Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

A pleasant gentle breeze wafted over my heart as I thought back to the old days when my heart was aflame, hope was alive, and the possibility of an ordeal like the one I was going through hadn’t so much as occurred to me. I drank in the memory with relish.

“Rabab,” I said apprehensively, “are you happy?”

She looked at me in surprise and said earnestly, “Very happy.”

Then, looking down diffidently I asked, “Do you love me?”

She’d been sitting a handspan away from me, and when she heard my question, she moved over toward me till we were touching, looked up at me with a blush and murmured, “Yes, I do!”

I put my arm around her waist and kissed her lips and her cheeks. Then I took her lovely, petite hand in mine and began kissing her fingertips one at a time with tenderness and ardor. By what I had said, I’d actually been trying to prepare the way to talk about what I’d been keeping to myself with such grievous consequences. But when I was about to speak, I lost my nerve, and my tongue too. I wanted to tell her what was bothering me and confess to her that the problem I was facing in relation to her was a strange, passing thing that I didn’t understand. I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t been this way, and in fact, still wasn’t this way when I found myself alone, and I wanted to ask her for counsel and help. These were the kinds of things I’d wanted to say. However, my determination gave out on me and I retreated in helplessness, conceding defeat as usual. Then I started justifying my retreat to myself, saying: It might offend her or make her angry for me to reveal such secrets. In fact, it might ruin her happiness forever!

When we went to bed that night, I was tempted to try again, but I hesitated. In fact, I hesitated for so long that fear got the better of me and I gave up on the idea. As much as I loved her, I’d begun to fear her body. As I pondered my life in the silence and darkness of the night, it seemed strange and disjointed, and the thought left me in such anguish that the only outlet I could find was tears. So I had a long cry.

Then it occurred to me to consult a doctor. The thought came unexpectedly. In fact, it may have been mere coincidence. I hadn’t considered consulting a doctor before due to my exceeding shyness on one hand, and on the other, my belief that a doctor wouldn’t be able to treat a condition like mine. However, one day as I was on my way to the ministry, my eye fell upon a large sign fixed to a balcony on Qasr al-Aini Street. The words “Dr. Amin Rida, Specialist in Reproductive Disorders, University of Dublin” were written on it in large script. I hadn’t seen the sign before, and suddenly I had the urge to consult a physician. Even so, I didn’t succumb to the idea without hesitation. The thought aroused my shame and fear, which nearly convinced me to change my mind. But this time, my longing for deliverance was more powerful than my shame, and I made up my mind to go that evening.

When I arrived at the clinic, the doctor was busy examining a patient, so I sat down to wait. The waiting room was empty, which was a tremendous relief to me, though it caused me to think less highly of the doctor. I wasn’t kept waiting long, and a few minutes later I was invited into the examination room, which was impressive and pleasing to the eye: fully equipped, and fitted out with instruments so awesome that my confidence in the doctor was restored. He was sitting directly to the right of the entrance at a large desk covered with books and notebooks. A young man who couldn’t have been more than thirty years old, he was tall and slender with kinky hair, a dark complexion, delicate but distinct features, and intense eyes that gleamed from behind an elegant pair of spectacles. One noticeable thing about him was a bushy, coal-black mustache that covered his mouth and lent him a dignified appearance that caused him to look more mature than his years. I greeted him, and he returned my greeting rather tersely. As he did so, he shot me a questioning glance that struck me as condescending and arrogant. He seemed to possess a self-confidence that bordered on conceit, and I didn’t like him. Overall, his appearance was a disappointment to me, since I’d expected to find a distinguished-looking elderly man with a friendly smile on his face, like a certain doctor my mother had once taken me to many years earlier. Consequently, I felt offended, and wished I hadn’t led myself into this trap.

“Have a seat,” he said calmly.

I complied with his request, eyeing him apprehensively. He began looking at me as though he were waiting for me to speak first. However, my thoughts were scattered and my throat was dry, so I sat there without saying a word.

“Yes?” he said inquiringly.

I mustered the strength to speak, but all I said was, “I’ve come for an examination.”

“What exactly are you suffering from?” he asked, sounding a bit puzzled.

It was only after a prolonged agony that I managed to say, “I’m a married man.…”

Then I stopped. Or, rather, my tongue was tied. However, I found my silence burdensome, and since the doctor’s intense eyes were urging me to speak, I confessed everything. At first the words came out confused and faltering. Then, encouraged by the earnest, staid expression on his face, I started pouring out my story without a break. I felt I’d cast a heavy burden off my shoulders, and as though henceforth, he was the one responsible for my recovery from the malady that had been afflicting me.

“How long have you been married?” he asked me.

“About a month and a half,” I replied.

“And when did you start suffering this condition?”

“From the first night,” I said bitterly.

“Did you suffer this same condition before you married?”

“I hadn’t had any previous experiences with women.”

Then he asked me about “the other.” I hesitated momentarily, then answered him honestly. He asked me about some details, and again, I gave him a frank reply. Nor did I conceal from him the frightening excess to which I’d gone in my secret habit.

“Have you engaged in your habit since marrying?”

I was impressed with him for asking this particular question, which I saw as evidence of a special perceptiveness.

“Yes, I have,” I said.

“So,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s as if your response only changes when you’re with your wife.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling bewildered and sorrowful.

After a long silence, he said, “Now I’m going to ask you some explicit questions, and I ask you to answer them honestly. Do you love your wife?”

“Very much.”

“Does she have any sort of perversion, or natural frigidity?”

“Not at all.”

“Did you grow up together?”

“She’s not a relative of mine.”

After this he asked me questions that I found quite shocking. However, none of them applied to me, and I answered him with complete honesty. Then he got up and gave me a thorough, careful examination that I endured with a trembling heart and with a battle raging in my soul between hope and despair.

We returned to our seats and he began recording his impressions and conclusions in a notebook. Then he sat up straight and said to me, “You’re physically sound. It’s true, of course, that you’ve harmed yourself through your pernicious habit, which has left effects that call for a special kind of cleansing. However, the problem you’re suffering from, as I see it, has nothing to do with this. Your impotence has no biological basis, and you may be going through a psychological crisis. Don’t you have psychiatric clinics in your country?”

I couldn’t make any sense of this last question. I was also amazed by his use of the phrase “your country,” as though he were a foreigner.