Naguib Mahfouz: Heart of the Night

I looked at him closely and said, “I remember you very well.” b He bent over my desk, his foggy sight fixed on me. His proximity, his roaming look, and his efforts to see clearly, revealed his weak eyesight. Seeming unaware of his closeness to me and the small size of the quiet room, he said in a harsh, high-pitched tone, “You do! I do not trust my memory anymore, and on top of that I do not see very well.”

“The days of Khan Jaafar cannot be forgotten!” I said.

“Welcome. You are from that district then?”

I introduced myself and invited him to sit down. He said, “We do not belong to the same generation but there are things impossible to forget.” He sat down. “I believe I changed completely. Time has placed on my face an ugly mask of its own making, not the one my father gave me.”

He proudly introduced himself, though he did not need to. “Al-Rawi. I am Jaafar al-Rawi, Jaafar Ibrahim Sayyid al-Rawi.”

I was not blind to the pride he felt in saying his full name. There was a strong contradiction between his miserable look and his proud tone. He continued to reminisce.

“You take me back to some very dear memories, to the blessed district of Khan Jaafar and al-Hussein, the days of happiness and adventures.”

“There were some exciting incidents and strange stories,” I said, provoking his laughter. His tall, thin body shook so much, I worried his worn-out suit might tear.

He raised his tanned face toward me, scratched his head covered with gray sticky hair, and said, “We are family, and I am entitled to be optimistic about the fairness of my case.”

I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee, to delay possible disagreements. He replied boldly and without hesitation, “Let’s begin with a fuul sandwich, then order me coffee.”

I watched him eat voraciously, and was filled with sad-ness. His smell stayed with me, a mixture of sweat, tobacco, and mud. After he ate and drank he sat up and said, “Thank you. I do not want to take up any more of your time. You must have seen my request by virtue of your position. What do you think?”

I said regretfully, “No use. The waqf system does not allow such a thing.”

“But the truth is as clear as the sun.”

“The waqf is also clear,” I said.

“I studied law, but it seems that everything changes.”

“Everything except the waqf. To this day it has not changed.”

He roared in his rough voice: “My rights will not be lost! Let the Ministry of Awqaf know that.” Then, seeing my calm smile, he grew quiet and asked to meet the director.

I said gently, “The matter is very clear. The al-Rawi waqf is the largest in the Ministry of Religious Affairs. Its proceeds are held in trust for the benefit of the two holy mosques and the Imam al-Hussein mosque, in addition to charitable organizations, schools, monasteries, and public fountains. A charitable waqf cannot, by any means, be owned by anyone.”

He interrupted me, explaining his position: “But I am the grandson of al-Rawi, his only heir, and in urgent need of a penny, whereas the Imam al-Hussein is happily settled in paradise.”

“But it is a waqf,” I repeated.

“I will take legal action.”

“It will be useless.”

“I will consult a sharia lawyer, but it has to be free of charge, because money is an unknown entity in my world.”

“I have many friends among the sharia lawyers and I can arrange a meeting for you with one of them, but do not waste your time running after a hope that will not materialize.”

“You treat me like a child.”

“God forbid,” I said. “I am only reminding you of a reality that you cannot change.”

He went on, “But I am al-Rawi’s grandson. This is easy to prove.”

“Yes, but al-Rawi’s estate became a charitable waqf.”

“Is it fair that I should be left to beg?”

“The procedure for a person in your situation is to submit a request asking for a monthly donation from the waqf income, on condition that you prove your relation to the owner of the waqf.”

“A monthly donation,” he repeated. “How unfair! How much would that be?”

I hesitated for a moment. “It might reach five pounds or slightly more.”

He laughed sarcastically, revealing black, broken teeth. “I will fight, you’d better believe it! I have lived a life that even the jinn would not put up with. Let the battle commence! I will not stop fighting until I obtain my rights in full from the inheritance of my wicked grandfather.”

I could not help smiling. “May his soul rest in peace and reward him for all the good he did.”

He thumped my desk with his fist and said, “There is nothing good about a man who forgets his grandson.”

“Why did he forget you?” I asked.

He clutched his chin but did not answer. I felt that the storm would clear sooner rather than later, and that he would end up writing a request for help like the many other descendants of pashas, princes, and kings in our country. I was convinced that no one rejected his heirs for no reason. What had you done, Jaafar?

He turned his failing eyesight toward the empty space and went on, saying, “Establishing a charitable waqf, and depriving me of the inheritance, that was how he always conducted himself, combining bad and good. He continues to exercise his power now that he’s dead, as he did when he was alive. And here I am, struggling after his death as I did during his lifetime, and will continue to do until my death.”

My relationship with Jaafar al-Rawi grew stronger with time. In his loneliness, he was ready to cling to anyone who would encourage him, be it only with a smile. I ventured into this friendship with the strong conviction that it would end soon. His disturbed personality did not suggest a desire to settle down into a lasting friendship and it did not take much to satisfy him. There were obvious reasons that drew me to him, but there was also an intangible motive: past memories and my own fascination with the al-Rawi family, their stories, the rumors about Jaafar’s crazy adventures, and my attraction to Jaafar despite his repulsive appearance. I felt sorry for him, living his final days in this miserable way. He was quite tall, and were it not for his poverty and possibly some illnesses, his old age would have been glorious and beautiful.

One day, after a meal of kawari in one of the Muhammad Ali Street restaurants, I asked him how he lived. His answer was quick. “I roam the streets during the day until almost midnight.”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Among the ruins.”

Surprised, I asked what ruins he was referring to.

“They belong to me by reason of occupancy. This is what is left of my grandfather’s house.”

I did not know that the house had fallen into ruin, as I had not visited the neighborhood in a very long time.

“Don’t you have relatives?” I asked.

“They might fill the globe.”

I smiled.

He explained, “I have children who are judges and others who are criminals.”

“Is that true?” I asked.

“And despite that, I am alone.”

“What a way to talk!”

“Give me back the waqf and I promise you that I will be surrounded by children and grandchildren. Otherwise I will remain alone, an outcast.”

“You seem to like puzzles,” I commented.

He laughed. “I like a good meal and the waqf. I’d also like to damn those responsible for the waqf.”

“Don’t you have any income in your old age?” I asked.

“I have some old friends. Whenever I meet one of them, he shakes my hand and puts in it whatever he feels like giving me. I roll in the mud now, but I originally fell from the sky.”