Naguib Mahfouz: Morning and Evening Talk

“I’m very sad, Papa!” he shouted.

“Recite the opening sura and your heart will be soothed.”

But his heart was not soothed. He wept whenever he thought of Ahmad and it was said he was even sadder than Ahmad’s mother. He did not recover from his grief until his world fell to pieces and a new creature no one had predicted was born.

Ahmad Ata al-Murakibi

A giant among men, tall and broad, the contours of his face might have been found on a statue. His blood coursed vigorously under his tan, and his thick mustache, outspread palm, and hirsute hands made him the image of a hero of popular legend. He would fill the whole seat of the carriage as it sauntered through Bayt al-Qadi Square and came to a halt in front of the old house when he visited in the halo of a great feudal lord. He would receive his nephew Amr Effendi — who was the same age — with a heartfelt embrace and greet Radia warmly, then set his presents down on the console, asking, “Where’s Qasim?” His voice was calm and soft, which was peculiar considering the colossal body it came from, and in his brown eyes shone a languid, friendly look furnished with kindness and peace, as though he were a huge mosque where glory and security unite. “Tell us, how are our children?” he would say, referring to Amr and Radia’s sons and daughters. He visited everyone in the family periodically, in particular the daughters, so as to reinforce their standing before their husbands. He heaped candy on Qasim and was saddened by Ahmad’s death, whom he had been very fond of, for he was such a handsome boy.

He would usually stay for dinner, on the condition that Radia serve one of the traditional Egyptian dishes for which she was famous alongside pre-prepared ta’miya and kebab side dishes, then spend the evening with Amr and his brother, Surur, at the Misri Club. The poor branch of the family was happy when rich relatives, like the Murakibis and the Dawuds, came to visit and reveled in the lasting effect it had in the quarter, although Radia would nevertheless remark to Amr, “None of them have roots. They all come from the soil,” then turn to Qasim and carry on provocatively, “One man vanquishes them all and that’s your grandfather, Shaykh Mu‘awiya.” Amr would smile and remain silent, preferring peace.

Yet Qasim never got over the magic of the Murakibi mansion on Khayrat Square. As big as Bayt al-Qadi Square and as tall as the Citadel, it had a garden like a zoo, countless rooms, and nothing could match its furniture; what wonderful antiques of all shapes and sizes, and bronze and plaster statues in the corners! The wives of Ahmad Bey and Mahmud Bey, Fawziya Hanem and Nazli Hanem, had amazing complexions and blue eyes. Here was a real-life world even more magical than the world of fairy tales and dreams. Qasim’s grandmother, Ni‘ma Ata al-Murakibi, was the sister of Ahmad Bey and Mahmud Bey, but she was poor and had nothing in the world but her two sons, Amr and Surur, and daughter, Rashwana. Nevertheless, the two wealthy brothers loved their sister and her children, especially Amr Effendi, who was marked by natural wisdom. Ahmad Bey strengthened his ties with Dawud’s family, the relatives of his sister Ni‘ma’s children, and other relatives through marriage — despite the mutual jealousy between the rich branches — and would invite them to the mansion on Khayrat Square. Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud preferred Ahmad to his brother, Mahmud, as he was gentle-natured, straightforward, and modest, but when the Murakibi family was mentioned at Amr’s house he would nevertheless declare scornfully, “They’re even more ignorant than they are rich. Where do they come from? A poor pantofle seller in Salihiya!”

While Mahmud Ata would say of Dawud’s family, “Resounding titles but they’re mere hirelings at the end of the day!”

“We’re all children of Adam and Eve,” Ahmad would say in his usual pious way.

Amr, Surur, Mahmud, and Ahmad started school around the same time and made do with the primary school certificate. Amr and Surur entered the civil service because they were poor, and Mahmud plunged into life’s tribulations under his father’s wing, but Ahmad gravitated to calm and a life of luxury so was discounted from his father’s plans. He spent some time on the farm in Beni Suef on the margins of farming then returned alone, or rather with Fawziya Hanem, to his rooms on the third floor of the mansion in Cairo. He spent his time visiting family and receiving friends. His magnificent drawing room was made up to receive friends and relatives. They would sip tea, coffee, and cinnamon, play backgammon and chess, send for lunch and dinner, and stay up until dawn during Ramadan and on festivals. The phonograph was his companion when he was alone, the carriage his recreation, Shubra and al-Qubba Gardens his visiting spots, and al-Sayyida his place of worship on a Friday. Some nights he attended Sufi gatherings with his cousin Amr, who was a member of the Dimirdashiya order.

When his father, Ata al-Murakibi, died, his tranquil evergreen life suffered a violent blow that shook him thoroughly. He was suddenly faced with a huge responsibility he was not equipped to deal with: managing the land left to him — three hundred feddans, not to mention the additional hundred or so from his wife.

“You’ll learn everything,” said Mahmud Bey. “There are people to help you. But,” the man clenched his hulking hand into a fist and continued, “you’ll need to give up your amicable ways. You can’t treat peasants and tenants as you do friends and relatives.”

Ahmad thought for a long time, groping about the snare, then said, “You’re my older brother. I’ve known only kindness and loyalty from you. I wasn’t made for this.”

Thus, Mahmud took his father’s place. Fawziya Hanem was unimpressed with the decision. “You decided too quickly and didn’t consult anyone,” she said politely.

“Do you doubt my brother?” he asked, confused.

“He may be your brother but why grant him trusteeship?” she said in good faith.

“He’s my brother and dear friend and you’re his wife’s sister. Our family is a model of harmony and affection. I did what I thought was right,” he said.

His comfortable life continued and he received his share of the profits without inspecting it; everything was fine and he had no worries. Then the 1919 Revolution pounced and shook him profoundly. He was ignited by the leader’s charm and, at his brother’s suggestion, donated ten thousand Egyptian pounds to the cause. They followed their father’s old exhortation of maintaining a distance from politics and avoiding anything that might arouse the anger of legal, or any other, authorities: the tide is too strong to swim against. But when discord between Sa‘d and his opponent, Adli, began to emerge and the party split, the men deliberated about what to do; or, rather, Mahmud reflected and Ahmad went along with him.

“The time for sentimentality is over. It’s time to be smart,” said Mahmud.

“The whole nation is behind Sa‘d,” said Ahmad.

“We should go where our interests are best served.”

Ahmad paid attention.

“Don’t be taken in by the rhetoric,” Mahmud went on. “The English are the real power. Adli is close to them but he won’t bring security forever. The power with a permanent channel to the English is the Crown. Let’s pledge allegiance to the king.”

“You’re right as always, brother,” said Ahmad with resignation.

Their stance was soon known in Bayt al-Qadi, where Amr and Surur lived next door to one another.

“It’s inappropriate,” Amr muttered with characteristic calm.

“These rich relatives of ours, God has given them immeasurable wealth and unequaled depravity,” Surur scorned.

Amr had more than one reason to refrain from berating them; on the one hand his peaceable nature, on the other the marriages of his sons Hamid and Amer to Shakira and Iffat, the daughters of Mahmud Bey and Abd al-Azim Pasha. Nevertheless, he let his thoughts be known to his uncle Ahmad Bey when he had dinner with him at the mansion.