Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

At this point she plucked up a bit of courage. “We don’t even know each other yet,” she said.

“Aren’t we neighbors?”

“Yes, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Heaven forbid. It’s Rushdi. Rushdi Akif.”

“But you don’t know my name either!”

“Oh yes I do!”

“Did you know that from the very first glance as well?”

Rushdi laughed and gave a nod.

“So what’s my name?” she asked.

“Ihsan.”

She laughed out loud. “Is that how you make up names?” she asked.

“No. That’s your name!”

“No, sir, you’re wrong. Maybe you were after someone else. So feel free to go back!”

“But I can distinctly remember my mother talking about yours on one occasion. She called her Umm Ihsan.”

“So you thought Ihsan was me?”

“Yes.…”

She laughed again, loud enough to make her face turn red. “That’s my elder sister’s name. She got married two years ago!”

Rushdi gave an awkward smile. “Forgive me,” he said. “So what’s your name?”

“Nawal.”

“Long live beautiful names!”

She hesitated for a moment, then gave him a crafty look. “Are you at school?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “I’m a student at the Abbasiya School for Girls!”

“So you’re a civil servant then?”

“With Bank Misr.”

“And I’m an employee of the Ministry of Education!” she replied in turn.

They had a good laugh. They were now approaching Abbasiya, and Rushdi realized that his first encounter with his new love was about to come to an end.

“Okay,” she said, “this is far enough. We must separate here.”

They stopped walking. He took her hand and held it tenderly. “Good-bye until tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Good-bye,” she replied with a nod of her head.

She hurried away, while he stood where he was, watching her with unalloyed delight. “At first she was obviously shy,” he told himself, “but then she opened up and became friendlier than a fragrant breeze. She is so pure and delicate; may God protect her from all evil demons, myself among them!”

Up until now his routine had involved flirting with a girl, then getting to know her, and finally loving her. But on this particular morning he found himself making his way back, listening as his heartbeats beat out the prelude to a love song on the silence of the road.

Meanwhile, Nawal kept walking down the street to her school, telling herself how kind, handsome, and sweet he was. If only dreams could come true, she told herself.

Ahmad had kept his eyes wide open and immediately noticed the change in his younger brother’s demeanor. That Saturday afternoon Rushdi seemed drunk with happiness, so much so that he looked as though he were in a daze. Ahmad noticed that he changed his normal habit of taking a nap between noon and sunset — the time when he took off for al-Sakakini; instead he rested for just one hour, then woke up — eyelids drooping — combed his hair, put on some cologne, then made his way to his beloved window. His middle-aged brother, meanwhile, read in his room, or rather tried to read until the time came for him to go to the café—that being the new routine in his life. He was pinning all his hopes on the process of forgetting, waiting for it to happen just as a despairing patient anticipates the end. His heart was still being battered by feelings of love and failure, of disdain and jealousy. He loved his brother and hated him at the same time. His feelings fluctuated between the two without settling on either one, and the whole thing was almost making his head burst.

Toward evening Rushdi burst into his room. There was nothing unusual about that, and Ahmad smiled up at him, making a big effort not to look sad or melancholy. His young brother gave him a sweet smile and offered him a cigarette.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said apologetically but with obvious happiness. “But I’ve some really great news for you!”

“I hope it’s good!” replied Ahmad, his heart pounding.

“A friend in the government service has told me that they’re thinking of instituting some kind of restitution for overlooked workers.”

“That’s terrific news!” Ahmad responded with a relief that his brother was incapable of appreciating.

“It’s a terrible miscarriage of justice for someone like you to spend twenty years in the eighth administrative grade.”

Ahmad shrugged his shoulders. “You know full well that I’m not bothered about grades or government posts in general.”

They chatted for a while, then Rushdi went out so as not to waste his brother’s valuable time. After Rushdi had left, Ahmad started thinking about his feelings toward his brother, and the whole thing exasperated him. He felt utterly miserable. Was it possible to forget that he had loved his little brother from the cradle onward? Was it possible to deny that Rushdi loved him even more than he loved his own parents?

Just before sunset he hurried over to the Zahra Café, relieved to be out of the house. He spent a couple of hours with his friends there, using the conversation as a way of escaping his misery and his disturbing thoughts, then went back home. Rushdi, of course, was still out, spending his evening at the casino. This girl of his seemed to have purloined the time of day — from noon until sunset — when he would normally have been asleep, with the result that his entire day had turned into one continuous unit of wakefulness and exhaustion. Ahmad looked angrily at the window — which he had vowed never to open while he was at home. Would she have noticed that he wasn’t by the window any more? he wondered as he changed his clothes. Would that bother her as much as it should? How he longed for her to be aware of the contempt he felt for the way she had deceived him! His sense of pride was still bleeding and a fiery anger was still blazing in his heart.

He went to bed earlier than usual in order to avoid reading. He was woken up by the air-raid siren. He got up quickly, put on his coat, left his room, and bumped into his parents in the lounge. His mother was in a panic because Rushdi had not returned from his night out; she kept wondering where he was and beseeching God to keep him safe. The weather outside was cold and damp.

“Things are always worse during winter,” his father said.

They went to the shelter and took up their usual positions. His father looked at his watch and discovered that it was 2 a.m.

“It would be an act of mercy,” he said in a sarcastic tone, “if Rushdi stayed outside. Then he wouldn’t have to bother about coming home at this time of night!”

Ahmad decided he’d keep an eye out, but just then he spotted Rushdi hurrying down the shelter stairs and looking around for them. Once he found them, he came over with a smile; his lingering inebriation clearly fortified him enough to face up to their questions — especially those of his father. He greeted them all.

“We were in al-Gamaliya when the siren went off,” he told Ahmad, “so I ran like the very devil in the dark.”

His father rounded on him. “You’re the devil incarnate, no doubt about it!” he said. “Can’t you manage somehow to curb your rowdy behavior in such tense times as these?”

Ahmad could not bring himself to glance at his brother’s face. Rushdi was not prepared to sit and listen to such talk, so he got up and started pacing around the shelter. Ahmad allowed his gaze to wander as well, and he looked over at the far corner where the family of Kamal Khalil was sitting. He spotted her sitting next to her mother and looking down at the floor; only the right side of her face was visible. He wondered whether she had noticed him. Did she still imagine he did not know about what she had done? Wasn’t she suffering just a few pangs of anxiety and misery? Or was he the only person who was fated to suffer those feelings? At that precise moment, he remembered the apocalyptic desire that had occurred to him previously, the one about the air raid that would destroy everything. He shuddered at the thought and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “O God, be merciful, Most Merciful of all!”