Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

At that time my father was sixty years old. He was medium height and overweight, though in his white, loose-fitting robe he looked far more portly than he was in reality. He had a fair complexion, with a ruddy face and neck, his jugular veins protruded and his face was congested with blood. As for his facial features, they were large and pronounced, but well-proportioned. Bald, he had black, protruding eyes landscaped by a network of fine red lines that looked like tiny hairs. In his eyes there was a distracted, languid look that served to dispel whatever awe his huge frame might otherwise have inspired. I was possessed by a feeling of alienation, disapproval, and aversion, and I felt angry and resentful toward my grandfather for making me visit him. My indignation intensified when I saw that the only sign of welcome the man had shown was this lethargic stance at the door. The two men shook hands and I heard a deep voice that reminded me of my brother Medhat saying, “Welcome. How are you, Abdulla Bey?”

“Fine,” replied my grandfather. “How are you?”

My grandfather stood aside slightly to make me visible and gestured toward me with a smile, saying, “Your son, Kamil.”

I came forward, visibly tense, with my eyes fixed on him. As he scrutinized me with intense interest, a faint light glinted in his eyes, and I extended my hand. At that point — as if to forestall some faux pas that he considered me likely to commit — my grandfather said, “Now put away that shyness of yours and kiss your father’s hand.”

Getting the message, I grasped the hand extended in my direction and kissed the back of it. I looked up at him and found him to be smiling.

Then I heard him say, “Welcome to the son who hasn’t known his father! And what a fine boy you are.”

Then, addressing my grandfather, he continued, “He’s become a man. In fact, he’s taller than his father!”

Laughing his grand laugh, my grandfather said, “Yes, indeed, he is a man. But it’s no fault of his if he hasn’t known his father.”

My father examined me from head to toe, then invited us to sit down. We sat down on two chairs that had been placed near one another, while my father sat on a couch in the front of the room. Before him there was a black wooden coffee table inlaid with shells on which a long-necked red bottle, a glass, and a Chinese decanter filled with ice had been placed.

The bottle was nearly full, and the glass was nearly empty. I’d never seen liquor before, but I realized immediately that I was looking at the vile drink that had put my family through so much, and I was filled with loathing and disgust.

“As I was saying,” my grandfather continued, “what fault is it of his, poor boy? He’s never known his father, and there’s nothing he could have done about it. Nor is there any need to bring up memories of things done and gone. However, I saw that he’d grown up, as you say. He finished grade school this year, and before long he’ll be enrolling in secondary school, so I hated for him to go on being ignorant of his father. I suggested that I introduce him to you, and he welcomed the idea. And now, here we are, praise be to God.”

My father didn’t take his eyes off me, as a result of which I couldn’t shake off my discomfort and timidity. When my grandfather had finished speaking, a look of skepticism flashed across his distracted eyes.

“Were you really happy about the idea of being introduced to me?” my father asked me.

“Yes,” I replied in a voice that was barely audible.

“So,” he went on with a crafty look, “would you like to come live with me?”

My heart shrank, and my eyes betrayed a look of indecision. What was I supposed to say? My grandfather’s instructions were still ringing in my ears. Yet, supposing I replied in the affirmative and he invited me to stay with him, what would my fate be then? No, I couldn’t possibly do that. I looked down, my mouth pressed shut, and didn’t utter a word. My father laughed out loud in a voice that caused my grandfather to tremble.

“Go easy on him, Ru’ba Bey,” he said, looking at me indignantly. “He’s never been separated from his mother, and there’s nothing more difficult for someone than to change a habit. However, I assure you that he was very happy to know that he’d be meeting you. Don’t hold it against him that he’s quiet and flustered, since he’s as shy as a virgin.”

My father shook his round bald head, his lips still parted following his laugh.

Then, as though he wanted to challenge me, he asked me, “What do you say you come stay with me for part of your vacation? A month, say, or two weeks?”

“Something like that,” interjected my grandfather, “could easily be arranged!”

Picking up on the hint that my grandfather’s words seemed to convey, I found myself like a mouse in a trap, and I was overcome by such anguish, I thought my chest would split open. I cursed the loathsome resolve that had led my grandfather to herd me into this wretched abode, and despair and obstinacy kept my tongue tied until my father said cynically, “That’s what you say, Abdulla Bey. But I wonder what Kamil Bey has to say about it?”

His cynicism pained me. By now I was so miserable I neither spoke nor looked up. I longed for my mother the way a drowning man longs for dry land, as I always did when I found myself in distress.

Guffawing sarcastically, my father said, “He may be happy to see me, but only from a distance!”

Then, changing his sarcastic tone, he said forcefully, “Don’t you know that if I wanted to keep you here, nothing could stand in my way?”

He paused for a moment to allow his pronouncement to have its desired effect.

Then he continued with a laugh, saying, “Don’t worry. I have absolutely no need to do that.”

A dreadful silence ensued. My grandfather may have realized that through what he had just said, my father had brought a certain hostility out into the open, and I sensed instinctively that each of us harbored an aversion to the other that there was no way to hide. I was dismayed at the bitter disappointment my grandfather had been met with, and I expected him to give me a thorough tongue-lashing.

However, he said softly, “Your son’s had bad luck, Ru’ba Bey. He’s been deprived of the ability to express what’s going on in his mind. He’s a timid boy who knows nothing about the world, so show him compassion and don’t blame him.”

“What’s this you’re saying, Abdulla Bey!” retorted my father crustily. “Timid? A virgin who doesn’t know a thing? What have you done to him? He had a sister who was a virgin, but she ran away with a man! So what stuff is he made of?”

I felt as though someone had opened a gaping wound in my heart. The blood rushed to my grandfather’s face and his brow furrowed in anger.

Proudly he said, “His sister chose to go to her husband after despairing of receiving justice from her father!”

His words consoled me. However, my father let out a long laugh, his face more bloodshot than ever. He looked boorish, cruel, and revolting.

Then he said sarcastically, “You say, ‘after she despaired of receiving justice from her father’! Allow me first to fill a glass (whereupon he filled the glass and took a swig from it). Would you like to join me? No? As you wish. After all, we all have our vices. And now, back to what you were saying: What did you say, Abdulla Bey? ‘After she despaired of receiving justice from her father’? And what about you? Haven’t you despaired of receiving justice from her father?”

With a look of reproach and scorn, my grandfather asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean to say that although the girl may have given up on her father, her grandfather hasn’t, as evidenced by the fact that you’ve brought this boy to me today, not to introduce him to me as you’ve claimed — since you could have done that at any time in the past — but, rather, to inform me that he’s about to enroll in secondary school, which involves certain expenses. Hah!”