Naguib Mahfouz: The Mirage

The young man came forward and asked for her hand. He had neither a job nor an education. In fact, he had no money, at least not at that point. However, he was one of two sons of a man who was both well known and well-to-do. When my grandfather learned that the young man’s father had agreed to the proposed marriage and was prepared to support his son and his family, he was thrilled with the engagement and delighted with this old, respectable family’s wealth and prestige. He was told that the suitor was as ignorant as a plebeian. “What does he need with an education?” he replied. He was told that he had no job. “And what does he need with a job?” he asked. In fact, he was told frankly that he was a young man with untamable passions and that he was a riotous drunkard. And to this his reply was that he knew that he was just a young man, and not a monk. My grandfather wasn’t greedy or covetous. However, in addition to his being somewhat dazzled by the name of the family that wanted to become related to him by marriage and his confidence in their fine reputation, he wanted happiness for his daughter, and he believed that money would be sufficient to achieve it. Besides, my grandfather himself hadn’t finished primary school, and had a penchant for drinking and gambling.

Thus it was that his daughter became the wife of Ru’ba Laz, or Ru’ba Bey Laz, as he was generally known. My grandfather supposed that by marrying off the younger of his two daughters, he’d relieved himself of his duties toward her. However, barely two weeks after their wedding night, my mother returned to my grandfather’s house, tearful and broken-hearted. Hardly able to believe his eyes, my grandfather was exceedingly upset. Then he learned that less than a week after his wedding, the young man had resumed his former way of life in pubs, that he wouldn’t come home before sunrise, and that he’d beat her violently on the day she left his mansion.

My grandfather was appalled. Despite his strict military upbringing, he was tenderhearted and was ever so solicitous toward his two daughters. Consequently, he was enraged over what had happened and took off straightaway for the Laz mansion, where he loosed the full force of his force on both the young man and his father. My mother stayed in my grandfather’s house until she gave birth to my older sister. After this, a group friendly with both sides went to work to patch things up and bring the couple back together. Their efforts were crowned with success, and my mother and her baby girl returned to the Laz mansion once again. Her stay there lasted for two months, after which her patience ran out and she left once more, broken-winged, for my grandfather’s house. The fact is that she hadn’t known more than a few days of comfort. She had persevered, however, resigning herself patiently to the situation in the hope that the passing of the days would reform what was corrupt. But he only grew worse, and no longer could she see anything in him but a rowdy drunkard who held nothing sacred. So, despairing, she sought refuge in her father’s house. The man tried to get her back, admitting his addiction to drink and trying to convince my grandfather that married life would be possible even with his addiction. However, my grandfather took a hard stance with him and insisted that he divorce her. Some months passed and my mother gave birth to my older brother. She went on living under her father’s wing, enjoying his affection and tender, loving care.

During those days she heard bizarre reports concerning Ru’ba Laz according to which, in a moment of impetuosity and greed, the reckless young man had tried to poison his father in the hope of hastening his portion of the inheritance. However, the father had discovered the crime through the cook and banished his son from the mansion. He then decided to set half his bequest aside as a religious endowment and bequeath the other half to his elder son. It appears that he may not have been willing to bequeath all of it to the elder brother for fear of endangering him by stirring up his younger, wicked son’s rancor against him. Be that as it may, it thus happened that after having dreamed for so long of a vast fortune, Ru’ba Laz woke up to find himself in relative poverty. All he possessed now of this world’s vanities was a quarter of a family endowment that he had inherited from his mother (who wasn’t his brother’s mother), which came to around forty pounds a month, and a two-story house in Hilmiya into which he had moved after being evicted from his father’s home. The news brought anxiety and distress to my grandfather’s household, troubling the hearts of those who feared for the future of the man’s two young children. As a result of the disinheritance, the support they received was reduced to a mere pittance, and their future looked bleak. My grandparents and my mother consulted together concerning the matter, and it was decided that my grandfather would meet with Laz senior and attempt to win his sympathy on behalf of his two innocent grandchildren in the hope that he might change his will for their benefit. My grandfather went to Laz’s mansion and spoke with the man. But he was met with a hard heart and deaf ears. In fact, the man cursed both his son and his son’s progeny in my grandfather’s presence, whereupon he returned home, saddened and enraged.

One of the ironies of fate was that Laz’s father died the very year in which his son had tried to do away with him. Seven years then passed. My sister Radiya was eight years old and my brother Medhat was seven or thereabouts. Those days witnessed an event that changed the tranquil course of our family’s life. As fate would have it, the change took place as a result of a trivial incident of the sort that happens when one is walking down the street. As my grandfather was leaving a gambling establishment on Imad al-Din Street a little before dawn one day, he saw a bunch of hooligans gathered around a gentleman and beating him as he stumbled about in their midst, fuming and reeling. My grandfather shouted at them to leave the man alone, then approached them in a rage. He was joined shortly thereafter by a policeman. The mob scattered, and who should my grandfather see but Ru’ba Laz with a bloodied nose and in an obviously drunken state. Despite being startled and disconcerted, my grandfather came up to the man without hesitation and supported him with his arm, seeing that he was on the verge of falling. By this time all that had transpired between them in the past had been forgotten, or nearly so. At the same time, and in spite of the man’s unpredictability and riotousness, he’d been consistent in sending financial support to his two children. Consequently, there was no enmity between the two men. My grandfather summoned him over to his Victoria and he obeyed. Then my grandfather instructed the driver to go to Hilmiya. A peculiar silence fell over the two men along the way, and neither uttered a word. When the carriage reached the house, my grandfather cleared a space for Ru’ba Laz to get out, but he grabbed hold of my grandfather’s arm and invited him inside. My grandfather declined apologetically given the lateness of the hour. Still inebriated, the man wouldn’t take no for an answer and insisted that my grandfather come in with him. Against his will, he surrendered to the younger man’s wishes, and as dawn’s blue threads began mingling with the darkness, the two of them made their way together to the reception room.

Ru’ba Laz threw himself down on a chair, then drew my grandfather toward him and sat him down on a seat near him. Before long his silence had left him and he was overcome with agitation and emotion. With a heavy tongue loosed by a combination of alcohol and anguish, he said, “Did you see how those rascals punched and slapped me? Do you see what an insult this is to my dignity? After all, I’m Ru’ba the son of Laz, denizen of this old, venerable residence! That’s the world for you, Uncle. But why should I call you my uncle? I’m over forty years old now, and you’re barely over fifty, so it would be more fitting for me to call you my brother. But I call you my uncle out of admiration and respect, since you’re like a father to me. May God forgive me — you’re greater and more venerable even than that! Pardon me for the things I’m saying. After all, words are trivial things. As for being kicked by a gang of thugs, it’s a serious matter, wouldn’t you agree? My father died angry with me, and they say that no one who’s been deprived of his parents’ approval will ever achieve happiness. Is that really true, Uncle? Even if one of those two parents was my father? Lord, I’m fed up with this world. It’s nothing but fever, delirium, and madness without end. Oh, what I’d give for calm and peace of mind. Isn’t this what they call regret? Give me your hand, Uncle, and let’s swear by this new morning to make a new start, without wrongdoing or debauchery. Send me my wife and children and let my family live with me. Please!”