Naguib Mahfouz - Karnak Café

“No, this was the first time and, I hope and pray, the last.”

“Maybe it would help if you stopped complaining and grieving so much.”

“If only you realized,” she sighed, “how utterly miserable he is.”

And then, right in the middle of spring, they all vanished for a third time.

On this occasion no questions were asked, and there were no violent reactions either. We just stared at each other, shook our heads, and said something or other that made no sense.

“Usual story.”

“Same reasons.”

“Same results.”

“No point in thinking about it.”

For a long time Qurunfula sat silently in her chair. Then she burst into a prolonged fit of laughter, until there were tears in her eyes. From our various seats we all stared at her in silence.

“Come on!” she said. “Laugh, laugh!” She used a small handkerchief to dry her eyes. “Why don’t you all laugh?” she continued. “It’s more powerful than tears; better for the health too. Laugh from the very depths of your hearts; laugh until the owners of every bar on this cheerful street can hear us.” She was silent for a moment. “How are we supposed to go on feeling sad,” she went on, “when these things keep happening as regularly as sunrise and sunset? They’ll be back, and they’ll sit here in our midst like so many ghosts. When they do, I swear I’m going to rename this place ‘Ghosts’ Café’.”

She looked over at ‘Arif Sulayman. “Pour all our honored customers a glass of wine, and let’s drink to our absent friends.”

The rest of the evening went by in an atmosphere of almost total depression.

In spite of everything, we put aside our own petty anxieties, all of which seemed purely personal when measured against the major events that were overwhelming our country as a whole. Rumors started to fly, and before we knew it, the Egyptian army was heading for Sinai in full force. The entire region erupted with pledges of war. None of us had any doubts about the efficiency of our armed forces, and yet.…

“America, that’s the real enemy.”

“If the army decides to launch an attack, warnings are going to come raining down on us.”

“The Sixth Fleet will be moved in.”

“Missiles will be launched at the Nile delta.”

“Won’t our very independence be in jeopardy?”

Indeed none of us had any doubts about our own armed forces. Certain civic values may have collapsed in front of our very eyes and the hands of my people may have been sullied, but we never doubted our armed forces. Needless to say, the entire notion was not without its naïve aspects, but our excuse was that we were all bewitched and determined to hope for the best. We were simply incapable, it seems, of calling into question the first ever genuine experiment in national rule, one that had brought to an end successive eras of slavery and humiliation.

So for the longest possible time we continued to cling to our zeal and enthusiasm. But then we had no choice but to wake up and endure that most vicious of hammer blows smashing its way into our heads, which were still filled with the heady intoxication of greatness.

I can never forget Taha al-Gharib’s reaction, he being the eldest among us.

“Here I am close to death,” he groaned, his expression a tissue of pain. “In a week or so I’ll be dead. O God, O God, why did You have to delay things? Couldn’t You have speeded things up a bit so that I would never have had to face this blackest of days?”

The hearts of our innocent people were seared with grief. The only hope still left in life was to attempt another strike and recover the land that had been lost. In spite of it all, I still heard people here and there who seemed to be relishing the moment. It was at that point that I began to realize that the struggle we were involved in was not just a matter of loyalty to homeland; even during the country’s darkest hours, the national effort was liable to be sidetracked by another conflict involving interests and beliefs. In the days and years that followed I kept close track of this tendency, until its basic tenets and variegated manifestations were clearly visible. The June War of 1967 was a defeat for one Arab nation, but also a victory for other Arabs. It managed to rip the veil off a number of distasteful realities and usher in a wide-scale war among the Arabs themselves, not just between the Arabs and Israel.

Some weeks after the June War, our friends returned to the café; or, to be more precise, Isma‘il al-Shaykh, Zaynab Diyab, and two others did. Even in the midst of so much grief on the national level, their return was the occasion for some temporary happiness. We all embraced warmly.

“Here we are, back again!” yelled Isma‘il al-Shaykh, and then even louder, “They’ve arrested Khalid Safwan!”

“Many people have been transferred from government office straight to prison,” commented Muhammad Bahgat.

Qurunfula was standing behind the table. “Where’s Hilmi?” she asked.

No one answered.

“Where is he?” she asked again, angry and insistent. “Why hasn’t he come with you?”

Still no one said a word. They all avoided looking at her.

“What’s the matter?” she yelled. “Can’t you speak or something?”

When no one said a word, she realized.

“No, no!” she screamed. She looked at Isma‘il. “Isma‘il, say something, anything, please.…”

She leaned over the table as though she had suffered a stomach rupture and stayed there for a while without saying anything. Then she raised her head. “Merciful God, have mercy … have mercy!”

She would have collapsed completely if ‘Arif Sulayman had not caught her and taken her outside.

“They say he died under interrogation,” said Isma‘il after she had left.

“Meaning that he was murdered,” commented Zaynab.

During those days that followed the June War, sorrow, just like joy, was soon forgotten. I offered my condolences to Qurunfula, but she did not seem to grasp the significance of what I was saying.

So this totally unforeseen tidal wave spread further and further. We all started following the news again and chewing the fat. As we suffered our painful way through the ongoing sequences of days, we placed the entire burden on our shoulders and proceeded on our way with labored, faltering steps. It was by sticking together that we continued to seek refuge from the sense of isolation and loneliness. It felt as if we had made a whole series of decisions about how to protect ourselves: against the blows of the unseen we would cling to each other; in the face of potential terrors we would share our opinions; when confronting overwhelming despair we would tell grisly sarcastic jokes; in acknowledging major mistakes we would indulge in torrid bursts of confession; faced with the dreadful burdens of responsibility we would torture ourselves; and to avoid the generally oppressive social atmosphere we would indulge ourselves in phony dreams. As hour followed hour, we found ourselves wading through a never-ending realm of darkness and on the verge of collapse, but never for a single second did we veer from our chosen course.

Among the café’s clientele, the ones who best managed to withstand this pestilential onslaught were Imam al-Fawwal, the waiter, and Gum‘a, the bootblack. Both of them adamantly refused to accept that the defeat was a reality; they kept on believing what the radio was telling them. They were still dreaming of Victory Day. But, as time went by, their sense of disaster began to dissipate, to be replaced by an increasing concern with matters of daily life. Gradually they came to adopt a more insouciant attitude, although deep down they both felt a lingering sorrow over what had happened.

The group of old men decided to retreat into the past.