Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

Perplexed, the doctor looked back and forth between us with a faint smile on his lips.

Then he asked Dr. Amin, “What operation was it?”

“It was an operation on the peritoneum,” he replied softly.

“And what was the cause of death?”

“The peritoneum was punctured due to an accident beyond my control.”

Addressing the medical examiner, I said in an agitated tone, “Ask him, Your Honor, what made him perform surgery when he isn’t a surgeon!”

The man hesitated for a few moments, then said in a loud voice, “I’ve come to perform another task. Where is the body, please?”

Madame Nazli was still standing near the door to the large parlor, scanning our faces with her tear-reddened eyes in a dazed silence. However, when she heard the doctor asking where the body was, she let out a moan and cried without thinking, “This will never happen!”

The doctor cast her a quick glance, then said to her gently, “Please bear your misfortune with patience, Madame.”

Shooting me a fiery look, she said to the doctor imploringly, “The deceased is the daughter of a prominent government employee, Gabr Bey Sayyid, chief inspector for the coastal area. Perhaps you know him, sir. I beg you to have mercy on the weakness of a woman like me, and wait until his return. I’ve wired him to inform him of the tragedy.”

The doctor replied kindly, “The body has to be examined without delay so as to allow the burial to take place at the proper time. Don’t worry, Madame. Everything will be over in a matter of minutes.”

She then flung herself helplessly onto a chair and broke into bitter sobs. Meanwhile, I preceded the doctor to Rabab’s room. When I reached the door I could hear Sabah sobbing inside. I pushed the door open and called to her without having the courage to look in the direction of the bed. The servant answered my summons and I prodded her aside to make room for the doctor, who entered the room without hesitation. Then I closed the door behind him. She asked me about the man I’d brought, but I scolded her impatiently and nudged her out of the parlor. Then I began pacing up and down, my soul in a turmoil that enveloped my every nerve. A deadly melancholy descended upon me as I imagined my beloved wife’s body in the hands of this strange doctor, who would uncover her and handle her without feeling or compassion.

I let forth an agonized groan, and I felt a sharp pain that seemed to be tearing my heart to shreds. I spent some moments in a stupor, imagining myself the victim of a demonic nightmare. I looked around me as though I were searching for an escape hatch. But had I forgotten the pallid, handkerchief-bound face as death’s fearsome specter crouched upon her brow? Lord! Little by little I was returning to myself, leaving behind the world of madness that had taken hold of me for the real world of loss and grief. The horrific reality took shape before me in a kind of solemn stillness, as though I were comprehending for the first time that Rabab had really died. She was no longer among the living, and my life would be devoid of her forever. She would never come back to my house as her mother had said she would. Never again would I accompany her to the tram stop in the morning, and never again would I greet her in the afternoon after her return from school as she fought off fatigue with a sweet smile. Tender youth had come to an end, and a flaming love had been snuffed out. Hopes and more hopes had withered and dried up. Where was that happy history that had begun at the tram stop, woven its memories out of the ethereal stuff of love, taken me roaming through the valleys of bliss, then created me anew? Where was that enchanting history? Had it really come to an end in a moment through the error of some foolish doctor? And what fault of mine was it?

Death is a dreadful tragedy. Yet it isn’t convincing. Hadn’t I been talking to her just a few hours earlier? Hadn’t she been like a succulent rose just a day or two before? So how could I believe that she and the first person to have died millions of years before were now one and the same? Besides, she was still alive in my soul. I could see her with my own eyes, and hear her, and touch her, and smell her! She still filled my heart and soul. So was there no way to correct a simple mistake?

Just then there was a movement — I didn’t know whether it was coming from the outer parlor or from the chamber of sorrows. Be that as it may, it brought me back to my senses, and I began thinking about the doctor and what he was doing. It also brought me back to my turmoil, my anxiety, and my fears. What would I do if the doctor found nothing of significance? How would I face people later? How I hoped for God to punish the murderer! Even so, I remained in a state of such turmoil that I lost touch with myself and my reason. Time dragged on until I imagined that I’d grown old and decrepit and was dying. Then the door to the room opened and the doctor emerged with a blank expression that told me nothing. He advanced a few steps until he was in the middle of the parlor. I stood before him with my mouth open and my gaze fixed on him.

Running his fingers over his brow, he said plainly, “I’ve finished writing my report. I’ll submit it right away to the public prosecutor, and I believe it calls for an immediate investigation.”

I should have felt relieved and vindicated. But instead, my strength suddenly gave out on me and I collapsed onto the nearest chair, then sprawled my legs out and nearly fell asleep. The only thing that happened during the waiting period that followed the doctor’s departure was that Madame Nazli and Sabah went rushing to the deceased’s room and proceeded to weep and wail at the top of their lungs. I glanced over at the small parlor, where I saw Dr. Amin Rida pacing the floor with slow, heavy steps while the policeman sat on a chair at the reception room door.

At twelve-thirty the doorbell rang. The policeman got up and opened the door, and the district attorney came in followed by a clerk and another policeman. My heart pounding with fright at the sight of the government officials, I rose to my feet and walked up to the man, then raised my hand in greeting. He asked about the deceased’s room, then proceeded there right away followed by the clerk. Not having the courage to follow them there, I waited outside, and a few minutes later they were back. The man glanced around him, then went to the reception room with me close on his heels. He sat down on a sofa, while the clerk sat down on a nearby chair and spread his papers out on a table. After asking me my name, age, and job, he asked me to relate whatever information I had about what had happened. I complied with his request and the clerk recorded every word I said. Then he called for Dr. Amin Rida, who came in looking stony-faced and pallid. He allowed him to sit down in front of him, then addressed himself to me, saying, “You’re free to stay if you’d like.”

There was something in his tone of voice that sounded more like a command than an invitation. In any case, I was dying to be there for the interrogation. So, filled with dread and anticipation, I sat down on a chair next to the sofa the interrogator was sitting on. The man began by asking him general questions, such as his name, his age, and his occupation.

Then he said to him, “Can you tell me how you first became involved in this situation?”

Without hesitation, Dr. Amin said, “I was called upon to visit the patient at around nine this morning, and I found her in a great deal of pain. When I examined her, I found that the peritoneum was inflamed and needed immediate surgery. So I decided to perform the operation in order to save the patient’s life. I gave her mother my opinion and she agreed to allow me to proceed, so I performed the operation right away. However, it happened that the membrane was punctured in such a way that my efforts to save her were in vain, and she died.”