Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

Delighted with my nosiness, the man pointed at me and said in a loud voice, “He finally spoke!”

“Who?” one of them asked as they all peered in my direction.

“Gandhi.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Why do you drink?’ ” replied the man with a laugh.

The other said, “He keeps his mouth shut for an eternity, then when he opens it, he blasphemes!”

They all guffawed as I melted into my seat without a word. Most of them then started talking to me about alcohol and the euphoria, pleasure, and oblivion it brings, and I regretted having asked a question that had made me the butt of their jokes and sarcasm. I thought about the matter for a long time. Then, to my amazement, I woke from my reverie to find myself dying to try it myself! In the days that followed, I continued to be amazed at the uncharacteristic yearning that had come over me after twenty-six years of life on this planet, years that I’d spent in a near-ascetic existence (with the exception, of course, of the secret pleasure in which I indulged, and which subjected me to the bitterness of guilt and remorse). Had this desire really sprung up overnight? On the surface, it appeared that it was the conversation which had taken place among the employees that day that had brought it on. On the other hand, I thought, would it make sense for a scrupulous person like me to fall into temptation in response to such a passing, trivial event? Ridden by a mad impulse, I hoped the day would be over quickly so that I could knock at last on pleasure’s closed door and break the chains to which I’d submitted all my life. As though it were a stranger speaking, I said to myself: Tonight I’m going to try women and wine! My resolution brought me a sense of relief, since it was certainly better than anxiety and indecision, and since I held out the hope that in this way I might find release from the terrible pressure that weighed me down. Not once all day was I plagued by hesitation — that odious companion. But when late afternoon rolled around and the tram took me to Ataba, I stood in the square feeling lost, not knowing where the pubs were. Then I saw a carriage, so I hailed its driver and got in.

In a low, diffident voice I said to him, “A pub … any pub, please.”

The man shot me a strange stare. Then, as he stung the horses’ backs with his whip, he said, “I’ll take to you Alfi Bey Street, and there you can choose whichever one you like.”

As the carriage set out, it reminded me of our old Victoria and its bygone glory days. In my wallet I had twenty pounds and some loose change; although my salary was modest in and of itself, I could keep the entire thing for myself, and it was enough for my needs and more. When I sensed that the carriage was nearing the longed-for destination, my heart began pounding wildly, and I was so agitated that I paid no attention to the streets down which the carriage was taking me. It came to a halt at the head of a long street in the center of which cars and carriages were parked in a long line.

Waving his whip, the driver said, “The bars are on both sides of this street.”

After paying the driver, I got out and found myself in front of a small tavern that was no larger than a good-sized room, and whose waiters were standing at the door since it hadn’t received any customers yet. I had my first twinge of hesitation and thought of going back home. I stood there ambivalently, and there came over me the feeling I’d had on the day I’d run out to the railing of al-Malik al-Salih Bridge to throw myself into the Nile. But I went in anyway. Once inside, I saw a door leading out into a small garden that took up the space outside, and in the center of which there was a fountain. It was shaded by a grape arbor, and there were tables along either side. It seemed like a safe place for someone coming there in stealth, so I went out into the garden area and sat at a table a good distance away from the entrance. My nerves were tense, but I’d stopped thinking of running away. A Nubian waiter clad in black trousers and a white jacket came up to me, smiled politely, and stood waiting for my order.

With the blood rising to my face, I said in a whisper, “Liquor!”

Not appearing to have understood, he asked in a brassy-sounding voice, “Whiskey? Cognac? Beer? Wine?”

Afflicted with the perplexity of the ignorant, I said disconcertedly, “I want liquor.”

The man smiled in a way that pained me and asked, “What kind of liquor do you want? Whiskey? Cognac? Beer? Wine?”

More disconcerted than ever, I asked him, “Which kind is best?”

“That depends on what you’re looking for. But the weather is hot, so beer is preferable.”

Released at last from my indecision, I ordered beer. The waiter disappeared for a few minutes, then brought me a glass of something frothy and set it down in front of me.

Before he’d gone, I asked him, “How many of these does it take to make you drunk?”

After giving me the same sort of look I’d gotten earlier from the carriage driver, he said, “It differs from one person to the next. However, if you’re a beginner, it’s best that you not go over three.”

I took hold of the glass, which was pleasingly cool. I put my nose up to it and sniffed it, and found that it had a pungent smell I didn’t like. However, it was too late to hesitate now. I drew my face near, dipped my tongue into it, then took a wary lick of the foam. My nerves tenser than ever by now, I lifted the glass to my lips, then downed its contents in a single gulp, contorting my face in disgust as though I were taking a dose of castor oil. Its coldness refreshed me, and I could feel it churning in my gut and giving forth a strange sort of warmth. As I sat waiting for the magical effect I’d heard so much about, a group of foreigners walked in, laughing and prattling away in some unintelligible language, and sat around a large table. I was distressed, but they didn’t look my way at all, so I calmed down and went back to feeling the pleasant warmth that was spreading through my insides. The blood that was rising to my head brought a burst of this warmth to my brain, which stretched like someone receiving the sun’s first morning rays as it shook off its anxiety and caution. A delicious sense of relief came over me and my features relaxed. Before long I ordered another glass with a boldness I’d never seen in myself before, and no sooner had the Nubian placed it in front of me than I lifted it to my mouth and gulped it down in two swigs. I waited again, now in a state of perfect repose and with my attention focused inside me, and a wondrous thrill surged through my body and caused me to close my eyes in surrender. It was a thrill that circulated with my blood and danced in my brain, triggering a happiness that was madness itself, and I imagined myself an ethereal creature freed from the trials of its mind, its heart, and its life. With a sense of confidence and importance I’d never experienced before, I lifted my head high in a regal gesture, astounded at this magical bliss that I’d never imagined even to exist. I raised my hand merrily and sprawled out my legs, indifferent to where they happened to land. Then all of a sudden, the image of my beloved materialized before my eyes with her willowy frame and her unswerving, demure gaze, and my heart was flooded with tender affection and longing.

Now I was shaken by an intoxication that went beyond that produced by the alcohol. How enchanting you are, darling! Now I know the secret of wine’s intoxication: it’s love! Love and wine’s intoxication are from a single nectar that flows from deep within the spirit. After all, is a love that flourishes anything more than a prolonged intoxication? So even if I miss out on being loved by you, I won’t miss out on the love that wine has to give. Why am I always afraid? Fears are nothing but illusions. If they weren’t, how could they have disappeared from my horizon in the twinkling of an eye? Wisdom has been revealed to me, and never will I hesitate again. When I see my beloved I’ll gesture or wave to her. She’ll blush and be speechless with surprise. Then it will be her turn to be shy: a heartbeat for a heartbeat, “and whoever starts is most to blame.” She’ll wonder in amazement: Has he finally made a move? Indeed, my love, he has, and nothing can stop him now!