Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

At ten o’clock the next morning, I was on my way to Hilmiya to see my father. How had I come to this, especially given the fact that not even a month had passed since my last, harrowing visit? It was desperation. I’d had a miserable, sleepless night in which I hadn’t so much as closed my eyes. I’d pondered my situation long and hard until my thoughts took on human flesh and shouted at me, “Go to your father no matter what, no matter what it costs!” Hesitation wasn’t an option in a situation like mine. I’d lost my senses, and pain had distracted me from my usual feelings of hesitation, shyness, and fear. Besides, my father — despite everything — was the only hope I had left.

I’d chosen to visit him in the morning since, if he wasn’t drunk yet, I might find him in a better state than the one I’d found him in on the previous, ill-fated visit. Besides, I didn’t have the patience to wait till late afternoon. I put in a call to the warehousing section explaining that I wouldn’t be coming in, then headed for my destination. A headache was pounding on my skull with its hammer after a night of sleeplessness and worry. I maintained my composure, however, drawing an unaccustomed strength from my desperation. I reached the house a little after ten in the morning. When I arrived, Uncle Adam rose respectfully. I greeted him, then went in without requesting permission, either because I refused to request permission to enter a house which I considered my own, or simply because, in my anxiety and distress, I’d forgotten to. I proceeded in the direction of the veranda, clearing my throat as I ascended the steps, but I found it empty. As I stood there feeling ill at ease, Uncle Adam caught up with me, opened a door that led inside and walked ahead of me, saying, “Kamil Bey is here.”

He stepped aside to let me pass and I crossed the threshold with a self-assured gait. I found myself in a large, rectangular room at the far end of which were two doors. Between the doors there hung a life-sized picture of my father in the prime of his youth. The floor was covered with a costly, ornate carpet, and along one side of the room there was a row of couches. The curtains on the windows and doors were all drawn. I saw my father sitting cross-legged on a couch in the center of the room’s left wing, and on an elegant table in front of him I saw his drinking paraphernalia which, given the fact that it had never been parted from him, seemed like an extension of his body. But he wasn’t alone. The barber, who was standing nearby and gathering his instruments into his satchel, bade him a courteous farewell and went his way. Once the barber had left, Uncle Adam withdrew and closed the door behind him. As I walked up to my father, my eyes gravitated toward the bottle, and I found that it hadn’t been touched. Feeling relieved and hopeful, I extended my hand to him, and he took hold of it with his thick, coarse hand.

A wan smile crossed his lips. “Welcome. Are you on vacation?”

I didn’t like the way he’d received me, but I overlooked it. The truth is that the sufferings of the previous night, the headache that was digging its nails into my head, and my deep despair had overruled my natural tendency to be shy, fearful, and spineless, and I said, “Yes, I’ve taken a day off especially to meet with you.”

He cast me a worried glance without any attempt to conceal what he was feeling, and I for my part felt angry and resentful.

“Is it something important?” he asked me tersely.

Oblivious to everything but my excruciating pain and my lingering hope, I said with an irritability that was betrayed by my tone of voice, “Very important. Or rather, it has to do with my life and my future.”

Repeating my words after me, yet without coming out of the lassitude and stupor that had become second nature to him, he said, “Your life and your future!”

Imploringly I said, “My marriage that I talked to you about. There’s a man who’s about to ask for the hand of the girl I want to marry. So if I don’t propose right away I’ll miss my chance, and my life will be lost.”

My heart shrank in dread. Will he shoot back some sarcastic reply the way he usually does? I wondered. He wasn’t delirious or quarrelsome, but he seemed lethargic, sickly, and dazed. In fact, he seemed dead. I had every reason to despair, but I refused to despair. My overworked mind was fixed on a single idea and I was blind to all else in the mad race in which I’d embroiled myself.

I waited apprehensively until he said, “Don’t worry. No one’s life will be lost by losing a woman.”

“I know better than anyone else about my life!” I shouted fervently.

“That’s your business, son,” he replied nonchalantly. “I don’t interfere in what doesn’t concern me.”

I retorted stubbornly, “As I’ve told you before, I’m in desperate need of money.”

“And what did I tell you?” he asked in a bored-sounding tone of voice.

Gripped with rage, I concluded that he was more despicable sober than he was drunk.

“I’ve got to get the money I need,” I said, defending myself with an anguished tenacity. “I ask you to recognize the terrible straits I’m in. If I miss this chance, I’ll have no more hope in life.”

He glanced over at the bottle, then furrowed his brow slightly and said, “You’re asking for money, but I don’t have any!”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s an indubitable fact!”

I concluded from his tone of voice, his indifference, and his impatience that it would be easier for me to reach the heavens above than to arouse his concern and compassion. With my despondency, my headache, and my indignation all conspiring against me, I said in a loud voice that filled the huge room, “Never in your life have you spent a red cent on me. So what harm would it do you to give up a few hundred pounds for me now?”

Glowering, the man snorted and his face got redder than usual.

Then he said in a gruff voice, “You seem not to understand what you’re told. Nor do you mean what you say. I’ve told you that I don’t have any money. I don’t have any money. I don’t have any money!”

Losing all self-control, I balled up my fist, struck my thigh and screamed, “Is there no mercy in your heart?”

He looked at me as if to say: I’m worn out from trying to convince you.

Then he replied with terse indifference, “No.”

I gave him a hard look that must have betrayed the feelings of hatred and bitterness that had welled up in my heart, since I saw him grimace and his face clouded over in anger.

Then, in a voice that sounded like the lowing of a cow he bellowed, “Won’t people leave me alone so that I can live what’s left of my life in peace?”

I bellowed back madly, “And when have we disturbed your life? You’re the one who’s disturbed our lives! I need some of the money you spend on booze without a thought for how much it costs, and I will get what I need.”

Grasping the empty glass with twitching fingers, he screeched, “You’ve gone mad! Are you cursing me to my face? Are you threatening me? Get out of my sight, and don’t come back to this house as long as you live!”

More furious and agitated than ever now, I screamed, “This is my house! And whatever money is here is my money, and no power on earth is going to keep me from getting what I want. Do you understand? Do you understand?”

He rose to his feet with sparks flying from his eyes. Then he clapped his hands violently and roared, “Get out of my face, boy, and don’t you dare come back to this house ever again. Adam! Adam!”

The door opened and Uncle Adam came in as though he’d been waiting to be summoned.