Naguib Mahfouz: The Seventh Heaven

“The mentor to Osman Ahmed Osman,” said Abu.

“And what of Sa‘d Zaghlul?”

“He has reached the Second Heaven,” intoned Abu.

“Because of his personal sacrifices?” said Raouf, expectantly.

“Because of his triumph over his own human weakness!”

“Again, please tell me what you mean.”

“You may be aware that he suffered from the sin of ambition before the revolution,” said Abu. “Afterward, however, he rose to become an exquisite vision of courage and devotion — and hence merited acquittal.”

“And Mustafa al-Nahhas?”

“He was attached to Anwar al-Sadat,” noted Abu. “But when October6 came, and freedom was restored, he, too, rose to the Second Heaven.”

“Then what about Gamal Abd al-Nasser?” the slain man asked.

“He is now guiding al-Qaddafi.”

At the end of the brief training period, Abu told Raouf, “You are now the spiritual guide to your murderer, Anous, Qadri the Butcher’s son.”

Raouf accepted the order with zealous resolve.

“Rely on your own mind for inspiration — for it has great power if you master its use,” instructed Abu. “When necessary, you may even resort to dreams — and may the Lord be with you.”

4

Raouf Abd-Rabbuh landed in the alley. He could see and hear clearly, though no one saw or heard him. He moved from place to place like a natural breeze through his beloved quarter, with all its solid and familiar scenes, its people engrossed in the affairs of life. All his memories were unchanged, along with his previous hopes and pains. He enjoyed a clarity of mind like a brilliant light. Scores and scores of laborers, both men and women, toiled away with furtive eyes and brawny forearms. The laughter floated over the curses, like sweet butter spoiled by bitter mold. And there was Boss Qadri the Butcher in his shop. No resemblance between his face and Hitler’s, but his body was bloated from sucking people’s blood. And here is Lord Balfour — that is, Shakir al-Durzi, the shaykh of our alley, who throws the law under the butcher’s feet. And there is the bogus wali, Shaykh Ashur, who foretells the future to flatter his lord and master.

My poor alley. May God be with you! How and when shall you burst these binding fetters?

Evidently, his own absence — that of Raouf — had stirred the alley’s tongues as well as its hearts. The women gathered round his weeping mother.

“This is the third day since he disappeared,” she moaned.

“Umm Raouf, you should tell the police,” they urged.

“I’ve already told ‘Uncle’ Shakir al-Durzi, shaykh of the hara,” she said.

The shaykh’s voice came to them scornfully, “Do young people today have no shame?”

“My son has never spent a whole night away from his home,” she said, still weeping.

And here is Rashida returning from her institute, the beauty of her tawny face marred by melancholy. Her mother said to her, “Take care of yourself — you can’t replace your health when it’s gone.”

Choking back tears, she said, “I know. My heart never lies to me!”

Raouf stared at her with sympathy. I believe you, Rashida. A loving heart is the most reliable receptor of truth. Yet we will meet again one day. Love is undying, Rashida, not like some people imagine it to be.

And here is the killer, swaggering home from the university. He holds a book in one hand, while he commits murder with the other! I am never out of your thoughts, yet you have no idea that I’ve been appointed your spiritual mentor. Shall you yield to me today, or persist in your error? Everything calls out to reassure you, Anous. Your father casts his shadow over all. The government and all authority are his loyal subjects — you can get any false testimony you need. Yet my image never leaves you. And why not? Did not people say that our friendship was proverbially close? Though trained in criminality, you didn’t practice it like your father. In the course of your education, you learned, or at least heard, of beautiful things. By committing this travesty, did you dream you would win Rashida’s heart? What was this that you slew and buried in the desert? What you have done has not hurt me more than it has you. I was your eternal companion, as you shall see. Confess, Anous. Admit your crime. Tell the truth and stick with me — and you will have a better part to play in all this.

Here is my tormented mother, blocking your path.

“Master Anous,” she pleaded, “do you have any news of your friend?”

“None at all, by God,” he swore.

“He told me as he went out that he was going to see you.”

“We met for a few minutes,” said Anous, “then he told me he had to do an important errand, and that we would meet tonight at the café.”

“But he hasn’t come back,” the distraught mother said.

“Didn’t I visit you asking about him?”

“That’s true, my dear boy, but I’m about to lose my mind.”

“I’m as upset as you are,” declared Anous.

Believe me, Anous. I see the distress in your soul like a blemish on your face. But you are malignant and cruel. You are from the Opposing Power, Anous — don’t you see the danger in that? We grumble all the way down the Path of Light — so what do you think about while sliding down the Path of Darkness? I am stuck to you. If you don’t taste that roasted chicken, then the fault is yours. If you can’t concentrate on the book you’re reading, that’s your own problem, as well. I will never leave you, nor shall I ever grow tired. You may as well stay up late, for you shall not know sleep before dawn.

When he rose back to the First Heaven, Raouf encountered Abu deep in discussion with Akhenaten.

“Every time I told him to go right, he went left!” the defunct pharaoh fumed.

“You must use your powers as needed,” exhorted Abu.

“We lack the ability to use physical force,” Akhenaten complained.

“Do you want to go up, or do you not?” exploded“ The trouble is, you are not used to persuading and convincing people of your point of view. You only know how to give orders!”

Abu turned to Raouf. “How are things with you?” he asked.

“I’m off to a good start,” the youngster said.

“Wonderful!” said Abu.

“Yet I wonder, doesn’t everyone have their own guide?”

“Naturally,” said Abu.

“Then why does everyone just give up?”

“How wrong you are,” Abu abjured. “You were born in the age of revolutions!”

At that moment, a green bird the size of an apple landed on Abu’s shoulder. It brought its rose-colored beak close to Abu’s ear. Abu seemed to be listening, when the bird suddenly flew off into space until it was hidden behind a white cloud.

Abu looked meaningfully into Raouf’s eyes. “That was the messenger from the Second Heaven,” he explained, “bringing word of the acquittal and right to ascend for one called Sha‘ban al-Minufi.”

“Who’s he?” asked Raouf.

“An Egyptian soldier who was martyred at Morea in the age of Muhammad Ali. He was mentor to a hard-currency smuggler named Marwan al-Ahmadi — and finally succeeded in his campaign to drive him to suicide.”

Sha‘ban al-Minufi approached, wrapped in his vaporous robe. “May you ascend gloriously and with grace to the Second Heaven,” Abu told him.

All the spiritual guides flocked toward them in the shape of white doves until the verdant place was packed, Sha‘ban al-Minufi’s face beaming in their midst. As celestial music sounded, Abu declaimed, “Rise, O rose of our green city, to carry on your sacred struggle.”