Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

Gradually, the gunfire began to slow down, and then it could only be heard from one direction. Finally the last gun fell silent, and silence ensued. No one knew, needless to say, whether the firing would resume or the night’s punishment was at an end. Even so, people who had been feeling as if their very souls had come close to being seared, now began to relax a bit. There was a short period of silence, then the all-clear sirens went off. Everyone stood up, intoning the shahada as they did so.

Ahmad glanced over at his beloved goal. She was looking in his direction, and their eyes met. That made him so happy that it swept away all the traces of fear and panic he had just been feeling. He watched as she went ahead of her family toward the shelter door; when she reached it, she turned and gave him a very meaningful look. With that she went quickly up the stairs. Ahmad was so overjoyed by the situation that he assumed that she wanted him to follow her; after all, eyes are like instincts — they have their own secret and silent language. His innate shyness held him back, and yet the way she had rushed outside gave him a temporary courage that managed to overcome his shyness and hesitancy.

He headed toward the door ahead of his parents and their servant and made his way up the stairs, wondering all the while if he would run into her in front of the door. What was he supposed to say or do? However, he saw that her shadow had moved several yards away in the direction of the apartment. They were the only two who had left the shelter thus far; if he quickened his pace, he could catch up with her.

In less than a second, he would be able to walk with her along Ibrahim Pasha Street and go up the staircase together, alone. These ideas occurred to him immediately, but he didn’t make a move; actually he did move, but just a few steps. The distance between them actually increased until she was almost at the entrance to the building. Once again his bashfulness got the better of him. He started looking behind him as though asking his parents to catch up and get him out of this fix. With that, all fear, hesitation, desire, and hope came to an end.

In the company of his parents he made his way silently back to the apartment building, feeling a heartfelt sense of regret. As they started climbing the stairs, he looked up sadly, fully aware that if he had only been able to overcome his fears he could have had her to himself. Even so, he was still asking himself what he would have said to her. Just suppose he had plucked up the necessary courage and greeted her, and she in turn had greeted him with a smile, a word, or a gesture — notwithstanding the entire issue of how he should greet her, which posed a problem of its own. What was he supposed to say? “Good morning,” “Hello!” “Peace be upon you!” or what? Suppose he had done that, and she had replied, then what? Would they have said nothing else until they parted company by the door of his apartment? What are lovers supposed to say in situations like this? How many of them there are! In streets and on boats they whisper and confide in each other, so how was it he had lost the knack of speaking in their favorite tongue?

As he went back to his room, he was full of remorse, but still delighted. In fact, he was veritably drunk with the kind of happiness that is the heart’s most pleasant sensation of all. Whatever the case might be, he could not forget the way her look had issued a call to him — that in itself being one of the wonders of delight in the canons of emotion. In and of itself, that was enough to justify the particular joy he was feeling despite his bashfulness and regret. He glanced over at the window — which by now he was calling “Nawal’s window”—and his besotted heart urged him to look up to the balcony. Opening the window he looked up and, to his astonishment, saw that the door was open, the light in the room was lit, and the girl was standing right by the door. What on earth could have led her to stand by the door at this early hour? He could see her shadow, but the features of her face were obscured because the light was behind her. It was the same with his room, meaning that she could only see his shadow too. That was enough to encourage him to stay and stare at her. He had not been standing there for very long when he had the most wonderful surprise in his whole life: she greeted him with a gesture of her head! He was stunned, but this time it was not enough to stop him; he too nodded his head in greeting. The girl was obviously shy; as he watched, she went back inside and closed the balcony door. Then the light was turned off. Ahmad just stood there for a while, unaware of either the passage of time or of his own self. Shutting the window, he sank to his knees, placed his palms on his chest, and prayed in a low voice, “O God, praise and thanks be to Thee!”

The next morning he woke up exhausted. After all, joy is just like grief — an ancient foe of slumber. He was feeling so happy and full of joy that he simply brushed his tiredness aside. When in the past twenty years had he ever experienced such a joyous morning? He left the house happy and smiling, his heart beating like someone in the prime of youth. Now at last he had become a member of the particular group he had always regarded with envy and hatred: lover and loved. That morning his emotions were pure, completely unclogged by feelings of hatred and rancor. Even if it were just for a short while, he could have some respite from the specters of failure that swooped like bats over his dark memories. He felt no need to argue, confront, or get angry with any of the other employees at work. Instead, a dancing wave of contentment washed away the putrid, stagnant slime that lurked deep inside him.

When he went home at lunchtime he found a letter waiting for him. As soon as he took a look at the envelope, he recognized the handwriting — small, neat letters very similar to his own. He opened the letter with a smile and read its contents to the end.

“Rushdi is coming home on the morning of the day before Eid al-Fitr.”

Even though his parents had known ahead of time that his younger brother would be spending the Eid in Cairo, they were still thrilled by the news. However, the letter went on to convey some even happier news for the two parents.

“Rushdi goes on to say that an order’s been issued transferring him from Asyut to the headquarters in Cairo. He’s to get his new post there immediately after the Eid holiday.”

The parents were utterly delighted.

“We’ll have two festivals to celebrate,” Sitt Dawlat proclaimed. “I’ve missed him so much. I wonder how he’s managed to spend the entire year on his own in Asyut.”

“You’d better hope and pray,” Ahmad replied with a smile, “that he’s adopted a different lifestyle from the one he was following in Cairo before he left!”

Ahmad went to his room, took off his clothes, and lay down on the bed as usual to take a nap before evening — or rather, until his “love appointment” (as he now had to term it after such a notable day). The letter he had received from his brother temporarily distracted him from thoughts of sleep and the joyous feelings he was enjoying. Instead his mind was filled with memories of his younger brother.

It was rare for anyone to provoke such contradictory feelings as did Rushdi Akif in his elder brother’s mind, ranging from anger to love. Ahmad had felt a sense of real grievance when the need to stand surety for his younger brother had meant that he, Ahmad, would have to sacrifice his own future and the application of his genius! Then again, he had been annoyed when his brother had squandered his young adulthood by indulging in all kinds of diversions and pleasures and had refused to listen to reason. On the other hand, he loved his brother more than anything on earth, because the young man had shown his love for him in ways that far surpassed the love and respect he showed to his parents. He always remembered the way Ahmad had taken care of him and served as his benefactor. Rushdi adored his elder brother because the latter had crafted him with his own two hands, nourished him with his spirit, and spent his own money on his younger brother’s upbringing. Ahmad was both elder brother and loving parent. He had enjoyed his younger brother’s childhood, carrying him in his arms, teaching him to talk, and training him to walk. He had watched over him as a boy and directed his education. Later on, the younger brother’s success — after so much toil and trouble — had come as a reward for all the struggles his elder brother had undertaken and a proud achievement for his efforts. He was forever recalling his elder brother’s sacrifices on his behalf. Beyond all that, Rushdi was a lovable person: kind and cheerful, he had inherited from his mother the ability to open other people’s hearts without the slightest effort on his part; both of them — he and his mother — were generously endowed with beauty, sincerity, loyalty, and a fondness for company and conviviality. Unfortunately, those qualities were not accompanied by a similar level of moderation, poise, and commonsense. For him life was to be lived on the edge, at full throttle; everything had to be done to the maximum, and his natural bent pushed him forward without the slightest hint of restraint.