Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

However, she heard no reply. Or rather, in the silence she heard a reply.

Then she let out a loud shriek.

“Baba! Baba!” she wailed in lament.

We laid him down on the bed, after which the men came up to him one after another and kissed him on the forehead. They extended their condolences to my mother, then withdrew silently from the room. Some of them asked me if I needed anything, and I thanked them. Then the man whom I’d met at the door volunteered to tell me about the usual procedures in such situations. He told me he would inform the Ministry of War and that it would be preferable for the funeral to take place at ten o’clock the next morning. I rushed back to my grandfather’s bedroom, where I found my mother in bitter tears, and I broke into tears with her. However, she wouldn’t allow me to stay in the room. In order to distract me from my grief, she instructed me to inform my maternal aunt and my brother by telegram, and to deliver the news to my sister. I left the house to carry out these duties, then came back accompanied by my sister Radiya and her husband. Radiya’s husband was the best of helpers in taking care of the necessary procedures, or rather, he took care of them himself, while I contented myself with tagging along in a daze.

No sooner had darkness fallen than the house was filled with family members. My maternal aunt and her husband came, as did my brother Medhat, his wife, and my paternal uncle. The only person who didn’t come was my father. When Medhat informed him of my grandfather’s death, he said, “May the remainder of his days be added to yours. Please convey my condolences to your mother, your brother, and your sister, since I don’t attend funerals or weddings.”

Of all the family, my mother was the most grief-stricken by my grandfather’s loss. After all, she’d never been apart from him in her entire life, the only exception being the three months she’d spent grudgingly in my father’s house.

And that’s how my grandfather died. He’d enjoyed a long life and hadn’t been debilitated by old age or illness. He passed away in his cozy perch at the coffee shop surrounded by his loyal, loving friends, and with an ease only rarely enjoyed by those who depart from this life. Whenever he came to mind, I would bow my head in reverence for his memory, calling down God’s mercy and forgiveness upon his great soul. He was my grandfather, and he was my father. He was the wing of compassion that had sheltered me, and beneath that wing I’d enjoyed a life of abundant provision. I hadn’t forgotten that once, during certain dark hours of my life, I’d accused him of having raised me badly, or of having allowed my mother to ruin my life with her coddling. But when I reflected on the matter, I couldn’t help but excuse him, since I’d come into the world when he was over sixty years old. Besides, it’s a very difficult thing indeed to know one’s grandfather as he really is. In general, grandfathers appear surrounded by a halo of veneration and sanctity due to the fact that the family members who preserve their histories tend to be among those who hallow and revere them. However, even based on what I myself had observed of his life, I could praise him to the skies. His good health, his love for order and military precision — though without being harsh or overly strict — had always been things I admired intensely, and his tender solicitude toward us had softened the blow of many an affliction. Suffice it to say that I never tasted life’s bitterness until we’d escorted my grandfather to his final resting place. No matter how long I live, the image of him during his final days will never be erased from my mind: old age had crowned him with a head of snow-white hair, bestowing upon him an air of dignity and splendor and causing his green eyes to twinkle with humor and compassion. I wasn’t surprised at his friends’ grief over him, and I realized — although I may have missed it myself — that he was one of those people who love and are loved in return, who know others intimately and who are known intimately in return. It was a God-given aptitude of which I’d been deprived, and which I’ve longed for all my life.

His funeral was scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning, and when it came time for the inevitable leave-taking, the balcony was filled with weeping women and the cannons were fired in a salute to his tomb. His bier was borne atop a cannon in front of which a military band marched. As he disappeared into the grave, I cast his body a parting glance and sobbed like a little boy.

“All we have is God,” she said to me sorrowfully.

Experiencing a kind of fear I wasn’t familiar with, I said, “He’s the best Protector and Helper of all.”

The facts then began making themselves clear to me. I learned that my grandfather’s pension was cut off when he died. I figured up how much his bequest came to and found that he’d left four hundred pounds in the bank. Since my mother and my maternal aunt were his sole heirs, each of them had been allotted two hundred pounds, which was now all we had apart from my paltry income. Thus, I’d become the head of a household, a fact to which my paternal uncle drew my attention as he bade me farewell. Then, reiterating his condolences, he instructed me to take good care of my mother, saying, “Honor your mother to the best of your ability. You’re the head of the household now, and you’re your grandfather’s successor!”

I received his words with fear and gloom, and looked to the unknown future with unspoken apprehension and resentment. It pained me to find myself responsible for someone else — I who’d grown accustomed to having someone else be responsible for me. When those who’d come to offer their condolences had gone their way and the house was empty again, my mother and I sat alone discussing matters.

“Lord help us!” she said in a tone of distress.

Full of fear and melancholy myself, I looked up at her uncertainly and asked, “What do you think, Mama?”

“Life won’t be easy the way it has been for us,” she said dolefully. “But this is God’s decree, so we have to submit to His will and be patient and thankful. I hate to be a burden to you, but what can I do?”

“Don’t say that,” I rejoined fervently. “You’re all I have left in the world, and if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have anywhere to call home.”

Her lips parted in a mournful smile and she uttered a long prayer of supplication for me.

Then she said, “The little bit of money I’ve inherited will be at your disposal. You can make use of it when the need arises until your salary increases.”

As she gazed steadily into my face with her mournful eyes, I took refuge in a pensive silence.

Then she went on, saying, “This house isn’t suitable for us anymore. As you can see, it’s large, and the rent is equal to your salary. Maybe we can find a small flat in the neighborhood for just a hundred fifty piasters.”

Silence reigned again, and I began wondering what had blinded me to this eventuality, which I surely could have anticipated.

Then my mother said in a low voice, “We’ll have to let the servants go. In the future all we’ll need is one young servant.”

The distress I felt was so overwhelming, I didn’t know how my heart would bear it.

I knew nothing whatsoever about the struggle people go through to survive. Eyeing my mother with a look that was tantamount to a cry for help, I asked, “What do you estimate our living expenses to be, including rent, food, a servant, and so on?”

She sat thinking for some time. Then she said softly, “They’ll come to at least six pounds.”

Then, as if to mitigate the impact of what she’d said, she added, “I’ll set aside my money for clothing and whatever we need beyond daily expenses.”