Naguib Mahfouz - Khan Al-Khalili

Ahmad spent a good deal of time offering his younger brother advice, but the latter had his mind on other things. One afternoon Rushdi came into his brother’s room — just before he was to go out to meet his friends at the Zahra Café. Rushdi gave his brother a sweet smile.

“Can I talk to you for a bit?” he asked.

Ahmad looked up. “Of course, Rushdi. Go ahead.”

As Ahmad looked at his brother’s handsome, pale face, he could see that he looked unusually serious. That surprised him somewhat. He wondered what had made the perennial playboy turn so serious. He recalled that the only times he had seen his brother look this way were on those few tense occasions when he had heard that he had failed in some of his school exams. Ahmad was a bit worried and raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

Rushdi sat down on the chair. “I need to talk to you seriously,” he said. “Life is not all fun and games.”

If the entire topic were not one that touched a raw nerve for Ahmad, he would have burst out laughing. Instead he tensed, guessing with a degree of panic what topic his brother was about to broach.

“You’re absolutely right,” he said quietly, “life is not all fun and games.”

“When I need advice,” Rushdi said, “you’re the one I turn to. I’ve come to see if you agree to the idea of my getting married.”

His heart leapt as though what he had just heard was a complete surprise, something that had not even occurred to him. Even so, he was unwilling to show any sign of distress and put on a show of innocent surprise, indeed of happiness at the idea. “So at last you’ve come to talk about marriage,” he replied. “I’m utterly thrilled!”

“That’s right, brother,” Rushdi told him excitedly. “Does that make you happy?”

“Of course it does. This may be the very first time we’re both happy about something!”

There now followed a moment of silence. Ahmad realized that the natural thing was to ask about the bride-to-be, but he was hoping that his brother would open the subject without him having to ask the question. Rushdi said nothing, however, so Ahmad saw no alternative but to swallow hard and ask. “So have you chosen a nice girl?”

Rushdi sat up straight. “Oh yes, Ahmad!” he replied. “She’s the daughter of our dear neighbor, Kamal Khalil Effendi, your friend and mine.”

All the advance planning he had done in order to ward off the impact of this announcement only helped a little. The mere hope of avoiding the penalty was of no use when the actual sentence was pronounced. But he fell back on his self-esteem and proceeded calmly.

“May God grant you success in pursuing your happiness.”

“Thank you so much, dear brother!”

“Even so I need to ask you a question, just as a precaution. Have you learned everything you need to know about the family of which you’re proposing to become a part?”

“I’ve gotten to know the family from close up. Not only that, but I know the girl personally.”

That admission reopened his own wound, so he doubled his efforts at keeping calm and collected. “I’d simply remind you,” he said, “that, if word of this gets out, then any decision to back out will turn into a real scandal.”

“My fickle days are over. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

“No, except the girl herself, of course.”

Again his heart leapt, and his imagination started forming a picture of the two of them alone together, talking about this wonderful, yet risky move. But he immediately squelched the image. “With God’s blessings then …,” he said in as happy a tone as he could muster.

“Can I ask you to raise the topic with our father? Once that’s done, we can take the next steps.”

Ahmad paused for a moment. “Yes, I’ll let our father know,” he said. “As far as next steps are concerned, …”

“I’ll do anything necessary.”

“We won’t set things rolling until you have fully recovered your health and at least regained the weight you lost when you were ill.”

“That’s easy to do!” responded Rushdi with a laugh. “We won’t have long to wait.” He stood up to leave. “Thank you for everything, and I wish you likewise.”

Rushdi changed his tone of voice, as though he had just remembered something. “By the way,” he went on, “why don’t you think of getting married too? Isn’t it proper for me to congratulate you before you congratulate me?”

Should he now explain to his brother the decision he had come to about marriage? Ahmad wondered. Rushdi had no idea what he was saying; for that reason he was blissfully unaware of the fact that he was aiming poisoned darts at his elder brother. The mere question aggravated him; the long tongue of fate, it seemed, was mocking his misery even though he thought he had finally rid himself of it.

“Oh,” Ahmad said derisively, “the time for me to marry is long past.”

“Past?”

“Forget about it, Rushdi. You know how busy I always am. God only gives a man one heart.”

Rushdi left the room, shaking his head sadly. Ahmad looked at the floor, his expression a reflection of profound sadness and resignation to fate and despair. Now it was his task to arrange Rushdi’s marriage; in a sense he would be weaving his own shroud. The process would inevitably be painful, but at the same time there would be certain elements of pleasure and consolation. At least he would be able to feel that obscure pleasure that pain can bring, like a moth flitting around a lamp. There would be the additional pleasure of surrendering to the dictates of all-powerful fate and reflecting on those hidden feelings that kept disturbing him. Last but not least, there would be the pleasure of indulging his wounded self-esteem.

Ahmad got dressed and made his way to the Zahra Café; he had managed to rid himself of the regret he normally felt when he abandoned his lonely ways. He started participating in the conversation more than he had before — if only with Ahmad Rashid — and allowed himself to laugh more than he ever had. It suddenly occurred to him that he could join their other evening session, the one he had heard about before but never actually attended. The idea attracted him, and he really wanted to do it. However, he was his usual diffident self and had no idea how to broach the subject. It was still on his mind when everyone stood up to leave.

Boss Nunu usually went home first, then caught up with his friends at their other meeting place, so Ahmad left the café in his company. While they were walking, he managed to pluck up the necessary courage.

“Boss,” he asked shyly, “would you allow me to join you with the rest of the group?”

“Of course! May God continue to guide you well!”

“But I have to tell you,” Ahmad went on, “that on this particular subject I am dumber than the proverbial donkey.”

“Allow me to be your guide,” Boss Nunu responded boastfully. “In any case, it’s a lot easier than all those books of yours and produces much better results.”

They continued to walk along narrow winding alleyways enveloped in total darkness. Entering a building, they climbed the stairs to the third floor. Boss Nunu pressed the button for the bell.

“If you’re on your own and want to get in,” he said, “you need to press the bell five times in a row. Then remember the password that I’m going to say now.”

They heard Abbas Shifa’s voice asking who it was.

“God damn the world!”

The door opened, and Ahmad went in feeling not a little bashful, followed by Boss Nunu. They crossed the hallway to a large room where a large group of people were seated. A soft blue light, like the delicate hues of dawn, enveloped the room, coming from a lamp covered with a blue cloth. All eyes were focused on the new arrivals, especially the newcomer. Ahmad felt so embarrassed that he almost tripped. They were all seated on cushions strewn in the form of a circle. In the middle was all the necessary equipment: the brazier, water pipe, and tobacco.