Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

Beside himself with rage, my grandfather roared, “I wore myself out trying to reform you in the past, and I’m a fool to try again now! I raised him till he became a man without it costing you a cent!”

My father clapped his hands in derision. Then, his voice rising, he said, “Ah, how crafty men can be! Some time ago you came asking me to leave the boy in your care. And now you’re telling me I should be grateful to you for raising him to manhood! Well done, well done! But don’t you remember our previous agreement?”

Seething with ire, my grandfather said, “What agreement, you …?” his tone of voice betraying his agitation. “We’re not talking about a business deal. We’re talking about your son! Where’s your sense of fatherhood and compassion?”

“Fatherhood? Compassion?” my father asked. “What noble qualities to have! However, money corrupts them. Let’s leave idle talk aside, Abdulla Bey, since it doesn’t befit a military man like yourself who fought the wars in Sudan. You know me quite well. So, where on earth did you get the idea of coming to me with this sort of pointless request? Think it over carefully. Either you take care of him yourself as we agreed that you would, or you leave him to me.”

When I looked at my grandfather, his face was flushed with rage. I expected him to blow up at my father. However, with a tremendous effort he managed to keep himself under control. Then he said calmly, “If it weren’t for my duty toward your son, I would never have asked such a thing of you. I’m not seeking anything for myself. Rather, I want to assure the boy’s future, especially in view of the fact that I’m an old man and might die tomorrow.”

“If you die tomorrow, I’ll take care of him,” said my father impatiently.

My grandfather knit his brow indignantly. I was appalled at the cruelty of what my father had said, and I hated him at that moment more than I’d ever hated him in my entire life. Then, as if his patience had run out, my grandfather rose sullenly to his feet, and I rose at the same moment as though I were fastened to him.

Casting my father a haughty glance, he said, “I can’t say you’ve disappointed me, since I never thought well of you in the first place. However, there are mistakes we make against our will even though we know better. Good day.”

He took me by the hand and led me out of the room as my father said disdainfully, “And a good day to you, Abdulla Bey!”

Thus ended the first encounter between my father and me. I left it with a sense of loathing that was more than I could bear. No sooner had we walked out of the house and into the street than I breathed a sigh of relief, praying to God with all my heart that I’d never be obliged to darken his door again. As we walked toward Hilmiya Square, my grandfather quickened his pace, his head bowed and his face red. He was mumbling unintelligibly, and I began stealing glances over at him, grieved and remorseful. At the same time, I was afraid, since I felt responsible for what had led to their dispute. Then little by little his speech became more distinct, and I heard him say, as though he were talking to himself, “The barbarian! Why does God let people like that have children? Why didn’t He punish him by making him barren?!”

He also said, “What a lout! Isn’t there even an iota of fatherly compassion in his heart? He didn’t leave the boy to us in response to our request. He sold him in return for the money he would have had to spend on him!”

When we reached the tram stop, he fell silent. Then he glanced over at me harshly and ground his teeth.

“And you, you little …! Will you go on being a mule for the rest of your life? Hasn’t God given you the ability to utter a kind word? What would it have cost you to pretend to feel friendly toward him? Did you think he was going to fall all over you, you fool?”

I was terrified by his anger, just as I was terrified by anger in general, and my lips quivered like a little boy who’s about to cry. Seeing the state I was in, he began sputtering with rage.

“How quick you are to cry!” he shouted. “What’s there to cry about? Have I been unfair to you? Have I done you some violence? I made an idiotic mistake, and all I said was that I’d made a mistake. Is that so unforgivable?”

I didn’t utter a word the entire way home. I went on feeling grieved and disconsolate until I remembered that I was going home to my mother and that soon I’d be telling her about everything that had happened. And that made me feel better.

One day during the week that followed our meeting with my father, we received a visit from my brother Medhat. When I took a good look at his face this time, I could see that he was the spitting image of our father, and I wondered with some alarm what his lifestyle and morals would be like. Would he resemble his father in those areas the way he did in his physical constitution? I gave him a strange look that day that no one took any notice of. At the same time, I loved him dearly, just as he loved us. When my mother chided him for not visiting us more often, he said to her, “You, of all people, know what madmen’s morals are like!”

His quip sent me into gales of laughter, and I looked over at my brother with gratitude.

Then he turned toward me and said regretfully, “I heard about what happened during your last meeting with our father.”

“Did he tell you about it?” asked my mother with interest.

“No,” he said with a laugh. “Uncle Adam the gatekeeper did.”

“The gatekeeper!” I cried censoriously, feeling quite indignant. “Was he eavesdropping?”

“No,” Medhat assured me. “He has no need to, since my father fills him in on every little thing that happens to him. Uncle Adam is father’s long-time confidant and hears everything that’s on his mind, though most of the time he’s the butt of his sharp tongue. I can’t tell you how badly I feel about the attitude he took toward Grandpa. I wish I could have seen him here today so that I could kiss his hand and apologize to him.”

We went on talking for a long time. Medhat was a skilled conversationalist who knew how to communicate with ease and warmth. His laugh was loud like his father’s, though without his father’s coldness or harshness. Hence, it wasn’t long before I’d come to love and admire him, and I wished I had some of his joviality and ease of expression. Eventually the conversation came around to the subject of his future. He’d completed the Intermediate Agricultural Certificate in the summer of that year, and he said, “I went to see my uncle in Fayoum in hopes that he might help me find a job through one of his acquaintances, but he didn’t take to the idea of my looking for work with the government. Instead, he proposed that I practice on his farm for a high wage with the idea that he would rent out some land to me in the near future. I saw his offer as a way to start making a good living through agriculture, so I accepted it.”

As for my mother, she wasn’t so sanguine about the idea.

“Wouldn’t it be more respectable to get a job with the government?” she objected.

My brother let forth a long laugh, then said, “My diploma doesn’t qualify me for a decent job. But my uncle can give me valuable work opportunities and the chance to make a fortune.”

“And live the rest of your life in Fayoum?”

“It’s a suburb of Cairo!” he replied consolingly.

“For so long I’ve hoped for the day when you could be on your own and we could live together!”

He kissed her hand gently and said with a smile, “You’ll see me so often, you’ll get sick of me!”

Then he bade us farewell and departed.

Heaving a deep sigh, my mother said forlornly, “He spent the first half of his life in that madman’s house, and he’ll spend the latter half off in Fayoum!”