Naguib Mahfouz - Morning and Evening Talk

“Why not?” he asked.

“We thought about full independence but we would be lost and merciless without the British Protectorate,” Abd al-Azim replied.

Although close friends with Farida Hanem and an admirer of Iffat’s beauty, Radia was angered by Iffat’s superiority and Amer’s submission.

“A man should be master of his house,” she said to her son.

“Iffat fancies herself a princess,” she said to Amr.

“Don’t stir Amer into something that will spoil his happiness,” her husband advised. Radia was won over in the end, especially after Iffat gave birth to Shakir, Qadri, and Fayyid, whom she loved with all her heart. Amer and Iffat’s firm love overcame any differences and their partnership represented a rare example of happy matrimony: a marriage that knew no ennui, relapse, speculation, or jealousy.

“The secret of my brother’s happiness is that he’s dissolved in his wife’s will. What a price to pay,” said Hamid.

Surur Effendi said to his wife, Zaynab, with typical contempt and bitterness, “Hamid has married a man and Iffat has married a woman.”

Amer was as successful in his career as he was in his marriage. He was the students’ favorite teacher, the one who influenced them the most, and one of the few who retain for life memories of those they have taught over the generations. He profited from this, for he increased his income with private lessons and overcame a number of obstacles through the influence of certain former students. As for the zenith of his fortunes, it came after the July Revolution when two of his students found themselves in the council of leaders. Iffat abhorred the revolution because it negated her brother’s pasha rank. She could not forgive it for its contempt of high-ranking professions like medicine and law. But thanks to his two students, Amer felt he was one of its men, despite the Wafdist sympathies he suppressed among the Dawud family.

Amer’s children brought him no less happiness than his marriage did. They were talented and successful, although they caused their parents more trouble than they imagined through their personal behavior and politics. Then everything settled down and Amer entered a quarter century of retirement in a house that became a model of companionship in old age just as it had been one of happiness in love. He kept his health and vitality. He read newspapers and magazines, listened to music, and watched television. Because he was in good health while his wife’s health declined, he did the chores and supervised the servants and cooking himself. He would play with the grandchildren or, pricked by nostalgia, would drive out to the old quarter with one of his children and visit the old house where Qasim lived, pray at al-Hussein’s tomb, sit for an hour at al-Fishawi, dine at al-Dahhan then return to Bayn al-Ganayin intoxicated and joyful. He lived until he was nearly ninety, and so he rejoiced at the July glories, was burned by June 5, recovered on May 15, rejoiced once more on the resounding October 5, then was dejected on the bloody October 6. He departed the world in enviable calm, like a happy ending. He woke up one morning at the usual time and went to the kitchen to prepare tea for himself and Iffat. He returned to drink it in bed and when he finished the glass he said, “My heart doesn’t feel right.” He lay down on his back to rest and before long his head turned on the pillow, as though he was nodding off to sleep.

Abd al-Azim Dawud Yazid

He was the only child of Dawud Pasha and Saniya al-Warraq who lived. He grew up in Bayt al-Sayyida and received an urbane upbringing from a hanem mother and a father who was counted among the elite of his day. From childhood, he mixed with his relatives in the old quarter and was particularly fond of his cousin Amr. But he mixed with another kind of people too: the European associates of his father, who often dined and exchanged toasts at his table. He flitted between tradition and modernity, but religion played in his life only a fraction of the role it played in his close friend Amr’s. He was lean, dark skinned, good looking, and had a large head, fine mind, and a lot of ambition. He did well at school, then enrolled in the faculty of law. His father had hoped to make a doctor of him, but he liked rhetoric and belles lettres and specialized in law, in keeping with other sons of eminent men. He was appointed to the public prosecutor’s office without his father’s intervention and from the first day claimed the respect of his superiors, the English in particular.

He was perhaps the first to choose a wife on one sighting. He caught a glimpse of Farida Husam in the family carriage and was attracted by her fair complexion and elegant features, so he found out the name of the family. Saniya al-Warraq, Radia, and Rashwana went to visit the distinguished family and reported back that Husam was a wealthy Syrian silk merchant. Farida was wedded to Abd al-Azim in a villa on Sarayat Road, bringing with her fresh beauty, wealth, and a pleasant readiness for married life. As the days passed, she gave birth to Lutfi, Ghassan, Halim, Fahima, and Iffat. Abd al-Azim excelled in his work and was interested in politics. He was a supporter of the Umma Party and was friends with prominent men, and he believed in the Watani Party drivel. His heart blazed with enthusiasm for the 1919 Revolution, but when the front split, he inclined with heart and mind to Adli Yakan and his companions. He saw his cousin Amr’s confusion and laughed uproariously.

“You’re bewitched by the great buffoon.”

“He’s the leader of the nation and its hope,” said Amr.

Amr would feel the warm bond between him and Abd al-Azim when his cousin visited him in Bayt al-Qadi. But when he went to the villa on Sarayat Road he felt lost in the “European” atmosphere that governed behavior and customs there, including Abd al-Azim Pasha’s habit of whetting his appetite with two glasses of whisky and sometimes speaking to his two daughters, Fahima and Iffat, in French. Mahmud Ata al-Murakibi ingratiated himself with the pasha, keen to strengthen relations with him despite the hidden rivalry between their two families. In truth, Abd al-Azim Pasha did not particularly like the man but would exchange visits out of respect for his cousin Amr. Mahmud Bey once sought to use Abd al-Azim’s influence in one of his many lawsuits but Abd al-Azim frowned and spoke frankly, “You evidently have no idea about the probity of the law.” Mahmud Bey’s work inspired him to believe that slogans were one thing, reality something else, so was shocked by his friend’s antipathy and cursed him privately. However, he found himself on the same side as the pasha after the political schism. Seeking to make light of their differences, he said, “Allegiance to the Crown or the English, it’s all the same.”

“It isn’t allegiance to the English, just friendship,” said Abd al-Azim.

“Isn’t the Crown preferable?”

“The Crown’s loyalty resides with the English. We’re calling for the Constitution.”

“But the Constitution would deliver government to Sa‘d.”

“Maybe to him and them.”

“He charms the people with his call for total independence. How do you stand on that?”

“The fools don’t know the meaning of independence. Independence is an enormous responsibility. Where would we find the money for defense?” said the man shaking his large head. “Wouldn’t it be better to leave that to the English and dedicate ourselves to reform?”

“You’re right,” said Mahmud Bey enthusiastically. “Zaghloul’s independence could lead to another Urabi Revolution.”

Abd al-Aziz’s eldest son, Lutfi, fulfilled his hopes, unlike Ghassan and Halim. Nevertheless, Abd al-Azim was generally considered a lucky father. Lutfi almost went astray when he inclined to Amr’s daughter, Matariya, but God was merciful, although Abd al-Azim was sad to take a stand against the daughter of his dear friend. As the days went by, he was appointed to important posts in the judiciary and was head of the High Court of Appeals when he drew his pension. His vitality enabled him to work as a lawyer until the 1950s then retire in old age. He did not sit still though; he would go each evening to the Luna Park Coffee House to play backgammon with the imperialists of his generation. By the July Revolution he had passed the age of worrying. He developed an acute burning in his prostate, was taken to hospital, and died two days later.