Naguib Mahfouz - Heart of the Night

“Apart from that moment, he wasn’t cruel, frightening, or unbearable. He exuded humanity and acted so lovingly that it was hard for me to believe he had treated my father the way he had. I often thought that he might have entertained forgiveness, waiting for the right time to pardon his son, had it not been for my father’s early death. Even after I observed his frightening expression, I felt in his words, ‘What is past is past,’ the pain that the memory revived, and a remorse that haunted him. His suffering might have been the result of his exaggerated idealism, as he expected others to be noble, pure, and perfect, conforming to his vision of life. He despised weakness and what he considered to be the dissolution and degradation of human nature. I was thus convinced that the way to his affection was clear and straightforward, but required effort, patience, and sweat, in addition to strength, progress, and loftiness. This was what he meant when he referred to the ‘godly human being.’

“During the religious festival seasons, his guests gathered to listen to the songs that filled the garden with Sufi chanting performed by the most famous singers. My grandfather was enamored of music and singing. His taste reflected his appreciation for the wordly and the sacred in equal measure. I waited for those soirées with the longing of a lover and stayed up till dawn to listen to the chants. My grandfather once caught me singing ‘Bring Back the Memory of the One I Love.’

“I was sitting on a mat under a lemon tree, imitating the sheikh, when I noticed his shadow covering me. I stopped singing, extremely embarrassed and bashful. I stood before him politely, but he smiled and whispered, ‘What is that? Your voice is not bad at all, Jaafar.’

“I lowered my head, contented and grateful. He asked, ‘What do you sing when you are alone?’

“‘Songs from the past,’ I said.

“‘Which ones?’ he asked.

“I hesitated a little, then said, ‘My Bird, Mother, My Bird.’

“He continued to smile and said, ‘See, you are learning sacred songs here.’ He then went on his way, checking the garden, looking august and dignified.

“During my free time I would sit with Bahga and listen to her stories. Sometimes I sang or rode the donkey in the garden, or played with the children of the gardener, the cook, and the carriage driver, but I longed to go out to play in the alley. How could I forget my trips in the narrow streets of Cairo, holding my mother’s hand? When I shared with my grandfather my wish to go out, he invited me to join him in his carriage in the evening.

“I said, ‘I want to play in the alley.’

“‘Isn’t the garden more beautiful than the alley?’

“‘I want to play with the children, in the alley,’ I explained.

“He shook his head and gave up. His acceptance was conditional, however. ‘You must remain under Bahga’s supervision all the time and not miss any of the prayer times.’

“So I went out to the street from where I came. Bahga sat on a chair in front of the door to watch me from a distance. I quickly became acquainted with the neighbors’ children, and especially Muhammad Shakroun, the son of a cart driver. He was handsome, despite his big nose and his limp. He challenged me to a race on the first day we met. He looked funny when he ran, but he was stubborn and every now and then he took a devilish jump that propelled him over an unbelievably long distance, thus overcoming his natural weakness. He was kind and honest, and when he was declared the winner he said to me, ‘You are the grandson of the venerable sheikh, and a wealthy boy like you must buy us red chewing gum and subiya.’

“After he ate and drank he was happy and began singing:

From the top of the mountain I hear a melody at night.

The love of virgin girls has exhausted me

From the top of the mountain .

“He had a beautiful, pure voice that moved the soul. I knew immediately I could not compete with him. Nevertheless, I sang whatever I could remember from his song. He repeated what my grandfather had already said, that my voice was not bad at all.

“‘It is you, Shakroun, who has a truly beautiful voice,’ I said.

“He replied proudly, ‘One day I will become a famous singer.’

“We quickly became good friends, a true friendship among many superficial ones. Our friendship was deep and strong, and we shared a love for singing, especially during Ramadan nights. I invited him to attend the religious chanting soirées at my grandfather’s house; it made him very happy. He was delighted to hear the famous singers and follow closely their prowess in chanting, the differences in their voices, and their ability to entertain and impress. I could see his strong emotional reaction, his passion and entrancement, and dared him to brave the dignity of the council. One day, no sooner had one singer ended his verse than Muhammad Shakroun left his place near me and began chanting, ‘Welcome to a full moon, filled with the essence of beauty.’

“He captivated the chanters and the guests with his beautiful voice and his youth. My grandfather could not hide his admiration for him. There was among the guests a sheikh called Taher al-Bunduqi, a Sufi composer and a close friend of my grandfather. Shakroun impressed him greatly, and he talked with Shakroun at length. He learned everything about him, his origins and his dreams. This is the magic of singing. The jinn enjoy our songs and we do theirs. Some of Margush’s inhabitants claimed that they heard a jinn sing before dawn and—”

I interrupted Jaafar, begging, “Let’s forget about the jinn. We are now in al-Rawi’s house and I am strongly convinced that you do not believe any of those stories.”

“Memories pour heavily like rain,” he said.

“They always do,” I said, “but it is up to you to channel them into a clear stream.”

He went on relating Shakroun’s story.

“Sheikh Taher al-Bunduqi visited my grandfather a week after Shakroun’s adventure and told him he wished to teach Shakroun oriental music and train him as a singer. My grandfather agreed immediately, and offered to pay for the lessons and the training. This convinced me of my grandfather’s deep love for music and singing. It was a separate emotion, totally independent of his religious feelings. When he informed me of his decision to support my friend, I said to him, ‘You do like singing, Grandfather.’

“He smiled and said, ‘Why not? It is the soul’s intimate friend.’

“‘Have you heard the famous singers, Grandfather?’

“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In my friends’ homes, during the celebration of happy occasions.’

“His financial support for Shakroun’s music lessons was one example of how he took care of the needy in our district.”

I said impulsively, “Your grandfather topped all that by willing his real estate to charity.”

“No,” Jaafar said loudly, “that is not charity. Nothing good comes out of a charitable act based on evil.”

“I apologize for the interruption,” I said.

“It is more important to apologize for your opinion.”

I did. He got over his ire, then continued.

“Muhammad Shakroun became Sheikh Taher al-Bunduqi’s student. Our friendship brought him luck and I was the gate to his success. I was very happy for him, and I exaggerated my feeling of happiness when talking with my grandfather. He was suspicious of me, which made him ask, ‘Is your happiness mixed with jealousy?’

“I denied any such feeling strongly.

“Dissatisfied, he said, ‘Jealousy is a vice, and at your age you can be excused for your feelings, but there is no excuse for lying. Don’t ever lie, Jaafar, always be truthful. Do not upset your grandfather, he likes purity. God gave you a bright mind the way He gave your friend a beautiful voice, so enjoy the gift you have been given and do not ruffle your serenity with what you lack. Had you been gifted at singing, I would not have minded you becoming a singer. A singer can be a godly human being. God’s mercy makes it possible for anyone to be godly, even the garbage collector. As for you, Jaafar, you must get ready to enter al-Azhar.’