Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

I gulped, then stood there looking at the man for a long time. Seeing that he wasn’t satisfied with what he’d heard, I went on, saying, “The fact is that this doctor is a specialist in reproductive disorders. So, is it permissible for him to perform a surgical operation? And if the operation performed has led to the patient’s death, is he not to be held responsible for it, and shouldn’t he be brought to justice?”

The man was silent for a moment, then he asked me, “Was she taken to a hospital?”

“No. The operation was performed in the house where she now lies dead.”

“Who was it that called the doctor?”

“My mother-in-law.”

“And how is it that she called on an obstetrician with no connection to your wife’s illness?”

“I asked her the same question, and she told me that he was the nearest doctor. She also said she thought that regardless of what a doctor’s specialization happens to be, he’ll be familiar with all kinds of illness.”

“Is he the one who advised that the operation be done?”

“Yes.”

“And is he the one who performed it?”

“Yes! I asked him how he could have performed a surgical operation even though he isn’t a surgeon, and he told me that my wife’s condition called for immediate surgical intervention.”

The man thought for some time, then asked me, “Are you leveling a particular accusation at this doctor?”

Not understanding what he meant, I looked at him uncertainly without saying a word.

So he asked me, “Do you have reason to accuse him of premeditated murder?”

My heart aflutter, I shook my head in the negative.

Then he asked, “Do you suspect that an error occurred during the operation, and that this led to her death?”

“That’s very possible, Your Honor,” I said. “And it wouldn’t have been simply an error. Rather, it would have been the error of a man who has no experience as a surgeon. Hence, there’s no doubt as to his responsibility in the matter.”

He thought again, then asked, “I can’t make a judgment until the medical examiner has examined the body and clarified the causes of death.”

His words filled me with fear and gloom, since I couldn’t bear the thought of the doctor’s tampering with my beloved’s body.

In a pained voice, I asked, “Couldn’t you call the doctor to interrogate him first?”

Disregarding my objection, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number. Then I heard him speaking to the medical examiner. He asked me for the house address, then asked the doctor to go there to examine the body and write a report on the cause of death.

After hanging up, he turned to me and said, “If it’s determined that there’s criminal liability, I’ll come to conduct the interrogation.”

After completing the official procedures, I left the public prosecutor’s office. By this time my impulsiveness had left me, and I was aware of the seriousness of what I had done. This was no joke: It involved a prosecutor, a medical examiner, police, scandal, and gossip. The investigation might lead nowhere, in which case we’d be left with nothing but the scandal and the gossip. And how would I face people after that? How would I face her family, my family, and everyone else? Wasn’t it enough that my wife had suffered such a miserable fate without my subjecting her to forensic examination and making her the talk of the town? Oh, my smoldering heart! As I went back to the house, my soul was weighed down with worry and endless thinking. As I came within sight of the building, I paused, with a voice inside me urging me to turn on my heels and run. However, there was no escaping what I had to do. I had no choice but to drink the bitter potion to the dregs.

I rang the bell, then went in, despondent and resigned.

All the doors were closed with the exception of the door to the reception room, which was ajar. The house was devoid of the commotion that usually engulfs households when one of their members has died. Consequently, I was filled with an astonishment that drowned out my inner turmoil. It was past eleven in the morning. How was it that they still hadn’t rushed the heartbreaking news to the houses of family and relatives? I was revisited by feelings of rancor and suspicion.

I looked at the young servant who had opened the door for me, her eyes red from weeping, and asked her, “Hasn’t anyone come to the house?”

She shook her head in the negative in silence and grief. Then I pointed to the reception room’s half-open door and asked her, “Is there anyone in there?”

“Dr. Amin,” she murmured.

My body trembled with rage and hatred. The servant went over to the door to the large parlor, pushed the door open and went in, after which she proceeded to the room where Rabab lay at the other end of the house. As for me, I stayed alone in the small parlor, not knowing what to do. I was terrified at the thought of what I’d done, while the atmosphere around me aroused feelings of anger and hatred. Then I heard footsteps coming from inside. A moment later Madame Nazli, clad in black, emerged through the door to the large parlor.

Shooting me a frigid look, she asked me irritably, “And where have you been, sir?”

Her appearance and her question aroused my fears, as well as the feeling of shame that had ridden me since the moment I left the public prosecutor’s office. Even so, I couldn’t bear any longer to keep the terrible secret to myself, and I had the urge to confess, to meet the danger head-on.

So I said calmly, “I went to the public prosecutor and asked for an investigation to be done.”

Her eyes grew large as saucers and her mouth dropped open.

Then, gaping at me as though she couldn’t believe her ears, she muttered in astonishment, “The public prosecutor!”

With a terrible coolness, and in a voice loud enough to make myself heard by those in the reception room, I said, “Yes. I went to the public prosecutor’s office, and the medical examiner will be here soon.”

Before long the doctor emerged from the guestroom. He stood not far away, looking ashen and somber.

Then the woman, dumbfounded, asked, “And what are you accusing us of?”

Enjoying my ire and desire for revenge, I said fiercely, “There isn’t any accusation. However, I’m certain that the death resulted from a serious mistake, a mistake that comes as no surprise from someone who has no experience as a surgeon, and who takes it upon himself to toy with people’s lives!”

A tense, painful silence ensued, in the course of which people looked at each other, then looked away.

Then the woman gasped nervously and exclaimed, “How could you find it so easy to turn your wife’s body over to the public prosecutor!”

Pierced to the quick, I nearly collapsed. However, I concealed my pain with a feigned rage and shouted, “It’s easier for me than to see her die in vain!”

The doctor opened his mouth to say something. However, just at that moment the doorbell rang so loudly, we all nearly jumped out of our skins.

I went to the door and opened it. I was greeted by a policeman, who asked me, “Is this where we can find the late wife of Mr. Kamil Ru’ba, an employee at the Ministry of War?”

I answered in the affirmative. Then the man stepped aside, saying, “His Honor, the medical examiner.”

There then entered a medium-sized man carrying a doctor’s satchel, who was followed inside by the policeman. Happening to meet Dr. Amin on his way in, the medical examiner asked him, “Are you the husband who informed the public prosecutor?”

“No, I’m the husband, sir,” I said as I closed the door. “This is the doctor who performed the operation.”