Naguib Mahfouz: Morning and Evening Talk

Amana Muhammad Ibrahim

She had a radiant complexion, delicate features, soft hair, and was the image of her mother, Matariya, but for two front teeth that stuck out a little. She was Matariya’s last child, born a few months before Ahmad’s death. Her uncle Qasim was fond of her, but dared not claim her as he had her deceased brother; he loved her from a distance until his personal tragedy wrenched him away from worldly concerns altogether. Her paternal grandmother died when she was seven and she mourned her more than was warranted for someone of her age. She entered primary school without opposition thanks to the times and, likewise, went on to secondary school. Matariya was only interested in marriage but said to her husband, “Like my sister Samira’s daughters, everyone wants an education these days.” Muhammad Ibrahim accepted this without discussion. He had been promoted to a senior teaching post by staying at the Umm Ghulam School through the good offices of Abd al-Azim Pasha Dawud.

As it happened, Amana displayed a promising propensity for learning and her talent for mathematics was clear. University seemed an easily attainable dream. She passed the baccalaureate, but in the summer holiday that followed, her father developed a galloping illness and he soon died, while only in his fifties. The family inherited the house, his pension, and the rent from the shop below the house. The Second World War was by then over and from the second generation Amr, Surur, and Mahmud Ata had passed away. Thus, Matariya felt she was facing life alone. During this period, Abd al-Rahman Effendi Amin, an employee at Dar al-Kutub, requested Amana’s hand. He was fifteen years older than her and had a good reputation. Amana liked him but wanted to finish her education first.

“Our circumstances mean marriage comes first,” Matariya said with sympathy. She consulted her mother, Radia, who said, “A suitable man is a thousand times more important than university.” She looked at Amana admiringly. “Why would a girl of your beauty be interested in education?”

Her uncle, Shaykh Qasim, said to her, “I saw you in a dream dancing in the district of Gamaliya!”

Matariya asked her mother what the dream meant and she said without hesitation, “The district represents peace and security, the marital home. …”

Matariya provided Amana’s dowry, the value of her and her paternal grandmother’s jewelry, and what little was left of her late husband’s savings. Amana was wedded to her groom on Azhar Street.

It was evident that love sheltered the new couple in its wing, but from the beginning harmony between husband and wife required stubborn efforts. Abd al-Rahman Amin believed in the man’s authority, while Amana was extremely sensitive, fussing over an ant’s nip like it was a snakebite. She was quick to burst into tears and shut herself away or head off to Watawit from Azhar Street. Matariya would escort her back and try and resolve the mess, then end up embroiled in the quarrel herself. Her older sister Sadriya said to her, “Your daughter’s husband is no worse than mine but no one gets to know what goes on between us. Don’t interfere in their private affairs and don’t side with Amana in every disagreement.”

Radia learned of the newfound bickering and sought refuge in incantations, spells, and tomb visits. The dissension constantly threatened to escalate until the specter of divorce raised its ugly face like a bat. The extent of the problem was compounded by the fact that the moment Amana gave birth to her first child, Muhammad, and was overwhelmed with motherhood, the beautiful wife all but disappeared. After him, she gave birth to Amr, Surur, and Hadiya and the specter of divorce withdrew, although the bickering continued and constant stress left its mark on her face.

The children started school with the first generation of the July Revolution. They departed the gloomy atmosphere of the house and hovered in skies of fortune and splendor before drowning in the sea of confusion that swallowed its victims on June 5, 1967. They began their working lives after the demise of the first leader, and during the wave of victory and the infitah policy they were awarded contracts to work in other Arab countries. Even Hadiya did not stay behind. As for Matariya, she died after suffering many disappointments: the premature deaths of her youngest son and husband, the aberrations of Shazli, and Amana’s bad luck. Abd al-Rahman Amin eventually succumbed to old age. Amana savored her children’s success, though old age and illness overtook her too before her time. She saw her respected uncles and aunts and the rest of her relatives pass away. She read the book of sorrows as it turned its pages one after the other and would listen to the prophecies sent down to Shaykh Qasim and try to apply the verdicts to her destiny.

Amir Surur Aziz

He was born and grew up in Bayt al-Qadi. Surur Effendi’s house was next door to his brother, Amr Effendi’s, and Amir was around the same age as his cousin Qasim. He played and roamed about with his cousin but was kept away from him after his tragedy. Unlike his brothers, he was strong bodied, inclined to be overweight, and loved fun. In terms of chivalry and piety, he most resembled his uncle Amr. He knew the 1919 Revolution as a legend of demonstrations, battles, and anecdotes and grew up a faithful and patriotic Sa‘dist. He tried to mimic his brother Labib‘s accomplishment and industry and made successful progress, though he never reached his brother’s level. His piety and spirit of decorum and tradition were a detriment to relations with his sister, Gamila, who was four years his senior, for he objected to what he saw as casual behavior unworthy of the family name and honorable religion. No one in his family shared his views. They became increasingly annoyed with him until his father said, “You’re too zealous. Leave the matter to me.”

In secondary school he began participating in the party struggle that broke out after Sa‘d Zaghloul’s death. He joined in demonstrations protesting Muhammad Mahmud’s dictatorship and spent two weeks in hospital after he was struck by a club. He had three relatives in the police with sensitive positions at the ministry of the interior; Hamid Amr, his cousin, and Hasan Mahmud Ata and Halim Abd al-Azim Dawud, his second cousins. They consulted on the matter and the one closest to him was assigned the task of cautioning him and setting him on the right path. Hamid delivered the speech in the presence of his uncle Surur and father, Amr.

“Your name is at the top of the blacklist at the Interior,” he said to his cousin.

“I’m honored,” Amir laughed, as he did often.

His cousin pointed to the scar on his temple and said, “You can’t always rely on being so lucky.”

“They won’t hesitate to discharge you from college,” said his father.

“I’m a Wafdist like you, but must advise you,” said Hamid.

The young man did not conceal his disdain for Ata and Dawud’s families. He sensed his father was not overly fond of them and scoffed at their roots at every opportunity. He began to light the political sky at the center of the young Wafdists and was the one they would proffer to the Wafd leaders. His ambitions for the nation reached for distant horizons. His brother Labib, who was a public attorney at the time, tried to put the brakes on his exuberance but he said, “I’ve discovered my path and won’t ever turn back.”

“What if you lose your job? You know we’re poor,” he inquired with natural calm.

“Then I’ll work for the press,” he replied confidently.

But he did not lose his job or work for the press or continue his political struggle. At the beginning of Ismail Sidqi’s time, during the flood of demonstrations protesting against the abrogation of the 1923 Constitution, he was shot dead in Muhammad Ali Street. The security forces took charge of his burial, along with many others, so as to prevent their funeral processions from paving the way for further demonstrations; only his father, uncle, and brothers were permitted to attend. His premature death shook Surur and Amr’s families profoundly. They recalled what Shaykh Qasim had said to him at the end of one visit to his uncle’s house: “You will raise the red flag.” They interpreted the words as a reference to the blood spilled the day he was martyred.