Naguib Mahfouz - Morning and Evening Talk

Thus, Mahmud took his father’s place. It was a black day for the employees, watchmen, and business associates. He went about fields, farms, and the market like a steamroller, regarded with contempt, curses raining down on him from men and women alike. One night, returning to the mansion, a couple of anonymous men attacked him with clubs until he collapsed unconscious on the ground. They threw him in a ditch and disappeared into the darkness. Not long after, a patrol passed by and heard groaning from the ditch. They rushed over and rescued him from the brink of death. He was taken to hospital. When people heard the news they struck their foreheads in exasperation and cursed the bad luck that hastened to save him at the critical moment. He left hospital, healthy and recovered, with new contusions and scars from the surgery on his forehead, cheek, and neck, which made him look even grimmer and more ferocious. These did not, however, change his nature in any way, though he became better armed and more wary. His cousin Amr Effendi, the person closest to his heart, said to him, “My friend, you must adopt a different policy.”

“People are made for one policy. Woe to he who backs away from it,” Mahmud replied.

He would visit Bayt al-Qadi in his resplendent carriage, laden with gifts. He enjoyed chatting to Amr and Radia, then would become immersed in talking about his countless lawsuits. Once Amr said to him, laughing, “You’ll soon be a legal expert like Abd al-Azim!”

He laughed — he often laughed in Bayt al-Qadi — and said, “I’d rather die than waive my rights.”

“But this life isn’t worth such toil,” Radia burst out passionately.

“Dear dervish, we were created for toil,” he guffawed.

He would visit Abd al-Azim Dawud in East Abbasiya, where he enjoyed sharing news of his success and affluence and discussed cases. When he had gone, Abd al-Azim would say to Farida, “Sickness is better than a meeting with that oaf.”

“His wife is a precious jewel,” Farida Hanem would say.

“Lord give her patience in her suffering!” Abd al-Azim would reply sarcastically.

Even Nazli Hanem, who loved him more than anything in the world, advised him to be more moderate. But nothing could divert him from his path, ever.

“Can’t Abd al-Azim Dawud help you at all in your lawsuits?” she also asked.

“He affects probity to hide his depravity and lack of chivalry. He’s an infidel and copycat of the English — he drinks whisky at lunch and supper!” he replied resentfully.

When the 1919 Revolution came, a new kind of emotion stirred in his heart for the first time. He was touched by the magic of its leader and donated several thousand Egyptian pounds to the cause. For the first time too he perceived in the simple peasants a frightening power he had not known before. When the different positions of the Crown, Adli, and the leader crystallized, he began to take stock of his accounts. He met with his brother at the mansion on Khayrat Square and asked him, “What are your thoughts on the current situation?”

“Sa‘d is undoubtedly in the right,” Ahmad said innocently.

“I’m asking what is in our best interest,” he said coldly.

“I haven’t thought about it,” Ahmad said confused. “Do you think we should support Adli Pasha?”

“The Crown is the permanent center of power.”

“You’re always right, brother,” Ahmad said simply.

“What is your social circle saying?”

“They are all for Sa‘d.”

“Publicize your political affiliation so as many people as possible know.”

“Our nephews, Amr and Surur, support Sa‘d too.”

“They don’t have anything at stake. The games are over. Don’t imagine the English will leave Egypt. And don’t imagine Egypt can survive without the English.”

In return for pledging allegiance to the Crown, he and his brother were awarded the rank of bey. “Now the Dawud family must admit rank isn’t restricted to them alone.…” he said to Ahmad. However, a revolution of another kind flared up in the family, this one led by his nephew Adnan. The family, both men and women, split into two rival factions. Opponents savored its misfortune while friends, like Amr and Rashwana, were sad. Even Surur said, “A curse has befallen that damned family.”

They were not reunited until Ahmad’s death, a few months after which Mahmud developed serious diabetes. Amr and Surur had passed away by this time and a melancholy compounded by the illness settled in Mahmud’s heart. His determination flagged and he withdrew from the business. He spent most of his time in the mansion on Khayrat Square until a heart attack seized him one morning and he died. Nazli Hanem joined him two years later and Fawziya Hanem died in the same year. Only those destined for extra long life from that generation, like Radia, Abd al-Azim Pasha, and Baligh, remained; they were the ones whose lives stretched until the July Revolution.

Matariya Amr Aziz

She was born and grew up in Bayt al-Qadi, the third child of Amr and Radia. With her pretty face, slender figure, and amiability she most resembled Sadiqa, the aunt who committed suicide. She was also the most beautiful of the sisters, and quite possibly of all the girls in the family. Though she came into maturity in an atmosphere of religion and mysticism, she did not assimilate their underlying significance and believed that loving God and His messenger exempted her from religious duties. Her exquisite beauty stirred jealousy in her sisters’ hearts, but as events unfolded this turned to pity. In her childhood and early teens, she was known for grace and mirth and for loving generously and being loved in return; not a woman or girl in Surur, Ata, or Abd al-Azim’s families escaped her charm. Yet none of this could intercede on her behalf when her charm enticed a young man like Lutfi Abd al-Azim to contemplate marrying her, for charm too is limited by class consciousness. The first happy experience in her life thus became an emotional trial that immolated her tender heart and injured her pride. Her pain was slightly eased by the blaze of anger that flared up around her in her and her family’s defense, as it was by the fact that she had not revealed her feelings. The battle thus turned on pride, then fell into the age-old chasm of tradition.

Not long after, a friend whom her mother had met at the tomb of Sidi Yahya ibn Uqab came with a proposal. Her mother regarded the location of their first meeting as a good omen and judged the woman, who lived not far away in the quarter of Watawit, to be a good person. The bridegroom — Muhammad Ibrahim — was a teacher at the Umm Ghulam School and in terms of diploma and profession was Amer’s equal. Matariya saw him through the gap in the mashrabiya and was attracted to his wheat-colored face, plump body, and the pipe he smoked like the English. She was wedded to him in the house his mother owned in Watawit. Through good fortune, Matariya won her mother-in-law’s heart, and enjoyed a bond of true love with her husband until the day he died. Year upon year radiated with happiness and harmony, and she gave birth to Ahmad, Shazli, and Amana — all three satellites of purity and grace. People were right to consider the house in Watawit among the happiest, in the true sense of the word. Muhammad Ibrahim was the second man to join Amr’s family after Hamada al-Qinawi but he was urbane, gentle natured, cultured, and had a diverse library. His prim conversation and Hamada’s chatter and groundless conceit could not have been more different. Muhammad found it impossible to genuinely make friends with Hamada but was very amiable with him in deference to Sadriya, whom he admired and whose virtues as a housewife had not escaped his notice. Those happy years would remain in Matariya’s heart forever; the minutiae of daily life, the warmth of her husband’s love, her mother-in-law’s compassion and patience, the children with their bright promise. Then came the first blow of fate; Ahmad died in his fifth year. Matariya tasted the pain and profound sadness of a bereaved mother. Part of her throbbing heart, and the scent of her bereft spirit, began dwelling in the grave that spread in a swathe of new emotions before her tearful eyes. She loved Qasim all the more when she saw how inconsolable he was at the loss of her young son. She focused her wounded motherly love on Shazli and Amana, though her heart did not rejoice as she had hoped it would with their marriages. Her mother-in-law died in the 1930s, loading her with a burden to which she was not accustomed, and she mourned the death of her own father shortly before the Second World War and her uncle Surur’s a few years later. She truly suffered for her strong attachment to her family. She regarded Shazli’s marriage as a grave disappointment and considered it part of her bad luck.