Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

Then came my mother’s turn, albeit belatedly. I started rebelling against her, although my rebellion remained a smoldering ember that emitted no sparks. It grew out of the peculiar attitude she took toward anything that reminded her of the fact that, sooner or later, I would marry. I’d first picked up on it myself when, during one of her formal visits, my aunt spoke of her hope that I might marry her daughter, who’d become a young woman. I saw my mother receive the suggestion in such an observably bad temper that she wasn’t able even to maintain the atmosphere of goodwill and courtesy that ought to prevail between two sisters, and my aunt left in a huff.

I noticed it again when a matchmaker who used to visit us during the clothes shopping seasons suggested that she find me a suitable bride. I saw my mother explode at the woman with such rage that her tongue was tied in astonishment and bewilderment.

I observed these things in horror and speechless indignation, and could find no satisfactory explanation for it. I had no desire for my maternal cousin, nor for any of the brides that the matchmaker might have chosen for me. However, what I sensed was that my mother hated the thought of my marrying at all and, fearing for my hopes, I was enraged.

One day, seemingly apprehensive in the face of my anger, she said to me, “These woman aren’t interested in your happiness. They’re just looking for a way to make their daughters happy!”

What she said made no sense to me, and in her eyes I discerned the hope on her part that I’d express my indifference to the matter. However, I had enough courage to remain silent.

In an anxious-sounding tone she said, “Marriage is a way of life established by God, and it won’t do for someone to marry before he’s a full-grown man.”

And I wondered to myself resentfully: If I haven’t become a full-grown man by the age of twenty-six, when will I? I wished I could say what was on my mind, but my courage failed me, and I didn’t say a word.

She looked searchingly into my face, then went on uneasily, “I want you to have a bride who’s truly worthy of you, one whose beauty will dazzle people’s eyes, whose good morals are praised by all, who’s from an aristocratic family, and who’ll provide you with a sumptuous mansion to live in.”

Concealing my rage, I asked, “And where is such a bride to be found?”

“We’ll find her some day, God willing!” she said, biting her lip.

I said to myself: If this isn’t setting me up for failure, then I don’t know what is. Seething inside, I imagined her face surrounded by a halo of fury, and I thought to myself bitterly: When my mother gets angry, her beauty disappears, and the kindness seeps out of her face.

Marriage! Marriage! It was all I could think about anymore. I couldn’t imagine my life having meaning unless this dream could be fulfilled. I thought to myself: If we don’t marry, what are we living for? In fact, why were we even brought into existence? I ached for it so badly, it made my heart weep. Marriage is the paradise of those who’ve been afflicted by the fires of hell. Not for a moment did I stop imagining it in those wandering daydreams of mine that would absent me from my surroundings. I’d see myself next to my beloved, her comely face concealed by a silken veil embroidered with jasmine blossoms, and with candles glowing all about us. I’d see myself taking her to a dwelling at the other end of Cairo, though I didn’t know why I liked for it to be at the other end of Cairo. Then I’d see her waiting for me on the balcony and, released from the prison of the warehousing section, I’d come rushing toward her. I was blessed with a happiness that transported me so thoroughly, one would have thought I could defy gravity, and which was so wondrous, I couldn’t imagine it even in my dreams. However, I didn’t enjoy such fantasies undisturbed, for time and time again, the euphoria produced by my imaginary joy would be followed by a vague melancholy that I couldn’t explain. Never was my mother’s beloved face absent from my mind. Consequently, I’d be assailed by a shame so devastating that my forehead would be wet with perspiration, and a guilt so loathsome that my mouth would be contorted with revulsion.

There was also the fact that I hadn’t rid myself entirely of a certain predilection for the single life. The love of solitude is a kind of malady. It’s like a drug from which you’d like to flee, yet you can’t give it up. You loathe it in yourself, yet at the same time you long for it. Would I really have the nerve to renounce my long past? At times my soul would pine for the happy married life. Then at other times I’d be possessed by the fear of losing the delight of placid solitude and the tranquility born of being exempt from responsibility. Flight from responsibility was a long-standing sickness of mine. It was such a part of me that I’d even chafe at having to shave or do my necktie. How, then, would I manage the responsibilities of a household, children, and all they’d bring with them by way of social life and its attendant obligations and traditions? The mere thought of such duties made my limbs grow cold. At the same time, though, there wasn’t so much as a moment when I didn’t long to be married.

I began to feel that I’d fallen prey to two deadly concerns: my indecision and my mother. And for all I knew, my mother was the only concern. Everything in me desired a peaceful haven in which to take refuge. So I made up my mind to face the danger head on, come what may.

One evening as I was sitting with my mother, I said to her suddenly, “I’ve noticed, Mama, that you’d rather I didn’t get married. Is this so?”

Her beautiful green eyes opened wide in astonishment and I could see a flicker of uncertainty pass through them.

Then, her voice altered, she said, “I always want your happiness, and that’s my main concern. If I haven’t agreed in the past to the proposals made to me in this connection, it was because they fell short of what I want for you. You surely realize this. But.…”

She hesitated for a moment, then continued, “But … why are you asking me this question?”

I looked away from her as though I were afraid she might read my mind.

Then I said casually, “It was just a question. I always like to know what’s going on in your mind.”

Her voice trembling, she replied, “There’s nothing in my mind but the desire for you to have far more happiness than you could even wish for yourself. However, marriage isn’t fun and games. Take your mother’s tragedy, for example, which is the most powerful evidence in favor of what I’m saying. Remember that choosing a wife is no easy task. Besides, it’s the task of the mother first and foremost, since this is the area in which she has the most experience. She knows her son better than he knows himself, and she places his happiness before her own. Besides, age is an important matter, too, and you’re still practically a child. So why do you ask me this question?”

(Here her voice began to tremble even more.)

“Think about your mother’s tragedy, which should never be absent from your mind. What pain and torment I’ve been through, and what insults I’ve had to bear! Think of all the tears I’ve shed over my children, who’ve lived as virtual strangers to me even though we were in the same city! And even you — the possibility that I might have to part with you used to haunt me every minute, and it caused me many a sleepless night. If they’d taken you away from me, I would have died of a broken heart. How many times I’ve wished I could die and find rest from this worrisome life of mine.…”

It seemed to me that she was referring to her present life with this last comment.