Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

“That’s Sayyid Arif and his wife,” the young man whispered.

“His wife?” Ahmad asked abashed. “How did he get married to her?”

“The way people do,” Ahmad Rashid replied. “He’s a perfectly normal man, apart from a critical condition about which he remains hopeful, especially given those German pills, and he won’t.…”

Ahmad Rashid had no time to finish the sentence because at that moment he was interrupted by a loud bang followed by a whole string of others. Ahmad Akif’s heart skipped a beat. He felt as if his whole body gave a jolt, and that bothered him in case his great rival noticed. Total silence followed, and everyone looked panicked and scared.

“Those are the anti-aircraft guns,” people said as a way of reassuring themselves and everyone else, but all it managed to do — whether intentionally or not — was to make people even more nervous and angry.

A man came rushing in from the outside. “The sky’s full of searchlights,” he said.

That made people even more anxious. There were other explosions farther away which lasted for a while and then stopped. Once again there was complete silence, which went on for quite a while. People started to relax a bit. First there were a few whispers, then everyone burst into conversation.

“The disaster of random air raids won’t happen again!”

“Radio Berlin has apologized for the raid in mid-September.”

“It was an Italian raid. The Germans don’t make mistakes!”

Ahmad Rashid allowed himself a smile. “Do you see how fanatical these people are in supporting the Germans?” he said. “What about you? Are you the same way?”

As usual, Ahmad Akif relished the chance to empathize with the underdog. Since the majority were supporting the Germans, he was glad to express an opposing viewpoint. “No,” he replied, “I’m for the Allies, heart and soul. What about you?”

“I’ve just one hope,” said Ahmad Rashid, adjusting his spectacles. “I want the Russians to win, and then they can liberate the world from chains and illusions!”

They both moved away from the people who were chatting. At the very end of the other side of the shelter, to the right of the entryway, they spotted their friend Kamal Khalil with his family. Ahmad Akif looked at them carefully and saw a very fat woman, the young boy, Muhammad, still in his pajamas, and the beautiful girl with the honey-colored eyes. Now he could see for himself the game that love had played with him; he was thrilled to discover that the connection he had made a few hours earlier was correct. He could not keep on staring at her, so he turned away feeling delighted and fulfilled.

“Kamal Khalil and his family,” he heard Ahmad Rashid say.

“Is the girl his daughter?” he asked.

“Yes, he has Muhammad, Nawal, and an elder daughter who’s married.”

He sneaked another glance at her in order to fill himself with that lovely, simple expression so full of charm. She had wrapped herself in a winter coat, and her long black hair was done up in a thick plait. She was looking drowsy and let out a big yawn. At that point Kamal Khalil spotted them both and came over with a smile. They stood there chatting. Ahmad Akif realized that the fact that Kamal had come over to talk to them meant that the family must be paying attention to them; it was not out of the question that those two honey-colored eyes were looking him over — if they had not done so already — with his flowing gallabiya and white skullcap. He suddenly felt shy and blushed. Did she remember him, he wondered. But they did not stay talking for long, because the all-clear siren went off and the shelter resumed its normal busy routine. Ahmad Akif said farewell to his two companions and went back to his parents.

“So you leave us alone while the raid’s on,” said his father angrily, “and you come back when the all-clear is given!”

“God is always with us, whatever the circumstances!” said his mother with a laugh.

Moving very slowly they made their way amid the mass of people toward the shelter’s exit and climbed the stairs to the street. The light from windows illuminated the way as they climbed up to their apartment. As they went upstairs with everyone else, Ahmad could recognize Kamal Khalil’s voice. Ahmad hurried to his bedroom in the hope of getting to sleep again, but for a long time all he could see were those two honey-colored eyes and the lovely image they presented.

The fasting month of Ramadan now approached; there were just a few days left before it started. But Ramadan never arrived unexpectedly, and its advent was always preceded by preparations to accord with its sacred status. Ahmad’s mother was never going to be one to shirk her duties in that regard, she being the person in the household primarily responsible for making sure that the month was properly observed and respected. One day she made it the topic of family conversation.

“It’s a month that brings its own rules as well as obligations,” she said, obviously directing her remarks at Ahmad.

He was well aware of the point she was making. “For sure Ramadan has its rules,” he replied defensively, “but war is a bitter necessity for all of us. It overrides all other obligations.”

His mother was very unhappy at that remark. “God forbid that we should ever break our customs,” she said.

That managed to arouse his miserly streak. “Ramadan can pass just like any other month,” he said in an exasperated tone. “We can make up for the things we missed doing sometime in the future when there’s peace.”

“But what about Ramadan treats: candied almonds, honey cakes, and mini-stuffed pancakes?”

Even though he was feeling annoyed, the very mention of those treats had a magical effect on him, not merely because he loved them so much but also because they invoked happy memories of the beloved month and especially his childhood. Even so, such memories, wonderful though they might be, were not enough to counteract the bitter reality of inflation or to soften his frugality.

So, even though in his heart of hearts he longed to go along with the idea, he delivered a firm refusal. “Let’s forget about such luxuries as long as we’re living through these difficult times. Let’s beg God Almighty to help us with the bare necessities of life.”

His father gave the impression of not paying much attention, but in fact he was listening carefully to what his son was saying. He was inclined to agree with his wife’s position, but did not have the necessary courage to say this in so many words. However, he intervened at the crucial moment.

“There’s no need for us to either stint or be extravagant,” he said.

His son realized full well that his father was taking his mother’s side, and he certainly could not talk to him as bluntly as he had to his mother. From a very early age he had learned to respect his father. As was always the case, the last thing he wanted to do was to ignore the hand extended to him for help now that he had become his father’s primary source of support. With that in mind, he made no comment although he felt awkward and unsure of what to say.

It was his father who eventually spoke. “We can make do,” he said, “with some pine-nuts and raisins for stuffing and a packet of apricot drink mix to whet the whistle. We need only have honey-cake just once, and the stuffed pancakes twice; they don’t need to be cooked in fat. All that won’t cost a lot.”

The whole thing appalled him. He was sure that during Ramadan they would spend what little he usually saved every month. He might even have to withdraw an additional amount from his savings account. That idea really stuck in his craw. Just then he remembered something else that was even more significant than the honey cake and candied almonds.