Naguib Mahfouz: The Seventh Heaven

The shaykh of the hara said that Qandil had a bit more learning than his peers. He used to sit in the café telling people about the wonders of the world that he had read about in the newspapers, astounding his listeners, whom he held entranced. As a result, every group he sat in became his forum, in which he took a central place considered unseemly for anyone but local gang bosses or government officials. The neighbors grew annoyed with him, watching him with hearts filled with envy and resentment.

One day, tensions reached their peak when he talked about the cemetery in a way that went far beyond all bounds of reason. “Look at the graveyard,” he grumbled. “It takes up the most beautiful place in our district!”

Someone asked him what he wanted there instead.

“Imagine in the northern part houses for people, and in the south, a rose garden!”

The people become angry in a way they had never been before. They hurled reproaches at him in a hail of rebuke, reminding him of the dignity of the dead and the obligation to be faithful to them. Most agitated of all was Bayumi Zalat; he warned him not to say anything more about the cemetery, shouting, “We live in our houses only a few years — but we dwell in our tombs till the Day of Resurrection!”

“Don’t people have rights, too?” Qandil asked.

But Zalat cut him off, enraged. “Religion demands respect for the dead!”

With this, Zalat, who didn’t know the first thing about his faith, issued his very own religious ruling. But later, after the battle began to cool, the shaykh of the hara came, bearing a decree from the governor’s office. Thep order called for the removal of the cemetery by a fixed deadline — and for the people to build new tombs in the heart of the desert.

There was no connection between what Qandil had said and this decision, though some thought there was— while others believed, as the Qur’an says, that it’s wrong to suspect someone unless you have proof. Meanwhile, most people said, “Qandil certainly isn’t important enough to influence the government — but in any case, is he not like an evil omen?”

All in all, they blamed him for what happened, while, from his side, he made no effort to hide his pleasure at the decree. The people’s frustration and anger kept getting stronger and stronger. Finally, they gathered before the shaykh of the hara, the men crying out and the women lamenting, and demanded that he tell the authorities that the government’s order was void and forbidden: that it was against religion, and fidelity to the dead.

The shaykh replied that his reverence for those who have died was no less than theirs. Nonetheless, they would still be moved, in absolute compliance with the laws of God, and of decency. But the people insisted, “This means that a curse will fall upon the hara, and upon all who live there!”

Then the shaykh called out to them that the government’s decision was final, and charged them to ready themselves to carry it out. At this, Zalat pulled away from them. In a braying voice, he declared:

“We haven’t heard anything like that since the age of the infidels!”

Their anger with the government mixed with their anger at Qandil until it became a single, seething fury. Then, one night, as Bayumi Zalat was returning from an evening out, he took a shortcut through the tombs in the cemetery. There, at the little fountain, a skeleton loomed before him, wrapped in a shroud. Zalat halted, nailed where he stood, while everything that had been in his head instantly flew out of it. Then the skeleton spoke to him:

Woe unto those who forget their Dead, and who neglect the most precious of all their possessions — their graves.

Z alat stumbled back to the hara, his heart filled with death’s whisperings. And in truth, he didn’t conceal from anyone that it was he who had killed Qandil. Yet no one divulged his secret, whether out of fear, or out of loyalty. Gossip said that this fact had even reached the police commissioner himself. But he, too, had been against moving the cemetery in which his ancestors were interred. The blame was laid against a person unknown — and so Hamza Qandil’s blood was shed unavenged.

The shaykh of the hara ended his talk on a note of regret, as we sat in the rose garden that — once upon a time — had been the graveyard of our ancient quarter.

Today is my birthday. The feast of life renewed. We gather in the grand reception hall and our emotions warm it in the full force of winter. All that is delicious and delightful in food and drink and sweet song surrounds us. We come singly and in couples and in groups. Love guides us forward and good camaraderie binds us together. Differing moods and tempers blend in our hearts. We have no need to hire entertainers, for among us are excellent singers and glorious dancers — and what are these but our joy of life bursting out? Our joking evening banter is completely informal and unrestrained. The fragrance of flowers wafts through the room, which glitters with pleasure and contentment. The soirée stretches on till the coming of dawn, when we go out little by little, the same way we came in,eyelids sagging with satiety, throats hoarsened by laughter and loud talk, as dreams draw us on to happy slumber.

We are decreed from birth to be divided only by the Destroyer of Delights — but he seems quite far away. Security, it appears, is granted us. Of course, our numbers dwindle and faces disappear in the passing of days. The span of life has its dominion, and circumstances have their dominion, and what lasts forever but the One who is eternal? In the flood of pleasure and its warmth, we overlook the losses and savor what is fated for us, but with a deep sense of grief.

“That beautiful, bewitching face!”

“And her girlfriend who would never stop laughing!”

“And that self-important character who made himself the maestro at every party!”

We philosophize and say, “Well, that’s life and we must take it as it is. It’s been that way since the age of Adam, always treating people in the same fashion…. So where’s the surprise?”

But the debate subsided as the hall was emptied of its heroes. Today, no one comes, not a man or a woman. I wait and wait in hope that maybe … but it’s no use. I am tortured by loneliness, as my loneliness is tortured by me. I am unaware of what goes on beyond my sight. Nothing remains but mummified imaginings in the sarcophagi of memory. Sometimes I believe — and sometimes I do not. There was nothing in my heart but bruises and wounds, and affection for that One who dwells within me, when he asked me, “Shall I tell you the truth?”

“Please.”

“They have all been arrested,” he said. “The Guardian executes his duty, as you are aware.”

“But they’re all so different. How can he arrest them all without distinguishing between them?”

“He is not concerned with differences.”

“Do you foresee when they will be released?” I asked, with intense distress.

“Not one of them shall be freed,” he answered, his voice frigid with finality.

Ah! He means what he says. None of them shall be spared. The period of my loneliness shall linger and lengthen. But the matter didn’t stop there. Motion is eternal and unceasing. I was watching a moth fluttering about my lamp when he breathed in my ear, “Be warned…. They are looking into you.”

Really? No matter how long your voyage, your mission keeps growing with it, an old saying goes. But anxiety did not grip me as it did of yore. I listened to him as he whispered, “There is a chance for survival.”