Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

By now he had despaired of ever achieving anything worthwhile. That pushed him into a life of seclusion, while his despair in matters of love drove him to consort with prostitutes. It was as though the negative feelings he had about women in general now threw him into the hands of those wretched and defiled women who would only accentuate the unhealthy sentiments he already had. His malicious attitude now served to convince him that the only genuine women were prostitutes. The veils of deceit regularly used by other women had been ripped away; they no longer felt any need to pretend that they were in love and could remain loyal and pure. However, consorting with prostitutes robbed him of more than his respect for women; it also killed off any vestigial sense he had of his own worthiness as a man. He was convinced that, if a prostitute loved a man, it was only for his natural masculine attributes and had absolutely nothing to do with either social values or relationships through family or neighbors. The Jewish girl may have fallen in love with him because there was no one else around. With his would-be fiancée it had been the fact that they were neighbors and their mothers had encouraged it. But with a prostitute none of those factors were involved when she chose a lover from among the dozens of men who regularly consorted with her. So, if he had not managed to attract a prostitute for such a long time, it must be because he was not sexually attractive. Having reached that conclusion, he could now add sexual incompetence to the ugliness he had been using as an excuse before.

Once his brother Rushdi had finished his college degree in commerce and obtained a job with Bank Misr two years earlier (his other brother had died a while ago), Ahmad genuinely felt that his major task was not merely complete but duly celebrated.

After lunch he made his way back to the new quarter. “Second alleyway on the right, then the third door on the left,” he mumbled to himself as he drew closer. As he made his way up the winding staircase, he remembered the young girl he had seen that morning, the one with the lovely olive complexion and honey-colored eyes. Would he see her again, he wondered? What apartment did she live in and on which floor?

By now his mother had organized things in the apartment. He stayed there until sunset, but then decided to wander around the streets of the quarter in order to explore and find out as much as he could. He put his clothes back on and headed outside. He paused for a moment by the apartment entrance and looked around him as he tried to decide in which direction he should start his exploration. But before he had a chance to make up his mind, he was aware of someone coming toward him. Turning round, he spotted the person whom he had identified that morning as Boss Nunu. The man approached him with a heavy tread, beaming with pleasure.

“A hearty welcome to our new neighbor!” the man said, extending a hand as rough as a camel hoof. “What a wonderful day for all of us!”

Ahmad greeted his new neighbor, hardly expecting such a warm welcome from the source of “God damn the world!” “And greetings to you too, Boss!”

The man gestured to a chair in front of his store. “Please join us for a minute,” he went on, the broad smile still on his thick lips. “This is a happy day indeed!”

Ahmad hesitated for a moment. It was not so much that sitting down with the boss would mean negating the purpose of his expedition, but rather that his shyness would never allow him to accept such an invitation without due hesitation.

“I swear by al-Husayn himself,” the boss went on in his usual loud voice, “that, unless you have some really urgent business to attend to, you be my honored guest. Gaber, bring us some tea and a shisha too!”

In spite of his hesitation Ahmad was delighted to accept the boss’s invitation. He went over to a chair, while the boss came back with another. They sat facing each other. The calligraphy store was exactly like all the others in terms of its size and neat appearance. It was covered with beautiful signs, with a table in the middle on which bottles of colored inks, pens, and rulers were arranged. Leaning against one of the pillars was a large sign at the top of which was written in gaudy colors “The Khan Gaafar Grocery Store,” with the name of the owner etched out in pencil but not colored in yet. The boss was wearing a gallabiya, white coat, and skullcap. He was about fifty years old, stocky, and well built. He had a large head with pronounced features, an equally large mouth, and thick lips. His complexion was wheat-colored, with a red tint to it.

“Nunu the Calligrapher, your humble servant,” he said once he had sat down.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Ahmad replied, raising his hand to his head. “This humble servant is Ahmad Akif, civil servant in the Ministry of Works.”

He had never liked mentioning where he worked as a way of salving his own sense of pride. Every time he had to introduce himself, it was a moment of sheer torture. But this time he did not feel the same way because he was well aware that people like Boss Nunu had great respect for civil servants. The man raised his hand to his head as a token of respect, then gave a gentle smile.

“It would be an honor to welcome you at any time,” the man said with his characteristic bluntness, “but was it really fear of the air raids that brought you here?”

Ahmad was utterly amazed that people already knew why they had left the old quarter when they had only been in the new one for a single night.

“Who told you that?” Ahmad asked, staring disconsolately at the man.

“The driver who brought your furniture,” he replied in all simplicity. “These days everyone’s moving somewhere else.”

That was a cue for Ahmad to launch into a defense of his family’s courage. “Actually,” he said, “all the quarters that have been subjected to the danger of air raids have emptied out. What drove us to leave our old quarter was the fact that my father has a weak heart, and we were worried about it. We really didn’t want to leave.”

At this point the waiter came with the tea and shisha. He put the shisha pipe down in front of the boss, then brought a chair from the store, placed it in front of Ahmad, and put the teapot down on it. The boss urged his guest to take some tea, while he himself grabbed the shisha pipe with relish and took a long puff from it, filling his nostrils.

“It’s always okay for people to go looking for security, even though in fact everyone’s life is in God’s hands and fate decides what’s going to happen. Ahmad Effendi, I’m one of those people who places complete reliance on God. I have no idea how to get to the bomb shelter. Which bomb shelter are you talking about, for heaven’s sake? Have you ever listened to the words of Salih Abd al-Hayy’s song? ‘Whatever your share of life may be, that is the way it is!’ Even so I pray to God that He will be a sufficient protection against calamity. At the same time I also pray that our luck may be good. After all, if it weren’t for decisions made by some people, we wouldn’t have the good fortune to be new neighbors, would we?”

Ahmad was aware that what the boss had said at first was intended to poke a bit of fun at him, even though it may not have been malicious. The rest of it obliged him to show some gratitude.

“Thank you, Boss,” he replied with a smile. “Prudent people have often told us that there is security to be found in the al-Husayn quarter.”

The other man took another huge puff and let out a cloud of thick smoke. “That’s true enough,” he said. “It’s a blessed and much loved quarter, much honored because of the person it’s named for. In days to come you’ll realize that from now on you won’t be able either to forget it or do without it. A deep-seated emotion will continually call you back. Here, take a puff from the shisha.”