Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

Thus did this chronic disease grab hold of them all, turning people who were trying to kill time into victims. Rushdi became a hard-core gambler who worshipped chance and submitted to the dictates of omens. When he opened the window in the morning, he might say something like, “If I happen to meet two passersby, then I’ll have good luck; if only one, then today I’ll be a loser.” Or on his way to breakfast he might mutter to himself, “If there’s beans in ghee for breakfast, then today’ll be a winner; but if they’re in oil, then too bad!”

All these thoughts were interrupted when he got off the trolley, and took the number 10 that would take him back to the quarter where they had lived before. His nostalgia began to make itself felt now. As al-Sakakini drew close, he began to feel a deep sense of pain and powerful emotion. Getting off the trolley he made his way to the casino. He spotted his friends in their usual place in the garden outside, or rather he saw their silhouettes, because by now it was completely dark. All of which made him realize that he had arrived at just the right time, before everyone went into the gaming hall. He made his way over with a broad smile on his face and placed himself in the middle of the group. They all recognized him and yelled in unison, “Rushdi Akif! Welcome back, Lionheart!”

He was delighted to hear his nickname, one that they had given him because of the reckless way he used to gamble. They all embraced each other warmly. Like him, they were all in their mid-thirties. Some of them had gone to school with him, while others had grown up with him in al-Sakakini. But, where crazy and anti-social behavior and flagrantly reckless decisions were concerned, they were all of one stripe.

“So that’s the way things are, is it?” one of them said. “We were inseparable day and night, and now you only show up at feast time?”

Rushdi took his seat. “From now on,” he replied with a laugh, “you’re going to be seeing me every day, or, to be more precise, every night!”

“How can that be?” one of the others asked.

“I’ve been transferred back to Cairo,” he replied.

“You’re not going back to Asyut ever again?”

“No!”

“May God so will it!”

“How did you manage to survive a whole year without playing cards?” another friend asked. “We’ve certainly missed seeing your cash!”

“Oh, there are gaming tables in Asyut as well,” Rushdi replied. “As for the rest, the feeling is reciprocal.”

They started talking about Asyut, until Rushdi asked, “How do you plan to spend the time tonight?”

“The way we’ve spent all the others. We’re going into the gaming hall pretty soon.”

“That’s fine. But what about two or three glasses of cognac?”

“How about four or five?”

“Or six or seven?”

At this point someone else made a different suggestion. “Look,” he said, “tomorrow’s the Eid. Let’s postpone getting plastered until tomorrow.”

“Never postpone today’s work until tomorrow!”

“What’s the sex life in Asyut like?” someone else asked him.

“Don’t even ask. Involuntary celibacy!”

“Here it’s almost as bad as in the provinces now. The allied armies are devouring meat, fruit, and women as well.”

“At long last,” another friend commented, “Jewish girls have discovered the virtues of knowing English.”

“You can easily spot them, all decked out in silk. If you block their path, they stare daggers at you and tell you in a genuine Scottish accent to please behave like a gentleman!”

“My dear Rushdi, all the servant women have broken their contracts and gone to work in the cabarets.”

“This war’s provided a wonderful occasion for them to discover their hidden artistic talents.”

Rushdi seemed perplexed. “So what’s to be done then?” he asked with a smile “Are we supposed to start thinking about getting married?”

“If this war goes on and things get worse and worse, you and I are going to be the only bachelors around!”

“Friends, you’re not being entirely fair to either the Jewish girls or the servants. The truth of the situation is that they’ve been alarmed by the lack of any involvement in the war on our part. That’s why they’ve decided to use their own honor as a way of participating in the Allies’ cause.”

“Women now have become more expensive than fertilizer!”

“Even harder to get than coal.”

“What if the war were to come to an end tomorrow? What are all those women going to do?”

“They’ll become even cheaper than a Japanese woman!”

“And love-making will take place in groups. Any young man will be able to find three women in a single night: one for kissing, one for chatting, and a third for fondling, and so on.”

“Unless the government intervenes, of course, in order to maintain the normal prices!”

Rushdi’s laugh was that of someone who had been deprived of their company for a whole year. They all continued drinking and chatting until nine o’clock, at which point they got up to go into their beloved gaming hall.

That night Rushdi made a lot of money, at least by their reckoning: his total winnings before midnight were three pounds, added to which was the sum of thirty piasters as midnight itself approached — that being the agreed time to close the session. They then all got up from the table. Rushdi had seemed absolutely delighted during the game itself, being someone whose emotions are clearly visible on their face. He had started singing quietly as though humming a serenade and only stopped when one of his companions who was losing badly yelled at him, “For heaven’s sake, stop singing. You’re getting on my nerves!”

When they were out on the street, one of them suggested that they continue the game at his house.

“So be it!” they all responded in unison.

“What about you?” he asked Rushdi.

“I agree,” Rushdi replied with a laugh, “but only on condition that you let me sing!”

They all made their way to their host’s house on Abu Khudha Street. Once they had prepared the gaming table, they started playing again with an insatiable relish. The windows in the room were closed, and the heat came from their own breath. Alcohol had inflamed their innards, and they were pouring sweat. At two o’clock in the morning, someone said, “Enough! If we don’t stop now, we’ll be spending the whole Eid day asleep!”

With that they stopped playing. By this time, Rushdi had lost everything he had earned and the thirty piasters as well.

One of them joked with him, “That license we gave you to sing didn’t get you very far, did it?”

They all laughed. Rushdi managed to keep his anger under control and laughed along with them. With that he said goodnight and headed for Abbasiya, but all public transport had long since stopped. He set out for the al-Husayn quarter where the family now lived and found the road totally empty; there was total silence, and the darkness was all-encompassing. He felt hot all over and was plastered with sweat; his throat felt dry as well. He felt as though he were being swallowed by the thick humidity that fall always provides in profusion, especially in the very early morning. Before long a shiver of cold ran through his body, wracking his chest and clogging his nostrils. Being the last night of the lunar month, everything was pitch-black. What made him even angrier was that it was cloudy, and so the stars were hidden. On both sides of the road the old mansions looked like ghosts sitting cross-legged as they dozed. He started talking to himself. “It would have been a much better idea not to go to the house with them. But fat chance of that ever happening!” Unfortunately, his regret was just as weak as his will. Die-hard gamblers usually accept their losses fairly calmly; the principle being that you accept the losses of one day in the hope of gains on the next.