Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

In a tone not altogether lacking in self-importance, I said to him, “Kamil Ru’ba Laz. Inform the bey, please.”

The gatekeeper rose with a smile and invited me into the garden, then left to announce me to the bey. It was the same garden, still redolent with the fragrance of lemon, still roofed with date palm crowns, and still able to infect one’s soul with a sense of melancholy and forlornness. I looked toward the veranda at the end of the garden and saw the gatekeeper beckoning to me, so I came forward, fighting off my tension. As I ascended the steps, I was met with the familiar scene: the man, the ornamented coffee table, the long-necked bottle, and the glass. He extended his hand with a half-smile on his face, and I greeted him. Then he invited me to have a seat, so I sat down on a chair to the right of the coffee table. Casting him a quick glance, I saw that his portly body had grown flaccid and that his full face had grown more bloodshot. His eyes had an absent, dazed look about them, while old age had etched furrows across his forehead and around his eyes and left his cheeks looking withered and limp.

I wasn’t pleased by his appearance. However, I made sure that nothing of what I was feeling showed on my face. I looked strangely at the half-full bottle. As I recalled how it had looked to me during the first visit, I said to myself: How quickly corruption finds its way into a person’s heart! He was wrapped in a silk robe to ward off the autumn dampness that would descend at that time of the afternoon, and I was certain that he was up to the gills in liquor. I felt worried, wondering what sort of madness had moved me to undertake such a futile visit. He began looking over at me with interest, or perhaps it was just curiosity. Amazed at this peculiar encounter between father and son after a lifetime of separation, I wondered in bewilderment and disbelief what’s said about the love between parents and children.

Quite naturally, I didn’t know how to begin the conversation. However, he saved me from my dilemma by starting to talk first.

In a thick voice he said, “So, how are you? Your grandfather has died. He was a nice man, and I have pleasant enough memories of him in spite of the things that happened. I didn’t attend his funeral, which many would consider unforgivable. But someone my age should be exempted from obligations. The same thing applies to both the elderly and children in that respect. Don’t forget, though, that nobody’s expected to attend my funeral — except, perhaps, Uncle Adam the gatekeeper. And it isn’t unlikely that he himself will be too busy searching my pockets and stealing whatever money he thinks he’ll find there. Will you attend my funeral?

His question took me by surprise after an anxiety that had gripped me in response to his drunken tone of voice, and I could see that the task before me was going to be arduous and fearsome.

Nevertheless, I said to him, “May God grant you a long life.”

He guffawed, and I saw that he’d lost his molars. I was offended by both his appearance and his laugh.

Then he went on, saying, “What a loyal son you are! It’s a lovely thing indeed for you to love your father and pray for him to have a long life! Kindness to one’s father is a virtue I didn’t have much of myself, unfortunately, and if I’d been a bit hypocritical or a bit more patient, I’d now be among the country’s well-known and well-to-do — like your paternal uncle, damn him. Have you noticed how he wasn’t content with the money he’d inherited (may God preserve it!)? No, he had to monopolize your brother Medhat, too — that bull — and marry him to his daughter! I used to think he’d be the divorcing kind like his father, but he seems like the type that bows and scrapes for women. And now he’s turned into a peasant farmer who lives the same sort of life his flocks do. He may be dreaming of a vast fortune after his uncle dies, but he’ll be disappointed. After all, his wife has six sisters, and every one of them would be considered a great catch for some stud enamored of money and women. That’s why I say it’s a miserable thing to have daughters. It’s a huge shame, no matter what they say about how marriage is half the religion. Unless, of course, the other half is divorce!”

Then, changing his tone, he continued, “Why don’t you propose to one of your paternal cousins? Don’t you know that every one of them is due to receive an inheritance of at least a hundred pounds a month? But enough of all this. Let me look at your face a bit, since I hardly recognize you. My, my, what a fine young man you are. All you lack is a mustache. Why haven’t you grown one? Besides, you’re handsome. But you’re thin and pale, as though you don’t get enough to eat. It’s a shame for a young man your age to be skinny. Even so, it makes a father happy beyond words to see his son a man, and especially if he’s only seeing him for the first or second time. Don’t you think I’m an extraordinary father? I’ve got three children, yet I’m abandoned and alone. But I’m not bitter about my luck, since it’s a happy thing to be alone. Not once have I ever spent time with anyone but that we’ve parted as enemies. They usually say I’m at fault, and I say they’re at fault. In any case, God will judge between us on the Day of Resurrection. Now, don’t be surprised if you hear me quoting from the Qur’an. That’s thanks to the radio. I’ve distanced myself from the world, but the world insists on invading my house through the radio. Welcome, welcome! You’re a loyal son, Kamil. But you should take care of your health and eat enough so that you can put on some weight. Didn’t your grandfather leave a fortune?”

I was apprehensive and discouraged, not knowing how to broach the subject I’d come to speak about in the wake of all this wild prattle. And my apprehension and misery intensified when, during his harangue, I saw him filling the glass again. However, taking advantage of the opportunity afforded by his last question, I said definitively, “My grandfather didn’t leave anything at all.”

He nodded his flushed bald head as if to say, “That’s what I’d expected.”

Then he said, “A high salary, few dependents, and a huge pension. And then he doesn’t leave anything. He was a gambler, God have mercy on him, and the gambler prefers to lose his cash at the table rather than save it up in the bank. Deep down he was nothing but a child who loved to play. And I don’t blame him, since I for my part am a drunkard. The difference between the gambler and the drunkard is that the former is a practical man who speculates, cheats, wins, and loses, whereas the latter is the theoretical type who dreams and dreams and dreams. If the gambler aspires to wealth, he gambles with his fortune by playing, then usually loses it. He consoles himself with the hope of recouping his loss, but all he does is lose more and more until, when he dies, he leaves nothing but a heavy debt. And the strange thing about it is that all gamblers lose, so I don’t know who wins! As for the drunkard, if he aspires to wealth, he finds it ready and waiting for him without it costing him more than thirty piasters, namely, the price of a bottle like this one. Do you say it’s just an illusion? So be it. Is there anything in this world that isn’t an illusion and a fantasy? Where’s your grandfather? He was a concrete reality, but where is he now? Roll up your sleeves and look for him, but you won’t find a trace of him. Look for him in the house, at the coffee shop, at the casino. Look for him in the grave itself, and I bet you my life that you’ll find neither hide nor hair of him. So how could he have been real? God have mercy on him! And what have you all done since he died? Are you still a student?”

Concealing my rage and distress behind a wan smile, I said, “I got a job at the Ministry of War.”