Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

“I’m supposed to ask for your hand,” I said uncertainly.

She looked straight ahead, puzzled, and said nothing.

At a loss, I asked her, “How … how do people usually get engaged?”

She giggled and said gently, “Through matchmakers, or through personal contact. Don’t you know about these things?”

Her mention of matchmakers reminded me of my mother, and my heart shrank in terror. Then I wondered to myself: Do I have the tact and courage it takes to make the needed personal contact?

It was then that I realized I didn’t know a thing about her father, so I said, “Could you tell me something about your father?”

Eyeing me doubtfully, she murmured, “Don’t you know anything about him?”

Simply and honestly I replied, “Unfortunately, I don’t.”

I realized then that she thought I’d been busily finding out everything I needed to know about the family I aspired to marry into, and she was wondering why on earth I hadn’t lifted a finger throughout the entire time I’d loved her, content with nothing but gazes, longing, and despair.

In a tone not without a touch of pride, she said, “Gabr Bey Sayyid, irrigation inspector for the Ministry of Labor.”

“I’d be honored to make his acquaintance,” I said reverently.

I was aware of the weight of responsibility that now lay on my shoulders. However, I had no choice but to say, “I’ll meet with him myself. When would be a convenient time?”

“Sometime next week, since he’ll be going away after that on a routine inspection tour. But after he comes home from the ministry he rarely goes out.”

We’d walked quite a long way by this time, so I suggested that we turn back. So we turned around and started heading back. We exchanged only a few words during our return. I was so happy, I thought I must be dreaming. However, not for a moment did I lose sight of the seriousness of the step I was about to take.

I was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety, and once again I experienced that stifling feeling that had come over me on the day when my professor at the Faculty of Law called me up to the podium. Would my feet be able to carry me to Gabr Bey’s house? Would I be able to speak to the man about what was on my mind? O God, grant me Your mercy, for love is afflicting me with torments that are more than I can bear! When I tasted the frightening reality and consoled myself with dreams, I found myself on a deserted island where the only other living being was my beloved. In a place like that, love doesn’t require the lover to deliver a speech, or even to say a word or communicate with anyone. So in the midst of my ordeal, my soul would go flying away to that deserted island.

I spent Saturday and Sunday in a violent inner torment. Hence, I decided to seek refuge from the torment of my thoughts by meeting the danger head-on. That afternoon I spruced myself up and left the house. Reciting the Throne Verse, I crossed the street with a quaking heart. When I crossed the bridge and the building appeared in the distance, my feet grew heavy and I nearly returned home. However, my resolve was marvelous, and the fear that my sweetheart would think me slow in coming left no room for vacillation. I began encouraging myself by saying that if there were no hope, she wouldn’t have agreed to meet me on Friday, and she wouldn’t have prepared the way for me to meet with her father. Pushing my heavy feet forward one after the other, I began approaching the building little by little. There was no one either in the window or on the balcony, which was a relief to me since I feel awkward walking when people’s eyes are on me. Then I found myself coming up to the doorman.

The man rose and looked at me questioningly.

“Gabr Bey Sayyid,” I said.

“Second floor,” he replied.

I ascended the stairs in fear and trepidation, stopping at every landing to catch my breath. When I found myself outside the flat’s closed door, I grew weak in the knees and was tempted to turn and flee, to postpone the critical visit until another day. However, I heatedly rejected the idea. It occurred to me to go back down and calm my tense nerves by walking around for a while and reorganizing my thoughts, and again, I nearly retreated. However, the next moment I began wondering: Might not the gatekeeper be suspicious of me if he saw me coming down right after I’d spoken to him, then saw me come back to the building just a few minutes later? Thus I thought better of going back down the stairs. Even so, I stood there without moving a muscle. I gazed steadily at the door until I imagined its keyhole to be an eye staring mockingly into my face. I shifted my gaze to the doorbell, and my eyes fixed themselves on it in fear and panic. What would happen to me if the door opened suddenly and I saw someone I recognized and who would recognize me? I wished at that moment that my life had maintained its usual, unhurried pace rather than crashing headlong into this love that had turned it upside down. Then suddenly from inside the house I heard a shrill voice shout, “Turn on the radio, Sabah!” Trembling all over, I listened intently, feeling more frightened than ever. Shame on you, Mama! I thought. Wouldn’t it have been better for you to be in my place now? Then I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and although I was more agitated than ever by now, I had no choice but to keep on going. I approached the door and brought my hand up to the doorbell. I hesitated for a moment, feeling myself in an uproar. Then I pressed the button and heard a loud, obnoxious ring. Having worked myself into a pathetic state, I stood aside and waited.

The door opened to reveal a coal-black face belonging to a servant woman who looked to be around fifty years old.

“Yes?” she said, peering at me with sparkling eyes.

Hoping the bey would be out for some reason, I asked, “Is Gabr Bey home?”

“Yes, he is,” she replied. “Who wishes to see him?”

Taking a card out of my wallet, I presented it to her and said, “I’d be obliged if the bey could grant me a brief interview.”

The servant took the card and disappeared while I waited, my heart aflutter and my soul in turmoil. I imagined the bey reading the card aloud while everyone around him exchanged smiling glances, then rushed to hide in some safe place whence they could observe me when I came in. My face flushed with embarrassment at the thought and I became more distraught. Then the servant’s head popped out of the door again as she said, “Come in.”

I went in with my head bowed, and she led me to a door immediately to the right of the entrance. I entered the parlor, which was an elegant room with navy blue furniture, then betook myself to a chair between two sofas some distance from the door and sat down. I could hardly believe I was actually sitting in their house, and I began listening intently, feeling fearful, apprehensive, and restless. At first I hoped the bey would be delayed so that I could have time to compose myself. Then, given the torment of waiting, I started to hope he’d arrive quickly so as to put an end to my suffering. I don’t know how long I waited before I heard footsteps approaching. The bey entered and I rose to my feet. He welcomed me politely and gestured toward the chair, saying, “Make yourself comfortable.”

He sat down on the sofa not far away. Around fifty years old, he was tall and slender, with a physique and eyes similar to my sweetheart’s, and I liked him right away. He was wearing a loose, reddish woolen wrap, and his hands were redolent with a fragrant cologne.

He smiled at me warmly and said, “Welcome, Kamil. We’re honored to have you here.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said appreciatively.

Did he know the purpose of my visit? Had he heard previously of the name he’d read on the card?