Naguib Mahfouz - Karnak Café

“The future belongs to us. Just consider our numbers and our wealth.”

“It’s a question of culture and science.”

“Okay then, let’s go to war. That’s the only solution.…”

“Russia isn’t providing us with the weapons we need.”

“No peace, no war — a stalemate. That’s all that’s left.”

“For us, that means a process of nonstop attrition.”

“No, as far as we’re concerned the real struggle will take place on the cultural plane. For us peace is more risky than war.”

“We should disband the army and start building ourselves up again from scratch.”

“We should announce our neutrality and demand that other nations respect it.”

“But what about the fedayeen? You’re all ignoring the one effective force in the entire situation!”

“We’ve been defeated, and now we have to pay the price. We should leave the rest of it for the future.”

“The Arabs’ worst enemy is themselves.”

“Their rulers, you mean.”

“The entire government system, more like it.”

“Everything depends on the Arabs being able to work as a unified entity.”

“On the fifth of June 1967 at least half the Arabs won.”

“Start on the inside, that’s what we have to do.”

“Fine! Religion then. Religion’s everything.”

“No! Communism’s the answer.”

“No! Democracy is what we need.”

“Responsibility should be taken away from the Arabs altogether.”

“Freedom … freedom!”

“Socialism.”

“Let’s call it democratic socialism.”

“Let’s start off with war. We’ll have time for reforms later.”

“No, the reforms have to come first, then solutions can be worked out some time in the future.”

“No, the two must go hand in hand.”

And so on and so on, ad infinitum.

One evening a stranger came into the café, leaning on the arm of a young man. He took a seat by the entrance.

“I’ll wait for you here,” he instructed the young man in an imperious tone. “You go and get the medicine. Get a move on!”

He stayed seated where he was while the young man went away. He was of medium height, with a large, elongated face, wide, bushy eyebrows, and a pronounced forehead. His eyes were wide and sunken in their sockets. He looked very pale, as though he were either sick or convalescing.

Immediately Isma‘il was whispering in my ear. “See that man over there by the entrance?” he asked. “Take a good long look at him.”

The newcomer had, needless to say, already attracted my attention. “What about him?” I asked.

“That’s Khalid Safwan!” Isma‘il replied in a trembling voice.

I was stunned. “Khalid Safwan?” I muttered back.

“The very same and in person.”

“Has he been released then?”

“He’s served his three-year sentence, but all his money’s been sequestered.”

My amazement and curiosity both got the better of me, and I started taking sneaking looks in his direction. I felt like cutting him up into pieces so I could finally discover which part of his personality was either missing or present in superabundance.

From one person to another the news gradually made its way around the café. A profound silence descended on the entire place. Everyone was staring at him. For a while he managed to ignore us all, but it did not take long for him to realize that everyone was staring at him. Once he became aware of us, it was as if he were waking up from a long sleep. Slowly and cautiously he began to look around and stare at us with those sunken eyes of his. He certainly recognized some of the faces in the café very well, Isma‘il and Zaynab, for instance. He was particularly interested in Qurunfula. He stretched his legs out, and his lips formed themselves into something which might well have been a smile. Yes indeed, there it was — a smile. I had been afraid that he would panic, but no; he showed absolutely no sign of fear whatsoever. Instead what we all heard was a small voice say “Hello!”

He stared at the faces he knew so well. “Perhaps the two broken fragments will come together again,” he said. He closed his eyes for a moment. “My, my,” he went on as though talking to himself, “the world’s certainly changed. I know this café, and now here we all are, sitting together in a single place accompanied by the direst of memories.”

It was Qurunfula who responded, even though we had not heard a word out of her for ages. “Yes indeed,” she said, “the direst of memories.”

“These days,” he told her, “you don’t own exclusive rights to sorrow.” His voice changed as he went on, “We’re all of us simultaneously criminals and victims.”

“No,” she replied, “the criminal’s one kind of person, and the victim’s entirely different.”

“We’re all of us both criminals and victims,” he repeated. “Anyone who can’t understand that is incapable of understanding anything.”

At this point the young man came back and handed him the bag of medicines. He pointed to one of the medicines on the prescription. “This one’s not available on the market.”

Khalid stood up. “Terrific!” he said. “The disease exists, but the medicine for it isn’t available.” He was about to leave. “You may all be wondering,” he said looking at us all, “what’s been happening to this particular man. What’s his story? Well, you’ll find the answer in these prosaic words:

Innocence in the village

,

Nationalism in the city

,

Revolution in the darkness

,

A chair radiating limitless power

,

A magic eye revealing the truth

,

A living member dying

,

An unseen microbe pulsating with life.”

And, with a final “Good-bye,” he was gone.

Behind him he left a scene of total confusion. Some people assumed he had been babbling, others that he was actually poking fun at us all, still others that he had been trying to defend himself. He had said that the start had been all innocence, and tyrannical forces had corrupted him. But what was the reference to the “magic eye,” “a living member dying,” and “an unseen microbe pulsating with life”?

A few months later we were all astonished when he showed up again, just like the first time. Why had he come back, we asked ourselves? Why didn’t he find somewhere else to wait for his medicine? Did he really want to make his peace with us? Or was there some hidden force pushing him in our direction?

“May I wish you all a very good evening?” he said as he sat down. He looked round. “When God wills that my health improves,” he said, “I intend to join your group here.”

Munir Ahmad, one of the younger generation who had only joined us recently, asked him why he hadn’t explained his little ‘prose poem’ to us.

“It’s self-evident,” he replied. “There’s no need for explanation. In any case, I hate having to go over all that stuff again!”

“But, Khalid Bey,” chimed in Qurunfula, “I have to tell you that your presence here is very upsetting to all of us.”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “There’s nothing like suffering to bring people together.”

After a moment’s silence, he went on, “I promise you I’ll join your little community at the earliest opportunity.” He gave a little laugh. “What are you all talking about these days?”

We all thought it best to say nothing.

“I’m well aware of what people are saying,” he said. “It’s being repeated everywhere. So allow me to clarify for you all the factors in the equation.” He adjusted his position on the chair and then continued.

“In our country there are the religious types. Their interest is in seeing religion dominate every aspect of life — philosophy, politics, morality, and economics. They are refusing to surrender or negotiate with the enemy. For them a peaceful solution is only agreeable if it achieves exactly the same result as outright victory. They’re calling for a struggle, but what’s that supposed to mean? There they all are for you to see, dreaming of prodigious feats of valor performed by the fedayeen or of miracles descending from heaven. They may be willing to accept weapons from the Russians, but all the while they’re actually cursing the Russians and insisting that there be no strings attached. Maybe they would prefer an honorable, peaceful solution implemented through American intervention since that would put a final end to our relationship with Communist Russia.