Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

“Consolation for the desolate, quaff for the merry.”

“How eager I am to make its acquaintance!”

“Just a tiny bit, and for every tight spot it’s fit.”

“That’s magic!”

“They’ve brought it from the land of the elephant for the delectation of the people of the Nile.”

“Are you serious?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of hashish?”

At the very mention of the word Ahmad started. For his part, the boss laughed.

“Oh, come on,” he said, “play along with me! Life’s full of things that give much more pleasure than books!”

Ahmad’s curiosity got the better of him. “Where?” he asked.

“If you agree and do me the honor,” the Boss continued, “I can take you there.”

“Aren’t you afraid of the police?”

“Let’s just say that I know how to keep them at bay. What about it?”

“That magical pastime doesn’t interest me at all. But thanks anyway, Boss.”

Back in his room he did his best to forget about his conversation with Nunu and his questionable pastimes. Instead he pictured Ahmad Rashid, the young lawyer, with all his complaints, enthusiasms, and violent gestures, and that made him feel angry, jealous, and vicious. He asked himself sadly how he could possibly have failed to absorb the world of modern knowledge, and how he would be able to fill in what he had missed. When would he be able to hold forth on Freud and Marx the way he could on the Brethren of Purity and Ibn Maymun? He spent some time pondering these issues and found it impossible to clear his mind for reading or even focus on it. Even so he stayed there, bent over his book without ever looking up. Such a posture — even when he felt distracted — was enough to convince him that his day would not have gone to waste by not acquiring some piece of culture, that being the thing he worried about the most. As a result an hour slipped by with his sense of superiority going through its own agonies.

Just then he had an idea, one that wafted its way into his heart like a gentle, moist breeze. It managed to douse the flames in his angry heart and leave it clean and fresh. He beamed. How lovely and joyful life would be, he thought to himself, if only chance and fate, coincidences and agreements, people and characters, all of the things he encountered could be like those two honey-colored eyes that exuded such sweet simplicity. Just then he recalled — somewhat to his own surprise — that Ramadan had long had a place of affection in his own heart. It had been in that month that his heart had first fluttered with love. Just like seeing the light of the world for the first time, it was a strange sensation, one that never again hits one with the same impact. It was then that he had seen the girl with whom he had wanted to share the rest of his life, but he had failed. Now here was Ramadan again, and once more his heart was brushing away the cold, dank fog from its surface in order to open up to rays of sunshine with their invigorating warmth. His mind was one of those that can find a piece of worldly wisdom in every little coincidence. Whereas other people might regard such things as mere coincidences with no real significance, for him they all contain hidden wisdom. That is why he now stared dreamily in front of him, his face a blank. Eyebrows raised, he opened his mouth. “So, Ramadan,” he whispered excitedly to himself, “what will you bring this time?”

Next afternoon he jumped up and stood in front of the mirror to shave, something he usually did only twice a week. Normally he was not bothered if people saw him unshaven, but now he had decided to change his ways; from now on, he was going to shave every day.

Once he had finished, he put on a clean gallabiya and a gleaming white skullcap (needed to hide his balding head), then sat on the edge of his bed staring hesitantly at the window. It was not merely a matter of shaving or wearing a white skullcap. He had to ask himself what lay behind this burst of enthusiasm and this abrupt change in behavior. Was he careening ahead without any pause for thought or reflection? What exactly was it he wanted? Today it might well seem like a game, but tomorrow things could become serious. Above all he had to keep in mind his own bad luck and miserable history. Would it not be better, he wondered, to leave the window shut and forget about the implications involved in opening it? However, life never listens to logic of such a kind; neither prudence nor caution has a role to play. He was burning with thirst and consumed by desire.

He stood up again, his expression a study in determination, went over to the window, and opened it. Leaning on the windowsill he looked down, then slowly raised his gaze until it reached the floor of the balcony above. He could see the chair legs and the edge of the shawl — the one she had been embroidering the evening before — dangling between them. Just then, shyness got the better of him, and he looked down again, like some bashful child. He kept looking down, fully aware all the while that her eyes were boring a hole in his head. He was afraid the opportunity would be lost and he would miss the chance to look at her. Overcoming his shyness, he looked up again, only to find the chair empty and the shawl draped over the chair. Had she been there when he had opened the window and then had to go back inside? Or had she not been there at all? Whatever the case may have been, he felt frustrated and his enthusiasm flagged. Even more than before, he was now afraid he might not see her at all that day. The possibility of seeing her tomorrow was not enough to let him forget missing her today. He had gone to great pains to insure that today she would see him looking his very best, but now that entire hope had gone and the effort had been totally wasted. He looked down again in despair, but then, just a few moments before the cannon was fired, he heard a rustling sound from the balcony. Looking up, he spotted the girl coming out and bending over the chair to pick up the shawl. For a fleeting second their eyes met, but then she stood up straight, turned around, and went back inside again. That was all he needed. Had she looked at him any longer, he would have been all flustered and bashful. In fact, she had looked away as quickly as had been needed for her to grab hold of his very soul; a beautiful offering, without travail or pain. Thereafter, that particular sunset hour turned into the conjunction of all his hopes, the beaming smile of his dearest wishes; it gave the entire day its essence, its goal, its very meaning. As far as he was concerned, it was enough that he had had his fill of those elements of perfect simplicity and delight that flowed from her honey-colored eyes; for the rest of the day he could sate himself on the pleasure and dreams that they held in store. Two afternoons in a row she had come outside to sit on the balcony, and their eyes had met.

By now he was growing accustomed to seeing her lovely person, and perhaps she too was getting used to seeing him. Even so, he still felt flustered and shy. Every time the wonderful moment arrived, he looked at her with the staid, serious, and timid expression of someone who was on the point of running away. In his imagination he could now see her clearly. Her honey-colored eyes exuded a blend of purity, simplicity, and loveliness, eyes whose expressions suggested both inquisitiveness and acceptance, while their sprightly quality lent them a veil of wisdom and warmth.

Then came the evening when he was on the point of leaving his room to go to the café. The doorbell rang just as he was getting to the door. When he opened it, he found himself facing Sitt Tawhida and her daughter Nawal! For a moment, he simply stared at them both, taken aback by the joy that had hit him so suddenly. But then he recovered his senses and stood aside. “Please come in,” he stammered.