Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

The look she gave him was a blend of reproach and entreaty, but then she smiled. “Oh, you’re impossible!” she responded with a blink of her bespectacled eyelids. “How many times have you started an argument with your own mother for no reason at all, as though she isn’t the one who has loved you and spoiled you to death? Are you pretending to be so poor, when you’re obviously well-off? Are you pretending to forget that it’s your turn now to spoil your mother a bit? I’ve no intention of ever causing you, the best of sons, any hardship. We always manage to make do with just a little, in honor of you!”

He was well aware that she would never give up until she had her way.

“Uh-huh,” he sighed in despair.

“Uh-huh to the idea of a feast day with no cookies. Are we supposed to celebrate the feast day without cookies, when you’re the man of the house?”

“Cookies are for kids!”

“And men and women as well. The feast’s for everyone. Haven’t you noticed that your father’s bought himself a new cloak for the feast-day prayers? You’ve bought yourself a new suit, fez, and shoes — good for you in the name of the All-Merciful! As far as I’m concerned, celebrating the feast involves kneading, sculpting, sprinkling sugar, and stuffing with honey-sesame paste!”

The next morning, the day before the Eid, he made his way to the Cairo train station to await his younger brother’s arrival. It was damp but not too cold, so he sat down on a bench on the platform for trains coming from the South. There were only a few minutes left before the train was supposed to arrive. As usual, he felt a bit panicky around steam trains puffing smoke and blowing shrill whistles. He had never had to meet a train before; in fact, he had never left the boundaries of Cairo itself. He had absolutely no desire to travel or take trips. As far as he was concerned, a prison term would be more tolerable than living in a distant country. No doubt it was his fear of any encounter with the outside world that fueled this hatred of travel, but the way he himself explained it — following his usual pattern of justifying his behavior and temperament — was that it was the natural path for an intellectual who much preferred the world of ideas and avoided material things as much as possible. After all, hadn’t the great poet Abu al-Ala’ al-Ma’arri lived his entire life in devotion to religious obligations? The thing that managed to lessen his sense of panic was the joy he was feeling because his brother, Rushdi, was coming back to Cairo — his own brother, almost his son. Not to mention his assumption that Rushdi would be able to help him shoulder the family burdens that up until now had fallen on his shoulders alone. He was hoping as well that his brother would manage to bring some fun and pleasure into his life.

Before long everyone’s necks were craning toward the southern direction, and the place was full of all kinds of movement and activity. He too looked in the same direction and watched as the train slowly made its way into the station. Almost immediately the din of the engine could be heard and the ground started shaking; as it gradually approached the platform, the train filled one’s entire field of vision. Heads were poking out of every open window as it drew to a halt alongside the long platform. Everyone rushed forward. With people rushing all around him, Ahmad scanned the windows until he caught sight of his brother at the front of one of the second-class carriages. Rushdi was handing his suitcase down to one of the porters. Ahmad yelled out his name and gave his brother a wave as he ran toward the carriage. The young man turned toward him, then leapt down from the carriage, and stood in front of his brother. The two brothers greeted each other warmly.

“I’m glad you’ve arrived home safe and sound!” said Ahmad, clasping his brother’s arm. “How are you?”

“I’m very well, brother,” Rushdi replied happily, his face somewhat flushed as a result of the journey’s exertions.

Amid a horde of other people the two brothers walked side by side toward the exit. They were of roughly the same height and had the same thin build. Even though Ahmad looked somewhat crumpled and his younger brother much fresher, there was no mistaking the fact that they were brothers. Their facial features were similar too, except that in Rushdi’s case they were more handsome while Ahmad’s face sagged a bit and more often than not he was frowning and looking tired. Rushdi had the same long, thin face, but his cheeks were not as pale as Ahmad’s, and, while his olive skin may have turned a bit sallow recently, he still looked in the full flush of youth. His eyes were elongated and widely spaced, but their irises were larger. That made his looks seem more piercing; his eyes had a glow to them that suggested a sharp mind, a propensity for fun, and a willingness to take risks.

As they walked shoulder to shoulder, they soon felt the irresistible urge to chat, as is only to be expected with people who have been apart for a long time. They had no idea where to start, what to talk about and what not. It was the younger brother who started things.

“Before anything else,” he asked his brother, “how’s Mother?”

“As well as you could wish her to be. She’s still pursuing those childish fancies of hers without caring in the slightest about the way it affects me. So go ahead and grab your portion of it!”

“All the time I’ve been in Asyut, I’ve never forgotten my portion of it! I’ve bought her some ivory ornaments, nice plates, and subtle scents that will suit her lady friends, I hope.” (He gave a loud laugh at that.) “And how’s Father?”

“Just as you remember him: prayers at home and visits to the mosque. Now we’re living close to the al-Husayn Mosque, so may he find blessings there.”

Smiling, Rushdi said, “I must say, I was amazed when I heard you had all moved to the al-Husayn district.”

By now they had reached the Station Square, where they took a taxi. Rushdi paid the porter a tip, and then the taxi took off and crossed the broad square. Rushdi’s lovely light brown eyes scanned the scene, taking in all the cars, carts, trolleys, and pedestrians.

“My head’s almost spinning,” he said, banging his forehead with a finger. “It’s as though I’m seeing trolleys and the metro for the first time ever. Do you remember the joke about the country yokel who comes to Cairo for the first time? No sooner does he look at this teeming square than he panics. He goes straight back to the train. ‘I’ve arrived too late,’ he tells himself sorrowfully, ‘everyone’s leaving!’ ”

Ahmad laughed out loud. He had always loved his brother’s sense of humor and his basic simplicity. Luckily Rushdi was no university type in the literal sense of the term; not for him academic topics or any concern with memorizing their technical terms. But for that, he would have been a clone of Ahmad Rashid. What’s more, he was one of the people actually taken in by Ahmad’s pseudo-erudition; he regarded his brother as a genuine intellectual and was as convinced as his brother that the other possessed a fine mind. For his part, Ahmad was delighted by the way his brother believed in him and regarded him as a symbol of the Egyptian University’s certification of his superior genius.

“Cairo’s one of God’s gifts to mankind!” enthused Rushdi. “It’s this world and the next all rolled into one. Day and night, heaven and hell, East and West. The entire process is a miracle!”

“You must have been very bored in Asyut.”

“Any place other than Cairo would be equally boring!”

Ahmad stared at him. “For people like you, prison’s the best place. In any case your expression doesn’t look very relaxed.”