Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

The minute I heard what had happened, I headed straight for my mother’s room in a rage. But to my dismay, I found that she, too, had been crying herself red in the face. The minute she saw the frown on my face, she cried in distress, “So, did she send you to scold me?”

Looking heavenward, I heaved a deep sigh and said, “Lord, take me! Deliver me from the earth and everyone on it!”

“No, let Him take me !” she shouted back. “I’m nothing but a useless old woman. Wouldn’t it have been better for your wife to put off her complaining until after you’d had a chance to change your clothes and have a bite to eat? But no! She wouldn’t think of doing anything but follow her own stubborn, tyrannical whims!”

Offended and furious now, I said, “She’s shedding bitter tears.”

She shouted at me as though she’d lost her nerves, “She called me every name in the book! Then she met you at the door with those crocodile tears of hers to turn you against me, and she’s succeeded!”

You’ll never get at the truth by listening to women! I’d worn myself out reasoning and arguing, and it had gotten me nowhere. On the contrary, I was helpless to make peace between the two of them. For a long time our lives were miserable, and a spirit of discord reigned in the house. Eventually I threw my hands up in despair, leaving it to the passing of the days to accomplish what I’d failed to do myself.

* * *

Some time after this I began to feel an emptiness in my married life, and I was certain my wife shared the same feeling. It was no longer just the night hours that weighed on our nerves. Rather, the long hours we spent alone together during the day were something else we wouldn’t be able to endure forever. Consequently, I suggested that we kill time with various sorts of entertainment until school was back in session and she had other things to keep her busy. Pleased with my suggestion, she invited me to visit her numerous relatives, so we began going from house to house, and they would come to visit us as well. Then I suggested that we go to the cinema twice a week, and she agreed. I don’t know whether I was really looking for entertainment, or whether I was just running away from my empty life. In any case, I found a respite in going to the cinema even though, by nature, I preferred spending time alone. However, it wasn’t long before I’d grown weary of the visits, where I would lose myself and fall prey to my usual shyness, awkwardness, and inability to express myself. Consequently, I began staying back from them, leaving my wife to go by herself.

I could have persuaded her to stop going on visits as I had done. However, I didn’t want to deprive her of ways of entertaining herself and filling up her free time. Deep down, I may have started to fear that she’d find our time alone burdensome the way I’d begun to. I wanted with all my heart to make her comfortable and happy, and I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment to spend everything I had to please her. Rabab had become everything, and I was no longer anything to speak of.

However, my mother seemed not to approve of this new life of ours.

One day she said to me, “It isn’t right for you to allow your wife to spend so much time away from home.”

Annoyed by her observation, I replied curtly, “Have you forgotten that my wife is a working woman?”

“Even so …,” she retorted in that critical tone of hers.

Concerned that an argument might lead to undesirable consequences, I said imploringly, “Mama, can’t you just live and let live?”

Irritated now, she said, “If you came to my defense the way you come to hers, she wouldn’t have despised me and called me names!”

I made no reply, hoping she’d drop the subject. However, she went on, saying, “She goes out roaming for no reason. What would you say if she were a mother?”

Bellowing like a wild animal, I broke in, “Be quiet! And don’t say another word!”

She gaped at me in alarm without saying anything, then looked down. However, rage and pain had robbed me of my senses, and I showed her no mercy.

It happened that several days later, my mother fell ill and took to her bed. The doctor we’d called told us that it was her heart, and he advised her always to follow his instructions in order to avoid further episodes in the future.

She stayed in bed for a long time despite the doctor’s assurances that her condition wasn’t serious. However, it seemed to me that she was letting the illness get the better of her and that her spirit was about to collapse. I felt responsible for her illness, and so I endured the bitterness of remorse and a troubled conscience in grieved silence. As if to atone for my guilt, I assumed full responsibility for her care and medication. Nor did Rabab fail to do her duty. My mother had truly hurt me, but she’d done so with good intentions. As for me, I had hurt her deliberately under the influence of a frightening rage. Those were grim, dark days for me. I would sit looking at her pale, gaunt face with a broken heart, with her hand in mine and my tongue uttering continuous prayers of supplication. She was weary, and her fires were dying out. At the same time, though, I could see a look of contentment and joy in her eyes. It was as though, thanks to my sympathy and love, she’d forgotten all her sufferings.

Autumn rolled around with its pleasant weather and its wispy clouds, and the schools embarked on a new year. My wife and I would go out together in the morning and take the same tram, and memories would wash over my heart in a blend of ecstasy and agony.

One time I said to her, “It was during days like this that I’d come rushing to the tram stop, dying just to catch a glimpse of your face.”

She smiled gently and said, “And I was dying to see yours!”

Ah, my beloved! Never in my life had I seen anyone so loving, content, and happy. She was cheerful and attentive without affectation or hypocrisy. Had she suffered in the beginning, then overcome her sufferings thanks to her loving, pure-hearted disposition? How could I possibly know what was going on deep inside her, or the thoughts she was thinking about me and her life? She seemed happy, caring, and sincere. After all, what reason would there be for her to pretend constantly to be happy if she was really miserable or didn’t love me? Nor did I have any reason to doubt her maturity as a woman or the depth of her feelings. She was the farthest thing from being frivolous and capricious. On the contrary, her heart was filled with vitality, fervor, and empathy. So, I thought, maybe she’s living her life inspired by the same hope that I cling to with such patience and endurance. However, the fact of the matter was that I was so preoccupied with my own worries, I had little time to concern myself with those of other people. This may have been due, first and foremost, to my innate self-centeredness. My ignorance also had a part to play in it. I may well have viewed myself as the primary, if not sole, victim of this tragedy.

In the early days of that autumn we were invited by Gabr Bey and Madame Nazli to a lunch banquet that they were hosting for family members and relatives in honor of Rabab’s brother Muhammad, who had recovered from a serious illness.

My wife went to the banquet, while my mother stayed home, saying she had to follow the new diet the doctor had prescribed for her. I went, feeling awkward and uncomfortable as usual, since for me a lunch banquet was a fate worse than illness, and because, like other gatherings of its type, it brought back memories of the orator’s podium at the Faculty of Law. I made certain that we went early so that we could arrive before all the other guests, since this way, I wouldn’t be subjected to people’s stares when I walked into the reception room. My plan worked; when we arrived, no one was there but the family, which was my family as well. I loved them all, though I’d come to be deathly afraid of Madame Nazli. Then the guests began to arrive: Rabab’s three paternal uncles and her four maternal uncles came with their wives and children. Her two maternal aunts also came, one of them with her husband and the other, a widow, with her eldest daughter.