Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

“We’ve heard that you’ve just come here from al-Sakakini,” said Kamal Khalil to open the conversation.

“Yes, sir,” replied Ahmad lowering his head, “that’s correct.”

“Is it true,” the man asked anxiously, “that very few people made it out of their houses?”

“The truth of the matter is,” replied Ahmad with a laugh, “that only one house was destroyed.”

“So much for rumors! What was it then that made such a terrible noise, the one that sounded as though it was inside our very homes?”

“That was in the sky!”

At this point Ahmad Rashid turned away from the radio; he obviously had not been paying much attention to it. “Is it true that a bomb landed but didn’t explode?” he asked.

Ahmad was delighted that the young man was now talking to him. He replied, “People say that two bombs did fall, but they were cordoned off and experts defused them.”

“What we need,” Ahmad Rashid went on, “is that Canadian specialist whom we’ve read about in reports on war news. Apparently he’s saved whole quarters in London.”

Sayyid Arif was an admirer of the Germans. “Are there any whole quarters of London left?” he asked with a scoff.

Ahmad Rashid smiled. “As you can tell, our friend supports the Germans!” he said.

“For medical reasons!” laughed Boss Nunu, completing Ahmad Rashid’s comment.

That made Sayyid Arif blush, but Boss Nunu refused to spare him. “Our friend, Sayyid Arif believes,” he went on with one of his enormous laughs, “that German medicine can restore one’s youth.”

Sayyid Arif frowned angrily. Obviously it was utterly inappropriate to make such a statement in the company of someone who had only just made their acquaintance. Ahmad Akif was well aware of what Boss Nunu’s motivations were in saying it, and yet he made sure that his facial expression showed no sign of having heard anything. Boss Nunu was anxious to repair any damage his remark may have caused, so he started telling their new guest about the new quarter he was living in, praising its virtues to the skies.

“This quarter is the real old Cairo,” said Ahmad Rashid, commenting on Boss Nunu’s description. “Crumbling remnants of former glories, a place that stirs the imagination, arouses a real sense of nostalgia, and provokes feelings of regret. If you look at it from an intellectual perspective, all you see is filth, a filth that we’re required to preserve by sacrificing human beings. It would be much better to knock the whole thing down so we could give people the opportunity to enjoy happy and healthy lives!”

Ahmad immediately realized that his new conversation partner had a seriousness about him that suggested that he might well be a smooth talker, and indeed someone of genuine intelligence; especially as his law degree gave him the kind of prestige that ignorant and naive people respected enormously. He was afraid that this man might outshine him, so he immediately assumed the offensive, ready to counterattack at any cost: “But old quarters do not necessarily imply filth; there are the memories of the past that are far more worthy than present-day realities, memories that can serve as the impetus for any number of qualities. The Cairo you’re anxious to wipe off the map is the city of al-Mu’izz, reflecting the glories of eras past. Compared with that city, where does today’s Cairo, all modern and indentured to others, belong?”

This ringing statement by Ahmad had a positive effect on the group, as was obvious from their expressions. That made him happy. Feeling pleased with himself, he was eager to use the moment to display his knowledge. “Forgive me, Ahmad Sir, but I’ve read many, many volumes about our history. I can tell you that what I’ve just said is established fact.”

“It’s clear,” Sayyid Arif commented, “that our friend Ahmad Effendi is fond of history.”

Ahmad was thrilled because this comment allowed him to show off his learning even more. “Actually,” he went on, “I am no fonder of history than any other branch of learning. Truth to tell, I’ve spent over twenty years in a quest for knowledge of all kinds.”

Everyone in the group looked in his direction with considerable interest. That made him feel even happier; it was the kind of admiration that made his heart leap for joy. He would have liked to read Ahmad Rashid’s expression behind his dark glasses.

“But why are you studying all these things, ‘Professor’?” Kamal Khalil asked Ahmad Akif. “Are you studying for a degree or something?”

Ahmad was thrilled to be called professor, but he didn’t like the rest of the question. “What degree is there,” he asked arrogantly, “that could possibly justify the long and comprehensive study that I have made of things? Degrees are just a kind of game young people compete over. My studies have only one quest, genuine learning. Maybe one day I’ll have done enough to think about publishing something.”

“But what do you mean when you say that degrees are merely a game?” Ahmad Rashid asked him with the kind of smile on his face that made the other Ahmad furious.

“A degree is no indication of learning,” Ahmad replied, doing his best to control his anger.

“Does it indicate ignorance then?”

His temper kept rising, so much so that he had to consciously suppress it. “What I mean,” he went on, “is that a degree merely demonstrates that a young person has spent a few years memorizing certain topics. Genuine learning is nothing like that!”

Ahmad Rashid gave a cryptic smile but then let the subject drop. In fact, he felt some sympathy for the sentiments that Ahmad Akif was expressing about university degrees. Beyond that, he was well aware of the passion with which the opinion was being expressed. All of which led him to surmise that there had to be other reasons for adopting the posture beyond the ones that had already been discussed. Ahmad Akif in turn was delighted by Ahmad Rashid’s withdrawal from the argument because he assumed it meant he had won in front of the group of plebeians he was sitting with in the café.

For a moment no one said anything. Boss Nunu started pouring more tea into the cups. Ahmad Akif looked around. For the first time he noticed a young boy sitting on a chair alongside Kamal Khalil Effendi; he could not decide whether the boy had been there when he arrived or whether he had come in while Ahmad was preoccupied with his argument about degrees. However, it took no more than a moment to confirm that the boy was Kamal’s son; even a passing glance made the family resemblance clear. Ahmad looked around some more, but soon focused on the boy again. There was something about his face, but he could not put his finger on it. He obviously could not stare at him for a long time, so he started sneaking perplexed glances in the boy’s direction from behind his teacup, from which he kept taking sips. What was it that so attracted his attention to that face and made him almost forget about the fierce argument he had just been having? He had a vague feeling that he had seen him before, particularly those wide eyes with their sweet, simple expression. Such feelings will nag their owner till some recollection will shed light on memories shrouded by the past. As a result he fell back on asking himself where and when he had seen that face before. Was it in al-Sakakini? On the trolley? At the ministry? In response to his stubborn inquiries, his memory treated him with a cruel mockery: an image would float up into his consciousness with glimpses back into times and places past, and he would tell himself he almost had it, but then everything would vanish into a profound darkness. The image would disappear, leaving behind yet more obscurity, ambiguity, and despair.

Eventually he reached the point of not wanting to recall anything that was not relevant to his chief concern, but the truth of the matter was that at this point his memory was not the only thing impinging upon his consciousness and confusing him. In fact, deep down he could feel something pulling his heart back in the direction of those honey-colored eyes and their sweet, simple expression. Every time he sneaked a look in that direction, a wave of longing and attraction swept over him. He was totally confused and felt abashed by the whole thing. The watchful eyes of the assembled company were warning enough. Clutching the handle of his teacup he stared at the floor, his heart pounding. Yet his imagination totally refused to forget about the boy, something that showed in both his facial expression and the look in his eyes, while his heart overflowed with affection and longing. His eyes were on the point of giving him away, but a combination of fear and anger managed to keep them under control. What on earth had come over him, he wondered.