Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

The problem was that the window still maintained its loyal connection to the balcony above; both of them seemed to be adhering to a pledge that neither of them had actually undertaken. Eyes had met; acquaintance and even familiarity had followed. Spirits had felt a mutual attraction unimpeded by either silence or shyness. By now he had started to believe that — taking his beloved’s sweet and unsullied glances into consideration — he had misjudged her teacher, Ahmad Rashid, allowing his emotions and thoughts to get the better of him. That young man was much too involved in socialist ideas and the eradication of outworn beliefs to be bothered about matters of love and flirtation. That thought allowed him a brief taste of the purest nectar of hope, and soon afterward fate dealt his hope and self-confidence a boost.

One afternoon late in Ramadan his father kept him busy and he wasn’t able to make his expected appearance by the window. Next day he waited patiently at the normal time, but discovered that the balcony was shut! He waited and waited in the hope that the balcony would open and the girl come outside, but it was in vain. He would have thought that the same kind of thing was keeping her inside as had been the case with him the day before, but he caught a glimpse of her shadow behind the balcony door. It was now clear that she had shut the balcony door on purpose just as he had done with the window the day before. All of which meant, if he was interpreting things correctly, that she had noticed his absence yesterday; in fact, she may have been annoyed and decided to get her revenge. And now, here she was, doing just that. He was inclined to believe this interpretation of events, and yet the revenge did not cause him any anguish; quite the contrary in fact, he was utterly delighted. He was so happy that he started snapping his fingers and pacing his room totally oblivious to everything around him.

The next day he approached the window with an entirely new outlook, full of confidence and hope. He could feel that she was there even before he lifted his eyes. He had decided to give her a quizzical look, as though to ask her, “Why did you disappear yesterday?” Now was the time to implement the plan. He lifted his small head, and their eyes locked on to each other. He summoned every ounce of courage in his body to raise his eyebrows and move his head in a questioning gesture. He gathered his determination, as one does just before plunging for a dive in a swimming pool for the first time. But he waited just a moment too long, and his mind snatched the opportunity to inject a sense of doubt and fear into his thinking. He was afraid of making a mess of things once again. With that his determination flagged, and he abandoned his plan.

That night he blamed himself for what had happened and banged his bald pate. “Where’s your masculinity?” he asked himself angrily. Here he was in love with her, with her honey-colored eyes, her sweet naive looks, her sense of fun. He loved her because his dreams — they being the sole art in this world that he had truly mastered — refused to be apart from her for a single hour. He loved her because he was hungry — at the age of forty — and hunger was a primary instigator of dreams.

Then came the Night of Power during the blessed month of Ramadan. The family celebrated it in style: the breakfast table was graced with roasted chicken and a tray of kunafa. At suppertime Sitt Dawlat started by wishing her husband good health and her children long life and happiness. Akif Effendi, the father of the household, went to the al-Husayn Mosque to witness the celebration put on by a group of Qur’an readers on this most favored of nights.

The night was a happy one, but just before dawn, as the family was going to bed, the air-raid sirens went off. They put on their clothes and rushed down to the shelter along with all the other inhabitants of the apartment building. By now they were all so thoroughly familiar with the route that they did not need any help from servants. Ahmad felt both alarmed and secretly happy, the latter because the shelter would bring him that much closer to Nawal; he could feast his eyes on her beloved countenance. Once in the shelter, he noticed Ahmad Rashid and Sayyid Arif chatting, so he went over and joined them. They were standing close to the most visible corner of the room.

“Have you heard what Sayyid Effendi has just told me?” Ahmad Rashid asked as soon as he saw Ahmad Akif. “He says that Sulayman Ata was engaged to the daughter of the perfumer today!”

“That’s right,” said Sayyid Arif with a smile, “a truly blessed event!”

“Just see how money can have its way with beauty,” Ahmad Rashid commented angrily. “The very worst aspect of this world of ours is the way lofty virtues and values can be subjected to animal necessities. How could that lovely girl have allowed herself to give her hand to such a foul ape? Their union is not a real marriage, it’s a double crime: robbery on the one hand and rape on the other. Her beauty will continue to reflect his ugliness, while his ugliness will reflect her crass greed.”

He gave a cryptic smile, then went on, “Such a crime could never be committed in a socialist system!”

Someone else chimed in at this point. “Didn’t they tell us,” he asked angrily, “that the Germans wouldn’t be conducting air raids during Ramadan?”

Sayyid Arif looked in his direction. “The English are bombing Tripoli,” he said, “and they’re Muslims too.” He then turned to his two companions. “There’s no military reason for the English to bomb Tripoli,” he said with complete confidence. “They just want to force the Germans to bomb Cairo!”

Ahmad Akif did not pay any attention to the discussion; but stared silently through the indifferent throng. However, he did not have much time to enjoy it, because a gruff voice suddenly yelled, “Shut up, everyone! Aircraft noise!” With that, the entire place fell silent, with everyone listening.

“No, it’s not,” another voice chimed in. “That’s the police car!”

“Yes it is,” the first voice insisted. “It’s aircraft noise. Listen!”

Everyone listened, and sure enough, there was the sound of a plane diving from high in the sky. Ahmad’s heart gave a leap. He looked over at his parents; his mother had her eyes aimed at the ceiling, while his father had his closed. Then they heard the sound of an anti-aircraft gun being fired in the distance, followed by intermittent gunfire. For a moment the noise stopped, but then it resumed even louder than before. Now the gunfire was non-stop and completely random. Everyone began to panic and started blathering hysterically.

Someone who was feeling scared tried desperately to sound calm. “That explosion was Almaza for sure,” he said.

Everyone took comfort from what he said, albeit unconsciously.

Ahmad went over to his parents. “How are you, Papa?” he asked, even though he was feeling as scared and edgy as everyone else.

“God our Creator is here!” was his father’s quavering response.

The sound of gunfire continued, and its sources became even more numerous. Sayyid Arif started identifying the source of every single round of fire, as though he was some kind of expert on the subject. “Abbasiya that one,” “Almaza,” “Bulaq,” “that one’s from the Citadel,” and so on.

This was followed by a round of fire that was the loudest yet. “That’s a German gun,” said Sayyid Arif. “The government purchased it from Germany before the war.”

People started getting aggravated at this kind of talk and told them to stop. The noise intensified, and there were yet more moments of extremely violent gunfire which went on for quite a while. Everyone’s nerves were on edge. In actuality, it was not a very long time, but the tense period involved needed to be measured more in terms of rapid breathing and pounding hearts. It felt as though everyone was carrying the burdens of fate on their shoulders.