Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

My eyes didn’t meet hers once that morning, and I went to the ministry grieved. I recalled what she’d said word by word and pondered it thoroughly. I was dismayed that I’d allowed her to discover what I’d done, and I realized what a terrible shock it had been to my poor mother. I remembered the disillusionment I’d suffered in the courtyard of that strange house, and my lips curled in revulsion. At the same time, though, I hadn’t forgotten the rapturous bliss that had come with drinking. I hadn’t forgotten it despite the hangover, the fatigue, and the scandal it had left in its wake. Even after performing the ritual dawn prayer in all sincerity and faith, I couldn’t find it in me to hate it. It wasn’t that my conscience was at peace (when had it ever been at peace?), but dreams of that enchanting intoxication swept over me, overruling my conscience, my sufferings, and my mother. The meaning of happiness and contentment had been doomed to remain beyond my reach until that intoxication flowed in my blood, opening its heavenly portals before me. This was what I’d been looking for. God! How could I possibly give it up and ask forgiveness for it? What would remain to me after this but unspoken longing, mortal affliction, and anxiety that would tear me limb from limb? Of course, even if I succumbed to its allure, it couldn’t possibly yield undisturbed repose. On the contrary, it would add one more struggle to my conscience that I could well do without. I was already in a constant tug-of-war: between taking the world by the horns and shying away from it, between my sweetheart and my mother, and between addiction to my infernal habit and the desire to give it up. Now I faced a new struggle between my desire for alcohol and the need to repent of it, and it burdened me to the point where I turned into a pendulum in constant motion being pulled one way by demons, and the other way by angels. Angst took such a toll on me that I groaned in distress, wondering: Why didn’t God create life as pure ecstasy that lasts from one generation to the next? Why can’t we attain happiness without suffering and anguish? Why does love suffocate in our hearts from despair, and why does our beloved come and go, unaware of our existence even though she’s just a kiss away?

Come what may, I concluded, alcohol is the key to deliverance. It was the embodiment of consolation, the password that opened the door that would lead to my beloved. I didn’t want the world so long as it refused to change itself. My loathing for reality was no less than my loathing for that hideous dancer. In fact, the world itself had been revealed to me in a form similar to that dancer in her writhing and twisting, her phony exterior, and her hidden wretchedness. Why, then, should I resist the allure of this magical intoxication?

* * *

That afternoon my mother invited me to visit Umm Hashim’s shrine with her, so we went out together. It was the first time I’d been out with her in years. We got into a carriage and sat side by side in a way that brought back memories for both of us of the old Victoria, and her gentleness eased the anxiety that had seized me. My mother was wearing a light summer coat that complimented the loveliness of her slender frame. Her comely face looked placid and acquiescent, and in her limpid green eyes she had a dreamy look tinged with melancholy. Her head was swathed in a black veil that framed her face with a solemnity that revealed traces of the fifty-four years she’d spent thus far of the lifetime apportioned to her. Tender affection for her welled up in my heart and I wished I could kiss her. I thought with profound sorrow about her gradual advance toward old age. Then I remembered the treacherous thoughts that had gone through my head when she’d been bedridden, and I bit my lip furiously. What despicable thoughts they’d been! They’d sprung from the depths of the ache that I sought to escape by any means. However, my emotional agony was mitigated by what I imagined she would inherit from my grandfather, who was nearly ninety years old.

At that moment it would have seemed an enormity to disobey her. At the same time, I sensed in my heart of hearts that I was about to offer a sham repentance to which I had no choice but submit, and it grieved me. How would I come before Umm Hashim with this perfidious heart of mine when nothing could be hidden from her? How could I have been transformed overnight from a good-hearted, devout soul into a rascal enamored of waywardness? We arrived at last at the mosque and entered reciting the Fatiha, and as we made our way toward the tomb, my heart was a mix of love, faith, and fear. Memories of days gone by wafted over my heart — memories of when I would come into the sacred mosque with a happy heart that had yet to suffer a sense of guilt and a tormented conscience. My mother went before me into the sacred place whispering fervently, “Umm Hashim, I’ve brought Kamil to you to repent of his error, so bless him and guide his steps!” Then she nudged me in the direction of the tomb. I placed my open hand on it and felt a coolness flow into my heart. I stood there silently for quite some time in the presence of a majesty that causes hearts to grow humble and reverent. I imagined the holy tomb to be gazing at me with glistening eyes that hadn’t been changed by death, and I called upon Umm Hashim from my heart to inspire me with right understanding, to deliver me from my confusion and misery, and to accept my repentance. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I asked her to watch over my wretched love with her merciful eye.

As we took our leave of the sacred resting place, my mother dried her eyes.

“Have you repented to God?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I replied without looking at her.

“I hope it was a sincere repentance,” she murmured.

I wasn’t able to resist the new urge. Nothing could stand in the face of it, and not my conscience, my repentance, or my inborn fear of God did me a bit of good. I felt hopeless about my life: my job was truly abominable, my love life was one long sigh of discontent, and the days passed heavily without consolation or hope. My eyes would behold and my heart would beat, but my will was incapacitated by weakness and fear. Alcohol-induced euphoria was my only consolation, and I gave myself over to it heart and soul. This miserable consolation was short-lived, however, and fate wasn’t favorably disposed to my enjoyment of it.

One Friday in the early autumn of that year, my mother and I sat talking as usual. The doorbell rang and the servant opened the door, then came and summoned me to meet a certain “bey.” I went to the door right away and found a distinguished-looking man who must have been sixty or seventy years old. After a courteous greeting, I looked at him questioningly.

“Are you Kamil Effendi?” he asked.

“I’m Kamil Ru’ba,” I replied as I looked searchingly into his face. “This is the house of Colonel Abdulla Bey Hasan.”

Taking me by the hand, he led me outside, then leaned toward me and said, “May God grant you length of days. Your grandfather has died, son.”

I stared into his face in shock, too tongue-tied to respond.

Patting me on the shoulder, he said sorrowfully, “Be brave for your mother’s sake, son, and be the man we know you can be. Your grandfather was sitting with us at the Luna Park Café the way he did every morning. He got short of breath and asked for a glass of water. A few minutes later his head fell onto the table and we thought he’d fainted, but then it became clear that he’d gone to be with his Maker.”

“Where is he now, sir?” I cried hoarsely.

“We’ve brought him with us in a car,” he said softly.

No sooner had the man spoken than I saw four men at the bottom of the staircase carrying my grandfather. As they slowly and cautiously ascended the stairs, I rushed toward them in a daze. With trembling limbs, I helped them carry him the rest of the way and we brought him into the flat. I saw my mother at the other end of the living room as she screamed in alarm. Rushing toward us, unfazed by the presence of strangers, she asked us apprehensively, “What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with him?”