Naguib Mahfouz: Karnak Café

Qurunfula obviously noticed how astonished I looked. “It’s not the way you imagine,” she said. “He wasn’t a victim of mine; he was a victim of his own weakness.”

With that she told me a story that sounded quite normal. He had been absolutely crazy about her, but she had never given him the slightest encouragement. He had never had enough money to hang around the dancehall all the time, so he had started dipping his hand into the state’s coffers. Among all the other customers he had looked like some rich heir, but she had never taken a single penny from him. The only relationship they had had was firmly based on the regulations and traditions of nightclubs. But matters had not proceeded very far before he was caught red-handed; he had been taken to court and given a prison sentence.

“It was a tragedy, sure enough,” she said, “but it wasn’t my fault. Years later he came out of prison. He showed up at the very same nightclub and told me that his life was in ruins. I felt sorry for the man and not a little anxious as well. I spoke to the club owner on his behalf and got him a job as a waiter. Once I stopped dancing and opened this café, I decided to hire him as wine-steward. He does a very good job.”

“Didn’t his old infatuation sometimes get the better of him?” I asked, stroking my moustache.

“Oh yes, it did,” she replied. “When he was a waiter at the nightclub, he kept on harassing me. That got him a really nasty beating. At the time I was married to a real elephant of a man who was a champion weight lifter. One year later, he married a dancer in one of the theater troupes; they’re still married and have seven daughters. Today I think he’s happy and successful enough.…” With that she dissolved into laughter. “These days we occasionally decide to exchange a love-kiss.”

“Thus is the past forgotten.”

“Then it happened that one of his former colleagues got an unexpected promotion to the rank of under-secretary in the Finance Ministry. That made him feel a real sense of grievance; he wanted to take revenge on the entire world. However, along came the 1952 Revolution, and his ex-colleague was pensioned off. With that he calmed down a lot and became one of the revolution’s great admirers.”

I became part of the Karnak Café family. The entire group felt like an integral part of me. Qurunfula gave me her friendship, and I reciprocated. She used to play backgammon with the old men: Muhammad Bahgat, Rashad Magdi, and Taha al-Gharib. I also made the acquaintance of the young folk, especially Zaynab Diyab, Isma‘il al-Shaykh, and Hilmi Hamada. I also met Zayn al-‘Abidin ‘Abdallah, who was public relations director at some company or other. Even Imam al-Fawwal, the waiter, and Gum‘a, the bootblack and sweeper, became friends of mine. I discovered the secret behind the economics of Karnak Café: it didn’t need to rely on the limited number of customers who came in, instead it counted on the owners and customers of the various taverns on al-Mahdi Street. That was why the drinks at the café were so good, in fact exceptional. There was another secret about the café too, namely that it was — and still is — a gathering-place for people with extremely interesting and provocative viewpoints; whether they yell or speak softly, they are expressing the realities of living history. Ever since I became a member of their company, the numerous conversations I’ve had there have been unforgettable, as has Qurunfula’s own sense of gratitude every time she has intoned, “Thank God who has brought us the revolution!”

Both ‘Arif Sulayman, the wine-steward, and Zayn al-‘Abidin, the public relations director, were fervent admirers of the revolution as well, each of them in his own particular way and for his own purposes. As far as the old men were concerned, they too were equally enthusiastic for the revolution, but they did occasionally introduce another note into the conversation: “The past wasn’t all that bad,” they would say with a properly nuanced caution.

The young folk used to gather in a corner; from it, bursts of enthusiasm would emerge with a great roar. As far as they were concerned, history began with the 1952 Revolution. Everything before then was some obscure and inexplicable “period of ignorance.” They were the real children of the revolution. But for its achievements, they would all have been loitering around the streets and alleys with no real sense of purpose. From time to time we would hear hints of opposition that suggested either the views of the extreme left or else a cautious mention under the breath of an affiliation with the Muslim Brotherhood. However, such ideas would soon be lost in the general hubbub. I was particularly struck by Imam al-Fawwal, the waiter, and Gum‘a, the bootblack. Both of them used to complain about how hard their life was, and yet they could both burst into song in praise of the great pre-Islamic cavalier, ‘Antar, and his various conquests; it was as if references to victory, honor, and hope could somehow make their poverty easier to bear.

Actually, everyone was eager to share this feeling of elation, even those whose hearts were being eaten up by envy and hatred. All the people sitting there inside the café had buried deep inside them some kind of bitter experience, whether humiliation, defeat, or failure. Their craving for a full glass would inspire them to challenge all their former foes. They would drink to the very dregs and then start dancing for the sheer joy of it. What’s the point of criticizing something with a whole load of drunks around? Bribery, you say? Pilfering, corruption, coercion, terrorism? Shit! Or, so what? Or, it’s an inevitable evil. Or, how utterly trivial. Come on, take another swig from the magic glass, and let’s dance together.

Whenever Qurunfula gets back from the hairdresser, she looks really beautiful. Her honey-colored eyes sparkle. On one occasion this prompted me to ask her a question: “Aren’t you married any more? Don’t you have any children?”

She didn’t say anything, and I immediately regretted letting the question slip. For her part, she noticed that I was embarrassed.

“See these people?” she said, pointing at the customers. “I love them, and they love me.”

Just then for no apparent reason she whispered to herself the words, “Love, love.”

“We all had good times being in love with the people we loved,” she went on sadly, “but the only thing that lingers is a sense of disappointment.”

“Disappointment?”

“Yes, disappointment. That’s what happens to a love that manages to escape from reality’s clutches, only to linger on as a tantalizing hope.”

“Have you ever been disappointed in love?” I asked discreetly.

“No, not exactly,” she replied, “but sometimes love plays the coquette with you.”

“But not in your glory days, surely?”

“Oh, it can happen any time.”

I was eager to hear more, but she decided to ignore my obvious curiosity. She spotted Zayn al-‘Abidin out of the corner of her eye.

“Just look at him,” she continued. “He’s in love with me. What does he want? He’s suggested that we go into partnership with the café and turn it into a restaurant. But what he’s really after is to get me into bed with him.”

“But the man’s so old, he’s preserved in oil!”

“Impossible dreams!”

“He might be rich, of course.”

“The state’s money. That’s the place you need to look for your blessings.”

I looked toward ‘Arif Sulayman, the wine-steward. It was a completely unconscious gesture, but she still noticed.

“He pilfered money for love’s sake,” she said. “But Zayn al-‘Abidin grabs it out of sheer greed and ambition. My dear, it takes all types.… Some people take merely in order to stay alive because the government doesn’t provide for them; others are simply greedy; still others are on the take because everyone else is doing the same thing. And while all these people are carrying on like that, the poor young people trapped in the middle go crazy.”