Naguib Mahfouz - Morning and Evening Talk

“You must visit the relevant tombs,” said Sadriya.

“What is the point in visiting tombs for this? The best remedy is to cut off his tongue!” said Radia.

The truth was that it was not just Hamada’s wife who suffered from his irritating chatter; on visits he would inflict it on the families of Amr, Surur, al-Murakibi, and Dawud until it became a joke among the relatives. It became clear that her husband’s eyes knew no shame and followed every pretty girl who passed by. Sadriya grew increasingly uneasy.

“Have you no shame?” she asked him disapprovingly.

“There’s no harm in looking,” he scoffed.

But she caught gestures between him and the beautiful widow who lived in the house opposite. A fire ignited inside her and blew the sleep from her eyes. She stayed awake until the time he usually came home from an evening at the Parisienne then left the house and went out into the street, wrapped in the darkness, with a bucket of water in her hand. Hamada approached, cleaving his way through the pitch-dark night. She felt the door of the widow’s house open and the woman’s blurred outline appeared dimly in the doorway. The man paused and turned toward it. Sadriya hurried into the middle of the road and hurled the water at the woman in the doorway, who screamed and tumbled backward into the house. Hamada was startled. He looked in Sadriya’s direction, “Who are you?”

“Get home, you shameless creature!” she shouted enraged.

He was staggering that night. He entered the house in silence then shouted angrily, “I’ll show you how savage I can be when I need to.”

But in his drunkenness he was overcome by laughter. He collapsed onto the sofa saying, “You’re a madwoman like your mother!”

She quarreled with him for a while, then they reverted to friendly relations and bickering, although the matter was not laid entirely to rest until he fell ill. He developed high blood pressure that affected his heart and he had to give up drinking. A general apathy came over him, which in certain guises took on the appearance of wisdom. Then came sorrow; Sadriya lost her daughter, Warda, in the prime of youth, and then lost her father and her sister Matariya. Finally, Hamada died on a visit to his family in Qina. Sadriya remained in Khan Ga‘far, refusing to move to her son Aql’s house despite his strong devotion to her. When Radia sensed her health was deteriorating she said to Sadriya, “I want you by my side to close my eyes.…” Thus, she shut up her house and returned to the house of her birth to be beside her mother, who favored her above everyone. Radia was over a hundred years old and Sadriya was herself approaching ninety, although she was in full possession of her strength and still active. The final days passed in a turmoil of memories; her mother recalled songs she had sung in the last quarter of the nineteenth century then passed away. Sadriya closed her eyes, wanting to cry but unable to.

Sadiqa Mu‘awiya al-Qalyubi

The third daughter of Shaykh Mu‘awiya and Galila al-Tarabishi, she was born in the old house in Suq al-Zalat half a year after the shaykh was put in prison. She was more beautiful than her two sisters, Radia and Shahira. Indeed, with her fair complexion, rosy cheeks, symmetrical features, ample black hair, and succulent slender body she was an unrivaled beauty in the quarter. In the family she was surpassed only by Amr and Radia’s daughter Matariya, who shared the same roots but was more light-hearted and urbane. She was the only one not to claim her portion of the shaykh’s religious upbringing and grew up the pure fruit of Galila’s heritage. She was kind toward others and loved singing, justified by a fine voice. Because of her beauty and geniality, she enjoyed the greatest share of Radia’s children’s affection.

A few years after her father’s death and one year after Shahira married, a Syrian dentist resident in the quarter presented himself and she was wedded to him. They moved into a new building in Faggala. It was not long before disaster struck; her husband died before she conceived and she herself contracted tuberculosis. She returned to Galila’s arms, seeking warmth and healing. The family’s hearts were shaken by her bad luck. Her beauty withered and her life was transformed. Pain assailed her and there was no hope of recovery. She felt she was sinking into the abyss. She grew tired of the desperation, the suffering, the insomnia, the coughing, and in a moment of dark despair threw herself into the well. Galila screamed and caring neighbors rushed to her side. They extricated her on the point of death. She suffered hours of agony through a long feverish night, surrounded by her mother and sisters, Radia and Shahira, the doorway choked with male relatives and neighbors. After an excruciating struggle she passed away shortly before dawn, at the height of youth, despair, and suffering.

Galila grieved for a long time. She ordered a firm wooden lid to be placed over the well and that it never be used again. She dreamed about her daughter from time to time and once said to Radia, “On the night of Sidi al-Sha‘rani I saw Sadiqa standing on a white cloud near the well. Her face was bright and she was smiling.”

Radia had deep faith in her mother. “Did she speak to you, Mama?” she asked.

“I asked her how she was and she told me that God had forgiven her for taking her life. She told me this to put my heart at rest,” Galila replied.

“Praise God, the Merciful and Compassionate,” cried Radia.

“I saw her at her most beautiful, like in the old days,” said Galila.

Safa Hussein Qabil

She was the second child of Samira and Hussein Qabil. She was born and grew up in the house on Ibn Khaldun Street. She suckled in her wholesome, affluent cradle under the protective shade of days of glory and well-being and the lush greenery of al-Zahir Baybars Garden. Samira’s children were good looking, healthy, and successful, but Safa was the most beautiful and joyful of all. How she played with and danced for her grandmother Radia and exuded pure warmth everywhere she went. She grew up modest and forbearing and worshiped life above the various principles of her brothers and sisters. Hussein Qabil adored her; to him she was a treasure more beautiful than any he bought or sold. She did well at school and enrolled in the English language department at the faculty of arts. Hussein Qabil died, leaving a deep wound in her heart. She could feel her mother’s pain as she adjusted the family to a different standard of living, and a darkness blacker than the darkness of war and air raids settled over her. On her rounds she met her young male relatives from the families of Surur, al-Murakibi, and Dawud but it was Shakir, her uncle Amer’s son, who cast the net of interest and admiration over her. He was a medical student and they were able to meet often away from family traditions. Her heart was weaned in his hands and she believed he was the man of the happy future she anticipated. She noticed he was keen to shroud their relationship in secrecy but did not grasp the significance. “Who are you afraid of?” she asked him one day.

“Mama!” he replied bluntly, annoyed.

She was surprised at him and his mother and surmised he was not the man he ought to be. One day she returned from college and found her mother dejected and frowning. Knowing the strength of her mother’s restraint she realized something was wrong. “Your uncle’s wife, Iffat!” Samira said indignantly.

Her heart contracted and she felt her hope disappear.

“She told me categorically that I must keep you away from her son,” Samira said.

“But I’m not pursuing him,” she cried angrily.

“Close the door with latch and key,” Samira said distressed.

There was no way out. No escape from the pain. But why?