Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

As he descended the staircase, he recalled the first morning he had spent in the apartment building; how he had looked behind him and spotted Nawal’s eyes for the first time. How can anyone guard against predestined misery when it reveals itself in such bright hopes and vibrant colors? Even so, he was also aware that his current feelings of agony, persecution, and injustice were perversely pleasurable, albeit a somewhat obscure kind of pleasure whose features had not as yet made themselves clear.

As he plodded his way slowly toward the café, he could not help thinking about the way an underage girl had managed to bring down so much sorrow and despair on an intelligent elder man like him. He found the entire thing too much to bear.

“Good grief!” he scoffed at himself, “how can it have happened? A little girl just out of nappies doing this to me? How could she possibly pull me up to the very heights of delight, only to dump me into the depths of hell? Why behave sensibly if infectious desires could toy with us in this despicable fashion? Shouldn’t we expect — I ask Your forgiveness, O God! — to be created better than that? If the entire world has turned itself into a gloomy wasteland simply because some insanitary microbe or other has gone berserk or run out of hope, wouldn’t it be better simply to piss on the world and everything in it?”

At this point he reached the café, which ended this conversation with himself. He found that his friends had already arrived, except, that is, for Sulayman Bey Ata who was still in his village. Boss Nunu was with them; on Fridays he always closed his store from ten in the morning until after prayer time. As usual, Abbas Shifa sat beside Boss Zifta, not far removed from the circle of friends. The men started chattering, while the radio broadcasted some recorded music. Kamal Khalil decided to include the new arrival in their conversation.

“So what’s Professor Ahmad’s opinion of singing?” he asked. “Which style does he prefer, the old or the new?”

Damn it! As the age-old proverb puts it: “Woe to the person with troubles from the one who is without!” But after all, hadn’t he come to the café specifically to take his mind off things by listening to their normal drivel? Yes indeed, he had. Okay then, he should dive in and be grateful. In fact, he adored singing (would his mother have given birth to anyone who didn’t love singing?), but he preferred the old style; he had never developed a liking for the more modern stuff, not only out of habit but because of his early upbringing. He had listened to the songs of female vocalists and records made by singers like Munira, Abd al-Hayy, and al-Manyalawi.

Just then he stole a glance at his old foe, Ahmad Rashid, who seemed to be concealing his thoughts on the matter behind his dark glasses.

“The old style of singing,” Ahmad told them all, “is the only one that can arouse the emotion and effortlessly ensnare our hearts.”

Boss Zifta shouted “God is most great!” enthusiastically while Boss Nunu clapped his hands three times.

“But what about Umm Kulthum and Abd al-Wahhab?” asked Sayyid Arif.

Ahmad Akif sneaked another quick glance at his foe. “To the extent that they repeat aspects of the old style, they’re both terrific, but beyond that they’re nothing.”

“Umm Kulthum’s wonderful,” said Sayyid Arif, “even when she’s singing ‘The Tender Radish!’ ”

“There’s no arguing about her beautiful voice,” replied Ahmad Akif, “but we’re talking about the artistic aspect of singing.”

Kamal Khalil chimed in at this point. “Professor Ahmad Rashid loves the new style of singing. Not only that, but he likes Western music too!”

It was obvious that the young lawyer was not in the mood to argue. “My views on singing are not those of an expert,” he responded lackadaisically. “I don’t really bother with it that much.”

Boss Nunu was determined to have his point of view heard. “Listen, folks,” he said in his usual gruff tone, “the Prophet Muhammad’s people are still in good shape. The English have been with us now for over half a century, but tell me, for heaven’s sake, have you ever heard anyone English who could sing ‘O Night, O Eyes’? The truth of the matter is that anyone who prefers Western music is just the same as someone who likes eating pork!”

As a rule Boss Zifta was preoccupied with his work and had little to say, but this time the subject interested him. “Okay,” he chimed in, with a lisp that suggested that he had lost at least a couple of his teeth, “here’s the scoop. The very best singing you’ll ever hear is Si Abduh with ‘O Night,’ Ali Mahmud doing the dawn call-to-prayer, and Umm Kulthum with ‘When Love.’ Everything else is just a pile of straw mixed with dust!”

Ahmad Akif was anxious not to leave the subject of modern music without injecting a bit of philosophizing. “People who admire modern singing and European music,” he said, “fall into the category of the ruled being influenced by their rulers, as Ibn Khaldun pointed out.”

Ahmad Rashid still remained silent in spite of the way Ahmad Akif had attacked his position. That brought an end to the conversation about singing. Without any particular connection, talk now shifted to the topic of Sulayman Ata Bey. Kamal Khalil observed that he had stayed in his village longer than usual.

“So God has given us two merciful weeks of respite from his shameless behavior!” commented Sayyid Arif.

“It won’t be long,” said Abbas Shifa disapprovingly, “before he gets married again.”

“But what a bride!” Sayyid Arif continued regretfully. “I tell you, by God, I’ve never seen a woman more beautiful than Yusuf Bahla’s daughter!”

“Isn’t your friend aware,” Ahmad Akif asked, “that no one would want him for a husband if it weren’t for his money?”

“No doubt about it,” said Abbas Shifa. “Youth, beauty, morals, they’re all missing!”

Needless to say, that particular description was not to Ahmad Akif’s liking at all. In more than one aspect, he felt, it described him as well: youth, beauty, and morals, all lacking, to which he could add in his own case, no money either. For a moment he fell back into the fit of utter depression that the conversation had thus far managed to dispel. Worried that the mood might take over again, he plunged into the argument once again.

“What is it,” he asked, “that makes Ata Bey give in to these hankerings?”

Now Ahmad Rashid looked directly at him. “What’s so surprising about that?” he asked with uncharacteristic modesty. “Along with youth and beauty isn’t money one of the primary motivations that endear a man to a woman? In fact, money may be the one that endures longer than the others!”

But he soon put his sarcasm to one side and adopted a more serious tone. “Look,” he said, “An old man of Ata Bey’s age isn’t interested in the kind of love that gets young people so worked up. Whenever he manages to acquire a precious bride, he is actually gratifying both his dwindling libido and, far more important, his more dominant possessive instinct.”

“Youth gets transferred by contact,” commented Abbas Shifa. “From his new bride our old friend expects to regain some of the sparkle of youth. With things the way they are, it’s not out of the question that our friend the Bey will change fairly soon from an ape to a donkey!”

“So, are we to understand,” Boss Zifta asked, “that he’s descended from apes?”

Naturally enough Boss Nunu was not entirely happy about the way they were poking fun at old people. “What counts when you’re old,” he commented, “is how healthy you are, not how old. My father got married when he was sixty, and had children. Just look at Sayyid Arif for example (and here he let out a guffaw), what’s his youth done to him?”