Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

Ahmad thanked him but declined. As he listened to his companion, he kept enjoying the sips of tea. Wanting to join his companion in a smoke, but of his own kind, he took out a cigarette and lit it with a smile. He felt very relaxed as he sat there talking to his new neighbor, probably because there was a strange quality about him, something he had never encountered in anyone before. His simplicity, frankness, and forceful presence, they all surprised him, but what was more important than any of those things was that Ahmad felt a sense of superiority that stroked his own tortured vanity. That impression made Ahmad want to get to know him better.

“Why don’t you like the shisha?” Boss Nunu asked. “It’s just like a cigarette except with water. The smoke’s filtered and purified. Beyond that, it conveys an aura of authority, and the gurgling sound it makes has a music of its own. And its very shape has sex appeal.”

Ahmad could not help laughing, but his laugh was drowned out by the ringing guffaws from the boss himself; they sounded like a continuous loud mooing and culminated in a burst of coughing that went on and on until he ran out of breath.

“Do you think we locals are stupid?” he asked Ahmad, his face still smiling. “Do you realize that English tourists come to visit this quarter in droves; many, many more than Arabs. But, in any case, by al-Husayn’s faith and God’s, may you find untold happiness in his quarter and may our relationship and your time here be a happy one too, in spite of whatever Hitler and Mussolini decide to do.”

“God willing, that will be so.”

“A number of distinguished government personnel like yourself live in the area,” the boss went on by way of encouragement.

“Oh Boss, please! I’m not that important.” Ahmad hurriedly replied.

“No, I swear by al-Husayn and his beloved grandfather, the Prophet himself. Most of my friends in the neighborhood are officials. The new apartments have attracted a lot of good families here. You’ll find everything you need: coffee, radios, kindness, and shishas. In fact, there’s enough available here to make God happy and angry in equal measure.”

“Heaven forbid we should make God angry!” Ahmad said with a laugh.

The boss stared hard at him, then carried on with his usual bluntness. It was as if he had known Ahmad for many years, not just a few minutes. “Pleasing God and angering Him are like night and day, inseparable from one other. Beyond them both lies God’s mercy and forgiveness. You’re not a Hanbali, are you?”

“Certainly not!”

“You surprise me!”

“But how can this quarter be big enough to cater to things that anger God?”

“Ah well, disaster always lurks, so they say, wherever people don’t pay attention. Just wait and make sure for yourself. But I have to say that whatever faults there may be are not the fault of our quarter but of others. The corruption has spread so far that they can’t keep it within their own walls. They keep sending their excess over to us; and that’s exactly what the radio keeps telling us about world trade. Here we export primary goods and other quarters import them ready made. In some parts of our quarter they export servant girls; the other quarters convert them into barroom singers. Because of this the world’s been turned upside down. Just imagine, my dear sir, yesterday I heard the radish-seller’s daughter using English with her sister. ‘Come here, darling,’ she said.”

Ahmad laughed. By this time he was feeling much more relaxed and at home. “In spite of all that, Boss,” he said, his strategy being to get the other man to do the talking, “your quarter is pure enough. The level of corruption in other quarters is beyond conception.”

“God protect us! It’s obviously a good idea not to let our anxieties get the better of us. So forget about such things, laugh, and worship God. The world belongs to Him, whatever happens is His doing. His command is certain, and the ending belongs to Him as well, so what’s the point of spending time bashing your brains and feeling miserable? God damn the world!”

“Well, Boss, that seems to be your favorite expression. I’ve heard it many times from my room upstairs.”

“Yes, God damn the world! It’s a phrase of derision, not a curse. But can you really curse the world in actuality as you do when you use those words? Can you despise the world and laugh at it when it makes you poor, leaves you naked, and brings hunger and disaster down on you? Believe me, the world’s just like a woman: kneel in front of her and she’ll turn her back on you; beat her or curse her and she’ll come running. With the world and women therefore I have just one policy. Before and afterward I rely totally on the Lord God Almighty. There’s been many a day when we have no idea where the next penny is coming from; the family has nothing to eat and I can’t even buy myself a shisha, but I still keep on singing, cursing, and joking. The family might as well belong to my neighbors, and poverty be a mere passing cold. Then things change; I’m asked to do some work and grab the money I get. Then it’s, ‘Be happy, Nunu!’ ‘Thank God, Nunu!’ ‘Zaynab, go and buy us some meat!’ ‘Hasan, get some radishes!’ ‘Aisha, run out and buy us a melon!’ ‘Fill your stomach, Nunu!’ ‘Eat up, children!’ ‘Be grateful, you wives of Nunu!’ ”

That phrase “wives of Nunu” attracted Ahmad’s attention. He wondered exactly how many wives Nunu had in his harem. Would he be prepared to share his domestic secrets with the same frankness as he had used to detail his personal philosophy? The only way he could see to find out was to ask a trick question: “God is always there to help us. You obviously have a large family.”

“Eleven stars,” the man replied simply, “and four suns. Oh, and a single moon!” he went on, pointing to himself.

“You have four wives?” Ahmad asked after a pause.

“As God wills.”

“Aren’t you afraid of not being fair to them all?”

“And who’s to say that I’m unfair?”

“Do you rent four separate houses for them?”

“No, like you, sir, I’ve just one apartment. It has four rooms, and there’s a mother and her children in each one.”

Ahmad’s expression showed his astonishment as he stared at his companion in disbelief.

Boss Nunu’s laugh was filled with a certain pride. “Why are you so astonished, Ahmad Effendi?” he asked.

At this point Ahmad discovered a sense of daring that was unusual for him. “Why haven’t you been satisfied with just one?” he asked.

“One?” came the reply. “I’m a calligrapher. Women are just like calligraphy; no single one can make up for the others. One’s naskh, another ruq’a, another thuluth, and a fourth farsi. The only thing I have one of is God Almighty.”

“But aren’t four more than you need?”

“If only they were enough. God be praised, I can satisfy an entire city of women. I’m Boss Nunu, and my recompense is with God!”

“But how can you keep them all in one apartment? Don’t you know what people say about women’s jealousy?”

Boss Nunu gave a contemptuous shrug of his broad shoulders, then spat on the ground. “Are you going to believe everything people have to say about women, their jealousies and cunning? It’s all a smokescreen created by puny men. At base woman is a moist, malleable dough; it’s up to you to shape it as you wish. She is a creature deficient in both mind and religion, and you have to use two things to make her function properly: shrewd tactics and the stick. Each one of my wives is totally convinced that she’s my favorite; none of them has ever needed more than one sound thrashing. You search in vain for a home that is as happy and serene as mine; my wives are unrivaled for their modesty and competitive desire to keep me happy. That’s why none of them ever dared to get me angry when they found out that I have a girlfriend!”