Naguib Mahfouz - The Mirage

She gaped at me in alarm, then looked down in pained silence.

No one said anything for a long time.

Then she broke the silence, murmuring, “May God send His peace into your heart.”

“I don’t need prayers,” I said harshly, “and I hate hypocrisy. I’ll never forget that you hated her even before you’d laid eyes on her!”

Looking up at me with a pained look on her face, she said, “Kamil! Have mercy on your mother! God knows I’m not being dishonest with you. You’ll hardly find a household anywhere that doesn’t witness the kinds of disagreements we used to have.”

However, I showed her no mercy. At the same time, I don’t know what sort of force moved me to remind her of the unfortunate past as though I were really grieving over Rabab. I was so hard on her, you would have thought she was the cause of the catastrophe that had befallen me. And what made me even more bitter and angry was my sense that through her show of grief, she was concealing a malicious glee.

Hence, I added furiously, “The fact is that you’re beside yourself with joy! I know you as well as I know myself, so don’t try to deceive me. You’re hiding your joy with these crocodile tears of yours!”

“Kamil!” she groaned. “Don’t be cruel to your mother! Don’t say that! God knows I didn’t hate her! And whatever grieves you, grieves me!”

I let forth a cold laugh like the cracking of a whip in the air, and said, “And in case you’re not happy enough yet, let me tell you that she didn’t just die. She was killed!”

She gaped at me in terror and, perhaps fearing that I’d gone mad, murmured, “God have mercy.”

Then I shouted with the nonchalance of a madman, “She was killed when the doctor was performing an abortion on her.”

“An abortion!” she cried, striking her chest with her hand. “Was she pregnant? Lord, I didn’t know that!”

“Neither did I! She hid it from me because I wasn’t the child’s father.”

“Kamil!” she cried in distress. “Have mercy on yourself, and on me! You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“I know more than you’d expect me to. I found out in one day more than what someone like me would normally find out in a generation. As I told you, she’d hidden the matter from me. Then she went to the child’s father to perform an abortion on her, but he made a mistake and killed her.”

“Have mercy, O Most Merciful of the merciful!”

“Is He still the Most Merciful of the merciful? Farewell, since I won’t be worshipping Him from now on. As for you, you may be saying to yourself with a strange sort of satisfaction, ‘The sinful woman has gotten some of what she deserved. I had a feeling something like this might be happening from the very beginning. But you didn’t listen to me!’ ”

My mother heaved a miserable sigh. Then in a voice that sounded more like a moan she said, “What you’re saying grieves me no end. You’re killing me without mercy.”

In reply, I screamed at her like a lunatic, “Revel in your malicious glee all you like! But don’t you dare imagine that we’ll live together. The past is over, with its good and its bad, and I’ll never go back to it as long as I live. I’ll be alone from now on. I won’t live with you under one roof. I’ll ask the ministry to transfer me somewhere far, far away, and I’ll live there for the rest of my life.”

With tears glistening in her eyes and pain tying her tongue, she sat there looking at me in terror and speechless indignation.

Then, as if what I’d said already weren’t enough, I seethed, “Go to my sister or my brother, and from now on, consider me dead.”

Then I turned my back to her and left the room as her sobs rang in my ears.

It never once occurred to me to go to my room. In fact, that was the farthest thing from my mind. I even avoided looking at it. Instead I went to the sitting room and flung myself on the sofa, exhausted and depressed. The night passed slowly and heavily, and the only sleep I got was in the form of intermittent naps permeated with nightmares. Then a faint light began filtering in through the shutters, heralding the break of day. Heaving a sigh of relief, I stretched wearily, then got up and left the room with the urge to flee and disappear from sight. I came up gingerly to the outer door and placed my hand on the doorknob. However, once there I froze in hesitation and moved no further. Instead I retreated quietly toward my mother’s room. Ever so carefully I pushed on the half-open door and stuck my head in. I could hear the servant’s rhythmic snores, and on the bed lay my mother in a deep stillness.

Hardly able to make out anything but the upper half of her face, I cast her a quick glance, then retreated and headed again for the outer door. As I closed the door noiselessly behind me, I heard — or at least I thought I heard — a voice calling me. I thought she’d awakened despite the care I’d taken not to disturb her, and she seemed to be calling to me. I paused, my hand on the banister, and my heart softened toward her. But I was in a state of such despair that I wasn’t handling things well, so I shrugged my shoulders indifferently and went down the stairs. It was still early morning and the street was abandoned, or nearly so, and a cool, damp breeze wafted over my face. I stood there for a while hesitantly, not knowing where to go, then I headed for the gas station where the taxi stop was and caught a taxi to Ismailiya Square. On the way I cast a glance at the other building. Enveloped in silence, its windows were closed, and the two lights hanging from the pole outside had been turned off. I arrived at the square, then went to a milk vendor’s and sat at a table at the far end of the place. After having a simple breakfast, I was suddenly overcome with fatigue. I spread out my legs, and an overwhelming drowsiness advanced like an army over my entire body. No longer able to hold my head up, I surrendered to its dominion and before I knew it, I’d fallen fast asleep. When I woke up again, I found myself leaning over the table with my head resting on my forearm. I lifted my head and looked around me feeling disoriented and embarrassed.

I left the place without daring to look at the other people sitting there, and when I looked at the clock in the square, I found to my astonishment that it was past two in the afternoon! I’d slept for eons, absent from my gloomy world, and how delectable it would have been to sleep forever! I headed in the direction of the Qasr al-Nil gardens, painfully aware of how unkempt and shabby I looked. As I walked briskly along, I asked myself what I was going to do with my life. However, in keeping with my usual tendency to avoid dealing head-on with serious problems, a voice inside me suggested that I postpone that decision till later.

Then I found myself thinking about Rabab. I felt a rage toward her that refused to leave me, as though it were some sort of permanent handicap. How I wished she could be resurrected, if only for a minute, so that I could spit in her face! Will I ever forget that I rejoiced over her death with the spiteful satisfaction of someone filled with bitterness and rage? That’s the way I am, and there’s no point in hiding the fact. At the same time, I was sufficiently calm by that time that I could think about things rationally. The strange thing is that despite my extreme self-centeredness, I never begrudge an opponent a fair hearing. This isn’t because I’m so fond of fairness, but I’ve grown accustomed to making excuses for my opponents as a way of concealing the fact that I’m too weak to get even with them. And this is why I made excuses for Rabab in her tragedy. I said to myself: I was wrong to believe her claim that she didn’t enjoy making love. Rather, it was my inadequacy that cast her into the arms of temptation. At the same time, how could I have doubted that she’d loved me sincerely? Memories went wafting over my imagination as fragrant breezes go wafting over a blazing fire, memories of shared glances, the unforgettable encounter on the tram, the way she resisted her first suitor in preference for me, and the enchantment that was the most joyous gift of ephemeral happiness I’ve ever received. It had been a sincere love, but it had been exposed to an icy wind that pulled it up by the roots and deprived it of the water of life. So hadn’t I been an accessory to her murder? At that moment, I called upon God to hasten Judgment Day and, in His mercy, to deliver human beings from life’s ordeals. My love for Rabab had been a God-given bliss. However, it had passed away, leaving hatred and rage in its wake. But had it really passed away? Suppose that, by some miracle, what had happened to me had been nothing but a bad dream. Wouldn’t my love have been brought back even more powerful than it had been before? Of course it would have. So, then, it was still there under the wreckage of hatred and loathing. A limb that’s been severed never grows back. Hence, it no longer has any real existence. Similarly, a love that returns must never have really gone away. But, I thought, What’s the use of all this agonizing rumination? And with that I furrowed my brow as if to frighten away the memories that were assailing me.