Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

“Yes, sir!” he said as he came up to us. “I hope everything’s all right.”

Then suddenly I felt chilled as though someone had turned a cold shower on me. My anger abated, my agitation ceased, and my heart turned on its heels and fled. Fear’s frigid hand had taken hold of my neck and I froze in place, confused, panicky, and unable to focus my gaze on anything. Gone was the Kamil that had been brought into being by rage and desperation, and all that remained was the other Kamil as he existed in his natural state.

Showing me no mercy in my weakness, the enraged man shouted at the gatekeeper, saying, “See this good-for-nothing to the door, and never let him in again! He’s threatening to kill me!”

I stared into his face in bewilderment and dismay, hardly able to believe my ears. In his wild outburst he seemed like an accursed demon.

Then he shouted in my face, “Get out of here!”

But I didn’t budge. Or rather, I couldn’t budge. I wished the floor would open up and swallow me. I was dying of fear, heartsickness, and shame. The man waited, scowling, and when he saw that I hadn’t made a move, he turned his back to me and exited into one of the house’s inner rooms while the gatekeeper withdrew to the veranda. Thus, I found myself alone. Biting my lip, I regained my composure and managed to get up in speechless indignation. Then I left the room, doing my best not to look in the gatekeeper’s direction. As I walked hurriedly through the garden, the gatekeeper followed me, mumbling an apology and making excuses for his employer, saying, “He’s always like that.”

I left the house without uttering a word.

I spent the first half of the day loitering in the streets, so full of despair, rancor, grief, and shame that I could hardly breathe. I went home at the usual time so that my mother wouldn’t wonder what had brought me home early. After lunch I felt drowsy and fell into a deep slumber that lasted until early evening. Then I left the house, my soul so heavy it was as if I were carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wondered where I should go, and I could find only one reply. The pub beckoned to me in the most tempting way, and my heart urged me to obey its summons. However, I hadn’t forgotten the current reality, namely, that if I went on the much-desired drinking spree, my budget that month was sure to be broken, and I wouldn’t have enough spending money to last me until my next salary. At the same time, the summons was impassioned and irresistible. It seemed to me at that wretched moment that an hour’s bliss was better than a life devoid of good. I ran my hand over my gold watch, and suddenly it occurred to me that I could sell it if I needed money. The thought brought me a sense of relief, and I smiled for the first time that day. The following moment had me wondering what I’d say to my mother if she happened to miss my watch — and she was bound to miss it sooner or later. I groaned irritably at the thought. My mother! My mother! Always my mother! I said to myself angrily. I’ll do what I want. I boarded the tram without hesitation, and on the way, my mind was drawn back for no obvious reason to a memory of my grandfather. I thought back to the days of ease and luxury that I’d lost when he passed away, and I found myself wishing that, rather than being so generous toward me, he had raised me instead on parsimony and the bare minimum. If he had, I wondered, might I not be better at coping with my present circumstances? I recited the Fatiha over his beloved spirit, then got off the tram at Ataba and headed for the vegetable market where my humble pub was located.

No sooner had I taken off my coat and sat down at an empty table than the Greek waiter brought the carafe. My pub was a plebeian sort of place, of that there was no doubt. However, it was rather respectable, too. For alongside the carriage drivers and working class folk, you’d find a gathering of middle-aged government employees whose life circumstances and family obligations didn’t permit them to frequent expensive pubs. Among the latter was an elderly man who was fond of singing and merrymaking. The minute he got tipsy he’d wax eloquent, repeating old tunes like “Over Love How I Used to Weep” and “How I Miss You!” His voice wasn’t without a touch of sweetness, and his performances always put a smile on everyone’s face. In fact, a group of those present would always volunteer to sing the refrain in a sweet harmony.

I started drinking, and as usual I was filled with a feeling of contentment and joy — the feeling I found nowhere but among fellow drinkers at the pub. The pub was the only place where I experienced relief from the ponderous burden of timidity, halting speech, anxiety, and fear. While there I enjoyed such happiness and peace of mind, it was as though I’d just returned to my kith and kin after a long, burdensome sojourn among strangers, and I wished I never had to leave them. It wasn’t long before I was flooded with that magical bliss and my being was filled with rapture. The employee entertainer hadn’t begun his singing yet, and he was talking to his friends in a loud voice that was audible to everyone sitting around him. After all, why shouldn’t they all share in the conversation just the way they shared in the singing?

“Just imagine, folks,” he said. “The doctor advises me to give up drinking!”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“He’s found that I’ve got high blood pressure and hardening of the arteries.”

“Drink fenugreek tea first thing in the morning and you’ll be healthy all your life.”

“He told me if I kept on drinking, I was sure to die.”

“How long one lives is in God’s hands!”

“And I said, ‘Even if I stop drinking, I’m sure to die some day too!’ ”

“For an answer like that, you deserve a carafe of cognac, provided it’s on you!”

“Would you believe I saw that same doctor one evening sitting and drinking whiskey at the St. James?”

“They’re all like that! They snatch your money and tell you, ‘Stay away from the booze,’ then they take it to the St. James and buy themselves a couple of bottles.”

The aging employee straightened up in his seat slightly, then began tapping on the table and shaking his head. Then he broke into song: “Treat the one you love right, good-lookin’!” People looked his way and the chorus made ready to repeat the refrain. As for me, I was drinking, talking to whoever engaged me in conversation, and laughing to my heart’s content. My head spun fast as usual, bliss danced in my heart, and I went flying off into the firmament of pleasure and indifference. I went on this way for a long time, or maybe a short one — I can’t really tell, since a drunk man loses his sense of time. Then I bade farewell to my friends and left the pub with the music still ringing in my ears. I went wandering aimlessly for a while, then hailed a carriage and got in without a thought for my suicidal budget. After telling the driver to take me to Manyal, I smoothed down the back seat and spread out my legs in a pompous, sultan-like posture. I didn’t feel the chill in the air, and I found the carriage’s dreamy movement relaxing and delightful.

Then, responding to a playful urge, I said to the driver with feigned circumspection, “A woman is waiting for me on the street, and I’m going to take her with me.”

“I’m at your service, bey,” he replied.

Meanwhile I thought to myself sardonically: Everything’s just fine! A comfortable carriage, an amenable driver, and the cover of darkness. All we need now is the woman!

Then, capitulating again to an urge to mislead, I said, “She’s a high-class lady, so let’s find ourselves a safe street.”