Naguib Mahfouz - The Seventh Heaven

“We have to recollect the whole picture,” he said. “There are unnerving events. Some poor people find bags stuffed with money on their balconies, left by an unnamed benefactor. Others discover safe-looking packets of sweets, only to learn that the candies are poisoned, causing the deaths of unsuspecting people. Children are reported missing. Fires break out in bars. This is on one hand.

“On the other hand, you receive a letter from an unknown person that points the finger at Makram Abd al-Qayyum. You investigate this man and come to me with a clutch of contradictions that are more like the weird happenings themselves. What do you think?”

“I’ve become totally convinced that he’s the criminal we’re seeking.”

“Convinced?”

“That’s my gut feeling,” I affirmed.

“I’m only interested in either a smoking gun or a confession.”

“Let’s not ignore the fact, sir, that the incidents stopped when he went away.”

“That period has been very short; it means nothing.”

“And don’t forget that we’ve become the talk of the town.”

“His compulsiveness will betray him sooner or later … No doubt, he’s deranged!” the chief declared.

“Deranged?” I challenged him. “Possibly — but it’s just as likely he’s a sane, clever dog with a concealed motive.”

9

I set off on the chase with dauntless energy. The patrols and the lookouts were doubled. I distributed his description to every department, outlining a comprehensive course of action to the leaders and to those experienced with criminal circles. I knew, of course, that — for me personally— he had come to define my future, and my duty. The subject took control of both my waking mind and my dreams. I thought it over, and thought it over again, and decided to put off making an appeal through the newspapers and other media, at least for the time being.

10

While we were immersed in the search, a sudden bolt of lightning struck us from the blue. The press surprised us with news of events similar to those in our district — but this time, in the Delta town of Tanta. I rushed to Tanta without even seeking leave to go, and gave all the information I had to the responsible authorities there.

As we were drawing up a new plan of attack profiting primarily from our earlier experience, the newspapers came out with stories of yet more incidents in the southern city of Asyut. Sensing that these crimes had become a national scandal, I went there immediately. When I arrived I telephoned my boss to tell him my location.

“Where are you?” he shouted. “What is this blatant insubordination?”

I tried to explain the situation but he cut me off.

“Get back here immediately,” he demanded. “The incidents have returned to our own district.”

11

I had the idea to invite a famous artist to meet with me and the eyewitnesses. I asked him to draw an accurate picture of the enigmatic culprit based on the interviewees’ statements.

“Don’t give up until you’re sure it’s a faithful portrait,” I ordered.

The media ran the picture asking anyone who recognized the subject to direct us to him. Citizens pointed us to more than one person: a village headman, a fishmonger, a luggage dealer. The image even resembled a certain powerful man of state. The uproar grew out of control until we were the laughingstock of comedians and pundits alike.

“The administration is going up in flames,” the chief sighed to me.

“You can’t fault our plan,” I countered.

“He that we haven’t sought has come to us, while he that we have sought has eluded us.”

“Maybe he’s in hiding, or in disguise.”

“No doubt the incidents investigated in all these districts are not the work of just one man,” the chief asserted.

“Perhaps he’s the head of a gang?”

“The administration is going up in flames!” he cried again in despair.

I returned to my office, blind with rage. At the doorway I heard a sharp exchange between the hall guard and another man who wanted to come in and meet me.

“I have no time for anyone now,” I blurted sternly.

In a loud, even voice, the other man declaimed, “I am Makram Abd al-Qayyum.”

12

I seized him by the arm and we went into the room. We stood there face-to-face. I was panting as he asked with calm resentment, “What is the meaning of what you published in the papers?”

“Why didn’t you come in immediately?” I asked in return, scanning him closely.

“I was at the Red Sea, a long way from the newspapers— or anything else.”

A burning, pregnant silence fell between us until he resumed questioning me.

“What’s the point of this ridiculous charge against me?” “We’ll see,” I told him, seething with pique. I decided to conduct the interrogation in my chief’s office, under his supervision.

13

What should I say?

The man answered every question quickly, with a solid simplicity — yielding not one shred of evidence against him. We showed him to the families of the victims, the informants, and the aggrieved in every part of the quarter. No one had seen him, either by day or by night. We broadcast a message to the anonymous author of the letter that had accused him, to share whatever information they had with us — but no one replied. And so Makram Abd al-Qayyum left us with head held high, while I was dealt a devastating blow.

Yet, astoundingly, deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was our man.

14

Of course, there had to be a sacrificial ram, so the Interior Ministry decided to transfer me to headquarters. I put the most qualified person I knew for the job in my place. Outraged at the whole situation, I presented my resignation, announcing that I planned to practice law. I continued to follow the wave of atrocities and the news of the investigation, anxious that my successor would succeed in nabbing the perpetrator. The sentiment, though shameful, was only natural.

And what did I know but one day Makram Abd al-Qayyum himself burst into my office. I stared at him in shock as he sat down before my desk.

“I’ve come to propose that you manage my business and legal affairs,” he said.

The offer was so tempting, it was virtually impossible to refuse. Still, I asked him, “Why me exactly, when I’ve only worked as a lawyer for two years?”

“But you have great experience. And I count myself responsible to some degree for your resignation.”

Jokingly, I shot back, “Is this some sort of schadenfreude?”

“I seek refuge in God,” he rebutted gravely, “but there are only benevolent feelings behind it.”

Thus I came to serve the estate of the worthy Makram Abd al-Qayyum!

15

I can testify that I found him worthy in every sense of the term — dignified, well-versed, and fine of speech; benign in his dealings with others; openhanded as well as open-hearted. Perhaps my enthusiasm would falter at times, and I would ponder, “What if he catches me off-guard with one of his famous contradictions? Wouldn’t it be better for me to stick to the side of caution?”

Yet my whispering devil within was disappointed. Abd al-Qayyum’s tendency to always seem to act for the good truly tweaked my conscience.

One morning, after he had finished reviewing some work I had prepared for him, he tilted back in his swivel chair and said, “Finally — they’ve decided to close the case by laying it against ‘a person unknown.’”

“Let that be a slap to repay the one that struck me,” I gloated maliciously.

“Not at all — you were on the wrong track,” he said, with sweet tranquility.