Naguib Mahfouz - Heart of the Night

“‘I can change the phrasing of the second clause. I find the word socialism acceptable, and though I believe in God, I do not want to impose religion on anyone. Furthermore, I am attached to the democratic system as it is applied in the West. Won’t all that protect me from suspicion?’

“‘I do not think so, my darling,’ she said. ‘I see you truly as a pure communist in the fundamental matter, which concerns the haves and the have-nots.’

“‘The problem, Huda, is that you do not believe in me.’

“‘I believe in democracy,’ she said, ‘and I consider the democratic system missing only the humane protection of the masses in order to reach perfection. I have no doubt that an English citizen, for example, has a better life than a Russian citizen.’

“‘I do not share that belief,’ I said.

“She replied, somewhat despondent, ‘Well, we have agreed on everything up till now; I suppose it is time for us to disagree!’

“Meanwhile, Saad Kabir was trying to convince Huda to adopt Marxism.

“Huda and I often invited our friends to dinner at our house. I invited Muhammad Shakroun to join us, but he did not appreciate their company and found their discussions boring.

“You should probably know more about Saad Kabir. He was among the friends who came to my office for discussions. They represented all doctrines, even the feudal system of the past, but Saad Kabir was most concerned about my fate. He was a proselytizing lawyer, well versed in his field, extremely cultured, and greatly appreciated in debates and lectures. He was irascible by nature, tenacious, clinging obdurately to his beliefs. He was one of those single-minded people who never hesitated to destroy his enemy by any means, whether through rhetorical skills or illogical arguments. His destructive tendencies upset those, like myself, who respected the mind and worshiped it.

“I noticed in Huda’s eyes a certain admiration for him. She easily gave in to his forceful and enthusiastic arguments.

“One day, Muhammad Shakroun told me that he did not like my friends.

“‘They are kind,’ I said.

“‘Maybe,’ he replied, ‘but the man called Saad Kabir is not kind.’

“‘But he is an excellent man in every sense of the word.’

“‘Maybe, but he is more clever than necessary.’

“I laughed and agreed with him, but he went on, saying, ‘Do not open your door to just anybody.’

“I felt in his words a kind of warning. Curious, I asked him what he meant.

“He tried to dodge the question, saying, ‘I simply do not trust him.’

“‘Explain,’ I said vehemently.

“‘He is the conceited type and is not worthy of your trust.’

“‘You mean more than what you are saying.’

“‘Not at all, and I swear by the head of al-Hussein!’

“After this conversation, I could not go back to my previous trust of Saad Kabir, and started observing what was going on around me, carefully and suspiciously. My dignity did not permit me, however, to change the order of things. Had I done so, I would have upset Huda, a decent lady, and I would have lost her respect. But I continued watching Saad Kabir when he was at our home, consumed by anxiety and vigilance. He would get absorbed in his discussions with Huda, and she with him. I noticed that she liked his rhetorical style. It invigorated her, and she seemed always eager for more. At the end of one of those evenings, I said to her, ‘I won’t be surprised if you suddenly tell me that you are a communist.’

“She asked, smiling, ‘Were you fooled by my interest in his conversation?’

“‘And the way you were moved by it,’ I said.

“‘He is an excellent man,’ she replied. ‘That is why I feel sorry for him.’

“Huda was in her early fifties at that time, and Saad Kabir was in his thirties. Though I had nothing left in my heart for Huda but a deep friendship, I worried. I wondered what Shakroun had meant, if he had noticed more than I did, and if he hid anything from me. Was Huda going through a midlife crisis? But she had always been a model of wisdom and poise, and continued to be. I could not find any reason to suspect Saad Kabir. Not a glance, a gesture, or a word. Despite all that, my sacred mind was shaken, and I fell victim to mysterious, brooding emotions.

“Then the tragedy hit me like an earthquake, without any warning.”

Jaafar fell into total silence.

I repeated, “A tragedy?”

He laughed, but did not utter a word. I asked again, “A tragedy?

What did you say?”

“The tragedy occurred as I was getting ready to form my political party,” he replied.

“What happened?”

He sighed, then explained: “I was getting ready to embark on a battle, to defy the left and the right. I was alone in my office with Saad Kabir. Our conversation was heated, a normal thing for him but unusual for me. He said, ‘You think that you are the author of a metaphysical social political doctrine, but any doctrine would require a whole life to formulate. The reader, on the other hand, gleans all the different doctrines during a year or two, and might consider participating in an election that he believes to be an exercise in rational thought, whereas it is merely a process to combine all the contradictory doctrines that people can conceive. This would provide us with as many doctrines as there are literate people in the world.’

“‘Insolent, rude!’ I shouted.

“He looked at me in shock. ‘What?’

“I repeated, ‘Insolent, rude.’

“‘Have you forgotten that you are talking to your teacher?’ he said angrily.

“I jumped at him and slapped him, and he slapped me back. We engaged in a frightening fight, and there was no one to separate us. I was stronger than he but he was younger than me, and when I started gasping, I grabbed the letter opener.”

Jaafar was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, I tried to imagine the scene as he described it: “I can’t forget his face. I mean, after I dug the sharp letter opener into his neck. His face slowly lost its life and fell into the depths of darkness. He stopped fighting back and submitted to the unknown, leaving behind his debates, his bright mind and glory. Everything came to an end.”

“You killed a man, Jaafar!” I shouted.

“Yes, Jaafar al-Rawi had become a killer.”

“What a pity!” I said.

Jaafar went on describing the crime scene: “I stood there, looking at his body lying between the desk and the leather sofa, in a state of eternal icy dazedness. I felt as if I had unloaded in one move all of life’s burdens and emotions. Then I plunged, suddenly, into the depths of the world of knowledge; and I saw through a crack in its crumbling wall the phantom of the tragedy running away from me, running to a different and opposite universe with which I had no human contact. Then I heard a voice, maybe my own voice or maybe someone else’s, shouting, ‘Oh my blessed mind, why have you abandoned me?’”

“What a pity,” I said again.

“From the head of a party to a life sentence.”

After a short but intense silence, I asked him, “Was there an excuse for the murder?”

“On the one hand, there is always a justification for killing; but on the other hand, nothing justifies a murder.”

I rephrased my question. “I mean, did you find anything to confirm your suspicions about your wife and therefore justify the murder?”

“Believe me, there was nothing at all. My wife’s breakdown over her concern for me confirmed my stupidity. It was as if the tragedy had occurred to ridicule the worshiper of the mind, that was all.”