Naguib Mahfouz: Karnak Café

“Swill your mouth out with a cup of water! So much the better if you can squeeze half a lemon as well.”

“An ancient philosopher is alleged to have said that he was amazed that Egyptians ever became ill when they had lemons.”

“Modern medical research has confirmed that climbing stairs is good for your heart.”

“Walking’s good too.”

“And so is sex, so they say.”

“So what’s bad then?”

“Politics, news of arrests and imprisonments, and having to be alive at the same time as great men.”

“Yoghurt and fruit are terrific. As for honey on the comb, well, no words can possibly describe it adequately.”

“And laughter. Don’t forget laughter.”

“A cup of chilled wine just before bed.”

“Hormones are not to be sneezed at either.”

“And a sleeping pill, just as a precaution against bad news.”

“But reading the Qur’an, above all else.…”

Yes indeed, without having the young folk around, the café atmosphere becomes utterly unbearable. Even Qurunfula is not aware of quite how sad I’m feeling. She does not seem to realize that friendship is something powerful and that my own thirst is like love itself. Here I sit by myself, suffering through the pangs of boredom and loneliness as I stare at those silent, motionless chairs. All the while there is a longing in my heart and a profound sorrow. How much I long to chat with the young folk who normally sit on those chairs and recharge my own batteries on the sheer enthusiasm, creativity, and hallowed suffering that they offer.

One evening, I arrived at the café to find Qurunfula beaming and happy, unusually so. I was taken by surprise and felt a wave of hope engulfing me. I rushed inside and found myself face to face with my long-lost friends. There they all were again: Zaynab, Isma‘il, and Hilmi, along with two or three others. We all gave each other warm hugs, and Qurunfula’s laughter gave us all a blessing. We kept exchanging expressions of endearment, without asking any of the normal wheres, hows, and whys. Even so, the name of Khalid Safwan kept coming up again, that name which in some way or other had become an indispensable symbol of our current lives.

“Just imagine,” Qurunfula told me, “there was some kind of misunderstanding at the beginning of winter, but it was only at the beginning of the following summer that his true innocence emerged. But don’t ask any more. It’s enough for you just to imagine.… Never mind, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“And let’s assume at the same time,” I suggested, “that this café is one gigantic ear!”

With that we decided to steer clear of politics as far as possible.

“If we absolutely can’t avoid talking about some topic of national importance,” I suggested again, “then let’s do it on the assumption that Mr. Khalid Safwan is sitting right here with us.”

But this time what had been lost was even more palpable than last time. They were all so thin; it looked as though they had just completed a prolonged fast. Their expressions were sad and cynical; at the corners of their mouths there lurked a suppressed anger. Once the conversation had warmed up a bit, these outward signs of hidden feelings would dissipate, leaving them with their own thoughts and ideas. However, once the veil was lifted, all that remained was a sense of languor and a retreat from society. Even the steady relationship between Zaynab and Isma‘il was clearly suffering under the impact of some disease that was not immediately noticeable; and that aroused a profound sense of sorrow in me, not to mention a lot of questions. Good God, I told myself, here are the deities of hell concentrating all their attention on the very people with ideas and the will to carry them through. What is it all supposed to mean?

One time Qurunfula came over and sat beside me. She was looking pleased, but not entirely happy. By now I had realized that she only came over to sit with me when she had something she wanted to tell me.

“Let’s pray to God,” I said as a conversation opener, “not to let anything like it happen again.”

“Yes,” she replied sadly, “you should be praying to Him a lot. And while you’re at it, tell Him how desperately we need some tangible sign of His mercy and justice.”

“So what’s new?”

“The person who’s returned to my embrace is a shadow of his former self. Where’s Hilmi Hamada gone?”

“His health, you mean? But they’ve all gone through the same thing. They’ll get their health back again in a few days.”

“Perhaps you don’t realize what a proud and courageous young man he is. His kind usually suffers more than others.” She looked me straight in the eye. “He’s completely lost the ability to be happy!”

I did not understand what she meant.

“He’s completely lost the ability to be happy,” she repeated.

“Maybe you’re being too pessimistic.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied. “I wouldn’t feel so unhappy if it weren’t called for.” She let out one of her deep sighs. “Ever since I’ve been the owner of this café,” she went on, “I’ve taken good care of it: floor, walls, furniture, everything is the way it is because I have made it my business to take good care of things. Now these people are torturing their own flesh and blood. Damn them!” She grabbed my arm. “Let’s spit on civilization!”

For a long time I found myself wavering between my admiration for the great things that we had achieved and my utter repulsion for the use of terror and panic. I could see no way of ridding our towering edifice of these disgusting vermin.

It was Zayn al-‘Abidin who one day was the first to share some other news with us. “There appear to be some dark clouds on the horizon,” he said. He used to listen to the foreign news broadcasts and would often pick up rare bits of information.

We discussed the Palestinian raids and Israel’s promise to take reprisals.

“At this rate,” he went on, “we may well have a war this year or next.”

All of us had complete confidence in our own armed forces.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Taha al-Gharib commented, “unless, of course, America gets involved.”

That was as far as that conversation went. During this particular period the only event to disturb the atmosphere was a passing storm provoked by Hilmi Hamada that almost ended his long-standing love affair. He developed the idea that Qurunfula was treating him with too much sympathy and that such behavior infringed on his sense of self-respect. He utterly rejected such coddling and made up his mind to leave the café. It was only when his friends grabbed hold of him that he was persuaded not to do so. Poor Qurunfula was totally stunned. She started apologizing to him, although she had no clear idea of what she had done wrong.

“It’s unbearable to listen to the same refrain all the time,” he said edgily and then turned angry. “I hate hearing people sobbing all the time.” And, even more angrily, “I can’t stand anything any more.”

Everyone saw the problem as a symptom of the general situation, and so, until things settled down, we all made a great effort to avoid saying anything that might complicate matters. Needless to say, Zayn al-‘Abidin was delighted by the whole thing, but it did not do his cause any good. Hilmi Hamada’s anger did not last very long, and he may even have come to regret allowing his temper to boil over. Qurunfula was deeply affected by it all, but did not utter a single word.

“That’s the last thing I expected,” she whispered in my ear.

“Do you think,” I asked anxiously, “that he’s become aware that you talk to me about him?”

She shook her head.

“Has he ever acted like that before?”