Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

For years I wondered what it was that delivered me from death on that morning. My heart would say: It was fear! While my tongue would say: It was God, the Most Forgiving and Merciful!

No doubt I’d overstated my reasons for committing suicide, since I graduated from primary school at the end of that year.

It was around this time that our little family lost one of its loveliest trappings when my grandfather sold the Victoria and the two horses that drew it, and dispensed with the elderly driver’s services. I learned through what I picked up from the family’s conversation that one night at the casino my grandfather lost more than the usual amount of money, and had thus been obliged to borrow an amount of cash equal to his monthly pension. Given the fact that he was a man with a penchant for order, he preferred to sell the carriage and the two horses rather than upset his budget. It grieved us sorely to sell the carriage, lose the horses and have to part with Uncle Karim, the driver who’d spent his lifetime in my grandfather’s service and who was so advanced in years he’d lost his teeth. I wept bitter tears over all of them, though without saying a word. My grandfather spent more time at the casino than he did at home. It was his only solace and entertainment, especially since he’d left the military. However, what with his innate candor and jovial nature, he never made any attempt to conceal his comings and goings. In fact, he would often tell my mother anecdotes about the things that happened to him during his evenings out.

With a shake of his grizzled head he’d say, “I had bad luck all last night until, just before closing time, I recouped my whole loss with two lucky strokes!”

Or he’d say, “Talk about greed! A single gamble at the end of the night lost me twenty pounds that I’d earned by the sweat of my brow!”

For the most part, though, he was a sensible gambler, if I might call him that, who was captivated by the mad delight of laying a bet without its causing him to forget the limits of what his budget would allow or his responsibilities as our family’s provider. I’m sure the matter of my future preoccupied him quite a bit, not for my sake alone — though he constantly showered me with his love and affection — but, in addition, because my mother’s fate was tied to mine. Then there was the fact that my schooling had faltered so badly that by the time I finished primary school, I was seventeen years old and he was nearing seventy. Consequently, he began feeling increasingly concerned, knowing well, as he did, that the “fortune” he’d amassed was hardly worth mentioning. He would always overcome his anxiety thanks to his natural propensity for optimism, an optimism that was due for the most part to the God-given good health that, despite his advancing years, had never left him. Nevertheless, his most recent loss had reminded him of his anxiety and fears, and as such, it had impelled him to deal with them with prudence and caution.

One day, as he and my mother were discussing my future, he said to her after no little hesitation, “It seems to me that Kamil shouldn’t be so utterly ignorant of his father.”

Her face suddenly pale, my mother stared at him in horror and said, “What do you mean, Baba?”

“I mean,” he replied nonchalantly, “that he should get to know him. This is necessary, since otherwise it will look to people as though he has no father.”

Her voice quavering, my mother said, “His is a father of whom it’s better to be ignorant.”

Looking annoyed, my grandfather said firmly, “It’s as though you’re afraid that if he saw the boy, he’d try to take him back. But this is an illusion that exists only in your head. As a matter of fact, I’m quite confident that he was thoroughly pleased when fate provided someone to raise his son in his stead. Even so, I think Kamil should get acquainted with his father now. I’ve decided to take him to see him. Who knows when Kamil might need him? Can you guarantee that I’ll be there for him forever? And don’t forget that Kamil is about to enroll in secondary school, and that I might persuade his father to help me pay for his education.”

My mother had, no doubt, been about to raise some objection. However, when she heard the last part of what he said, her fervor abated. A look of sadness flickered in her eyes, and she didn’t say a word. As we left the room, her eyes welled up with tears.

Moved and saddened to see her this way, I came up to her and dried her tears, saying, “There’s nothing to cry about, Mama.”

With a tepid smile, she said unhappily, “There really isn’t. I’m just crying over the past, Kamil. I’m crying over the peace of mind I enjoyed for so long. Life was comfortable and pleasant, and there was nothing to disturb us. Now your grandfather is talking about the future, and whenever he does that, he fills me with fear and worry. Let’s ask God together not to let us be separated, to grant your grandfather a long life, and to protect us from having to depend on others.”

She sat thinking for some time. Then she looked at me strangely and said, “If you do meet with him, be polite to him. He is your father, after all. But in your heart of hearts, never forget that he’s the one who’s caused us all to suffer.”

A faint smile crossed my lips at this veiled warning — a warning of which I had no need. It wouldn’t have been possible for me to love someone whom his own father had hated. Then I thought about the anticipated first encounter between us as father and son. I tried to conjure an image of him, or to remember what he’d looked like long before in the picture I’d torn to pieces, but to no avail. I felt entirely unenthusiastic about the visit, and I wished my grandfather would change his mind about it.

However, he decided that we’d make the visit the very next morning.

Hurrying me to get ready, he said, “We’ve got to go see him early in the day, before drunkenness makes him oblivious to everything around him.”

We left together and walked to the tram stop. We took the tram to Ataba, and from there to Hilmiya. Then we went to Mubarak Street. As we approached our destination, he began instructing me to be polite and friendly while in my father’s presence.

He said to me, “You’re very shy and introverted, and I’m afraid he’ll mistake your shyness for dislike and respond to you in kind, especially in view of the fact that he’s never cared whether anyone loved him or not. So, look alive, and be friendly, gracious, and warm.”

We stopped in front of a large two-story house. All that could be seen of the first story was its uppermost part, given the height of the surrounding wall. We knocked on a massive door that opened with a loud creak. From behind the door there emerged an elderly Nubian gatekeeper who welcomed my grandfather in a tone of respect, then stepped aside to let us pass, saying, “Ru’ba Bey is in the men’s reception room.”

The name roared in my ears. In spite of myself, I could feel the tie that bound me to this house, and I was seized by a sudden urge to retreat. However, it was an urge impossible of fulfillment. I looked ahead of me and saw a large garden, and before long my nostrils were filled with the sweet fragrance of lemons. The garden was striking for the enormity of its date palms, lemon trees, and mulberry trees, and it was congested with boughs and branches that blanketed its floor with dry leaves. Both the garden and the atmosphere that surrounded it exuded an air of gloom and melancholy that made their way instantly into my soul. At the garden’s end lay the house, the foremost part of which was taken up by the men’s reception room, and atop the wall a wooden barrier had been erected to prevent those in the garden from seeing inside. The gatekeeper went inside ahead of us to request permission for us to enter. Shortly thereafter he returned, inviting us respectfully to follow him. He proceeded before us down a mosaic walkway, and I walked behind my grandfather, gripped by an angst that only grew worse as we made our way farther into the garden. As I began ascending the steps, my throat went dry with anxiety. My father stood waiting for us, and I cast him a quick glance from behind my grandfather.