Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

“What about our religion then?”

The young man raised his eyebrows in amazement. If Ahmad Akif had been able to look behind the dark glasses, he would have spotted a look of sheer contempt.

“Utter naiveté!” the young man muttered.

Ahmad Akif had read the religious philosophy of the Brethren of Purity. There were two reasons why he was anxious to summarize it for his obnoxious companion: firstly to defend himself against the charge of merely following the popular view of religion; and secondly as a means of baffling his companion just as much as the latter had done to him.

“Religion constitutes a sensory phenomenon for people in general and a rational essence for intellectuals. It involves truths that intellectuals should have no problems believing in, such as God, divine law, and the active intellect.”

His companion gave a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. “Come now,” he said, “our contemporary scholars know about the elements contained in the atom and the millions of stars that lie beyond our own galaxy. Where is God in all that? A load of religious myths! What’s the point of thinking about issues that cannot be solved, when we face any number of problems that can and must be solved?”

The young man gave Ahmad a furtive smile. “Needless to say,” he went on, altering his tone of voice, “we mustn’t include anyone else in this particular conversation.”

“Of course, of course! But never forget that disbelief is always the point at which knowledge begins.”

Their conversation was interrupted by an angry outburst from Sulayman Ata. Apparently Sayyid Arif, his opponent at backgammon, had finally provoked him with all his blather.

“What a wise and just God who’s deprived you of your powers!”

Ahmad Akif recalled what had been said about Sayyid Arif just an hour earlier and smiled at Ahmad Rashid, who smiled back meaningfully.

“Our friend keeps taking those pills,” he said, “with sincere hope and belief in their effectiveness!”

At this point both of them noticed a group of men in gallabiyas gathered around the café entrance, each of them clutching a huge wad of bank notes. The entire scene was astonishing for the contradictions it implied.

“Maybe they’re war profiteers,” Ahmad Akif suggested.

“You’re right,” his companion responded. “They’re leaving one class in order to join another.”

“The war’s managed to lift a number of people out of the lower classes.”

“Lower classes, you say! True enough, but there’s no real gap between lower and upper classes any more. Today’s aristocrats are yesterday’s poor. Surely you realize that in the past marauding mobs could grab our land by right of conquest. The same is true now with the upper classes. They all wallow in their prestige, power, and privileges without limit.”

For the first time he was inclined to concur with his companion without any argument.

“I agree with that,” he said.

“It’s Marx’s view,” the young man went on, “that the working classes will eventually win, and the world will turn into a single class where everyone can enjoy the necessities of life and human fulfillment. That’s what socialism is.”

Neither of them said any more, as though they were both exhausted. Ahmad Akif started pondering: What ideas! Freud and Marx, atoms and millions of planets, socialism! His facial expression showed signs of a burning hatred and disgust. It had never occurred to him that in Khan al-Khalili he would come across someone who could challenge his own cultural identity and force him to acknowledge that there was always going to be more to be learned. Would he never be able to find any peace in this world?

With that the young man took off his glasses to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief, only to reveal that his left eye was actually made of glass. For just a moment he was astonished, but then a wave of malicious satisfaction poured over him as he realized that the other man’s eye condition gave him at least one way of exerting his sense of superiority.

He stayed there for a short while longer, but then left to go home, his mind churning and his dignity outraged. Fortunately for him, at that very moment he remembered the young boy, and that completely changed his mood. A cool moist breeze wafted across his burning senses and blew away the anger and hatred. Those honey-colored eyes appeared once again, with the coy expression. He gave a deep sigh. “I’m bound to see him again,” he told his heart.

When he woke up the next morning, he was full of energy. Opening his window, he leaned out and found his amazing new quarter gradually rousing itself. Storefronts were being raised and window shutters opened; milk and newspaper sellers were wending their way through the patchwork of streets yelling their wares in non-stop chorus. He noticed a group of religious school students heading for their school in groups, wearing black jubbas and white turbans. They reminded him of popcorn in a pan. He listened with pleasure as they intoned a verse from the Qur’an: “Has there ever come on man a period of time when he was a thing unrecorded?” He let his gaze follow them as they proceeded on their way; eventually they reached the end of the sura: “He allows whomever He wishes to enter into His mercy; for evildoers he has reserved a painful punishment.” That last phrase immediately put him in mind of Ahmad Rashid, the lawyer: there was someone for whom God had reserved a painful punishment, and he thoroughly deserved it!

That afternoon, he sat with his mother in the lounge drinking coffee.

“Today I had a visit from the neighborhood women,” she told him, obviously very happy. “They came over to welcome me and make my acquaintance as is the custom.”

Ahmad was well aware of his mother’s ability to get to know people and her fondness for visiting other families. “That’s very nice for you,” he replied with a smile.

With a laugh she took a cigarette from him and lit it. “There were some really nice women,” she went on. “They’ll be able to fill the void in our strange new surroundings with their warmth and contentment.”

“It could be,” said Ahmad, “that you’ll soon be forgetting your old friends in al-Sakakini, al-Zahir, and Abbasiya.”

That was too much for her.

“How can a decent person ever forget her true friends?” she exclaimed. “They’re my heart and soul. However far apart we may be, distance will never be able to separate us.”

“What are the women in this quarter like?”

“They’re not lower-class folk,” she replied carefully, fully prepared to leap to their defense if needed, “nor are they uncivilized as you may have imagined. Remember that it’s not fair to judge people without really getting to know them. One of them is married to an official in the Survey Department named Kamal Khalil, and another one is the wife of yet another official from the same department named Sayyid Arif. I also had visits from the wife of the owner of the Zahra Café and his sister. The wife’s a nice lady, but the owner’s sister needs to be watched; the mean streak in her was obvious enough from her expression, even though she made a big effort to keep it hidden.”

“Flatter her and people like her. She’ll only show her true colors when she can dig up some dirt about you.”

“Heaven forbid, son! Something even more odd happened today. I met Sitt Tawhida, the wife of Kamal Khalil Effendi — who is as broad as your own mother when she was younger — she’s an old friend of mine! I used to know her well from Bahla the perfumer’s shop in al-Tarbi’a.”

“You’d both try to outdo each other with diet pills!”