighty be praised!"

Again he shook me by the hand and went off. I proceeded a few steps, then came to a startled halt. Good Lord! Where was the street lined with gardens? Where had it disappeared to? When did all these vehicles invade it? And when did all these hordes of humanity come to rest upon its surface? How did these hills of refuse come to cover its sides? And where were the fields that bordered it? High buildings had taken over, the street surged with children, and disturbing noises shook the air. At various points stood conjurers showing off their tricks and making snakes appear from baskets. Then there was a band announcing the opening of a circus, with clowns and weight lifters walking in front. A line of trucks carrying central security troops crawled majestically by. The siren

of a fire engine shrieked, and it was not clear how the vehicle would cleave its way to reach the blazing fire. A battle raged between a taxi driver and his passenger, while the passenger's wife called out for help and no one answered. Good God! I was in a daze. My head spun. I almost went crazy. How could all this have happened in half a day, between early morning and sunset? I would find the answer at home with my father. But where was my home? I could see only tall buildings and hordes of people. I hastened on to the crossroads between the gardens and Abu Khoda. I had to cross Abu Khoda to reach my house, but the stream of cars would not let up. The fire engine's siren was shrieking at full pitch as it moved at a snail's pace, and I said to myself, "Let the fire take its pleasure in what it consumes." Extremely irritated, I wondered when I would be able to cross. I stood there a long time, until the young lad employed at the ironing shop on the corner came up to me. He stretched out his arm and said gallantly, "Grandpa, let me take you across."

From The Time and the Place and Other Stories, translated by Denys Johnson-Davies, AUC Press, 1991

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