Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

Had his despair of being acquitted of one of the two charges led him to confess to the other? Was he so dismayed at the fate to which love had doomed his lover that he was moved in a moment of despair to share with her in her dreadful fate? Was it an uprising of the conscience, of the heart, or both? How could I possibly become privy to the secrets of that disdainful heart? At the same time, I became increasingly bewildered and wondered to myself: How could he have permitted himself to send her to the grave shrouded in disgrace? Wouldn’t it have been more fitting for him to seize the opportunity at hand to save himself and protect the honor of the woman he had loved, and who had loved him? Do you suppose he now regretted what he had said, or was he still holding his head high in arrogance and conceit? It was a puzzle to me then, and it always will be. My heart was so bloated with bitterness and rage that the fate that had been meted out to them — her in the grave, and him in prison — was a source of relief and joy to me.

By this time my feet had carried me to Ismailiya Square. Finding no place better to flee to than the Qasr al-Nil gardens, I headed toward the bridge. I thought: If only I could disappear from Cairo for a whole year. It hadn’t even occurred to me to attend the funeral of this woman who’d been my wife. After all, I wouldn’t be able to face any of the people who knew of the tragedy. But had I really even married? It had been nothing but a long, drawn-out farce or, more properly speaking, a tragedy. My family were sure to be shocked when they learned that my wife had died and been buried without any of them being invited to the funeral. However, their shock would be quick to dissipate once they knew the truth, and it wouldn’t be long before they were too distracted telling jokes about it to think of anything else. Anybody who got hold of this story would be the life of the party. My heart shrank, and I felt a coldness flowing through my limbs. How badly I wanted to flee, just as I always had in such situations. Where could I find a distant land in which no one had ever set foot? And how could I cut off every tie that bound me to my odious past? If only I could be born again in a new world in which I wasn’t haunted by a single memory from this one! Indeed, I wouldn’t be able to carry on with my life as long as I was being followed about by my past like a heavy shadow.

I spent the rest of the day wandering down streets or sitting like a vagrant in public parks. I felt no heat, no cold, no thirst. Then at last the sun announced its imminent departure and evening shadows spread over the treetops. I went back the way I’d come with heavy steps, and by the time I reached Ismailiya Square, darkness had fallen over the universe. I was gripped with uncertainty, not knowing where to go. Then suddenly, an image of the pub flashed into my mind. I heaved a deep sigh and my taut, frayed nerves uttered a sigh of relief as though I’d suddenly caught a glimpse of happiness after a long, oppressive ordeal. The very next moment, a taxi was taking me to Alfi Bey Street, but my relief was short-lived and soon replaced by anxiety, dejection, and indecision. Wondering whether I shouldn’t be heading somewhere else, I got out of the taxi in front of the pub, but didn’t go in. Instead I began walking slowly down the sidewalk with a heavy head and heart. Overcome by despair, however, I let it lead me back to the pub. After finding myself an isolated corner, I drank one glass, then another, and kept on drinking. My head was hardly responding to the liquor, but I suddenly felt ravenous, so I ate with an astounding, voracious appetite. And no sooner had I finished eating than I was overcome with a fatigue that enveloped my stomach, my head, and my entire body. It was as though the effort I’d expended in the course of the excruciating day, catching me in an unguarded moment, had come marching over me with its hordes and crushed me beneath their weight. I got up unsteadily, left the pub, and got into a nearby taxi that took me in the direction of Qasr al-Aini. Overwhelmed with fatigue, a numbness spread through my body, and a sudden feeling of apathy came over me. I looked with a mocking eye upon my tragedy, and for a moment it seemed as though it were someone else’s misfortune rather than my own, or as though it had been removed from my personal life and taken its place in the procession of shared human heartbreaks. The taxi continued down the road until we were within sight of the building through which the world had put me to the test. I looked toward it with open eyes and with a timorous, racing heart. I saw light emanating from the balcony and the windows, and in front of the building I could see two tall poles from which two large lights were suspended. So, it was all over.…

As I was going up the stairs to our flat, I remembered my mother and I was seized by a violent fear. At the same time I was gripped by a terrible rage as though it were Satan himself. What had made me so angry? I wondered what on earth I might say to her. Lord! What had brought me home in the first place? Did I really think I’d be able to spend the night in Rabab’s room and on her bed? Nonetheless, I continued up the stairs as though it were my ineluctable fate. As I entered the flat, my chest was tight and gloom was written all over my face. I could hear my mother’s voice as she asked anxiously, “Who is it?”

I froze in place, furious and bitter.

“It’s me,” I replied gruffly.

In a tearful voice she cried, “Kamil! Come here, son!”

My heart pounded violently, and I knew for a certainty that she’d heard about Rabab’s fate. I went to her room and found her sitting in bed.

Sobbing, she reached out to me with her hands, and in a tear-choked voice, she said, “If only I could have died in her place. She should have remained alive for you!”

I stood in the middle of the room, ignoring her outstretched hands.

“How did you hear the news?” I asked her in a stiff, harsh voice.

“How could you have forgotten to tell me yourself, son?” she cried in the same muffled voice. “From this I can see how grieved you are. My heart is breaking for you. If only I could have been the ransom for both of you. After all, I’m just a sick old woman. But this was God’s decree.”

Her emotion didn’t make a dent on my hardened soul, and I made no reply.

Then, as if I hadn’t heard what she said I asked again, “How did you hear the news?”

“I’d been waiting anxiously for you to come home today, and when it got to be evening and you still weren’t back, I got scared. So I told the servant how to get to the building where her family lives and sent her there. Then she brought me the horrible news.”

Looking at her suspiciously, I asked in a low voice, “Do you know how she died?”

“No, son!” she replied, crying again. “I’m still completely in the dark about it. I feel so sorry about the poor girl. How could she have suffered such an untimely death?”

Upon hearing her response, I felt a relief that soon grew tepid and lost its effect. Why deceive myself with false comfort when I knew that there was no power in the world that would be able to keep my scandal a secret? Her weeping annoyed me, since to me there was no questioning the fact that it was a phony show of grief of the sort that women sometimes put on.

So I said rudely, “She died the way people do every day and every night. The way my grandfather and my father died, and the way all of us will die.”

In my anger, I stressed the word “all.”

Then I asked her wearily, “Why are you crying?”

Looking at me dolefully through her tears, she murmured, “I wish I’d died in her place.”

Too agitated to contain myself any longer, I said testily, “That’s a lie! No one would ever be willing to die in someone else’s place! Would you have said that if she were still alive?”