Naguib Mahfouz - Palace Walk

The crowd’s anger was becoming a frenzy. People were converging on the circle of prisoners. They were shoving against each other with their shoulders and threatening to harm the spy.

Then a voice cried out from the center of the mob: "Not so fast, gentlemen… This is Yasin Effendi, the secretary of the school on Coppersmiths Street".

Voices roared back, "Coppersmiths or ironmongers, it doesn't matter. Let’s teach him a lesson".

Another man was making his way between the bodies with difficulty but also with invincible determination. As soon as he reached the front, he raised his hands and screamed, "Listen! Listen!" When it was a little quieter he pointed at al-Sayyid Ahmad and said, "This is Mr. Ahmad Abd al-Jawad from a well-known family on al-Nahhasin. There’s no way his household could harbor a spy. Be patient until the truth is discovered".

The theology student yelled angrily, "I'm not concerned with whether he’s Mr. Ahmad or Mr. Muhammad. This young man is a spy, no matter who his father is. I've seen him joking with the executioners who are filling the tombs to overflowing with your sons".

At once countless people were shouting, "Let’s beat him with our shoes".

A violent wave surged through the people packed together there. Eager zealots moved in from every direction waving their shoes and boots. Yasin felt desperate and defeated. He glanced all around him and wherever he looked all he saw was the face of someone looking for a fight, bubbling over with anger and hatred. Al-Sayyid Ahmad and Fahmy pressed close to Yasin in an instinctive gesture as though trying to protect him from harm or at least to share it with him. The two of them felt as choked by desperation and defeat as Yasin. Meanwhile Kamal’s sobs had turned into a scream that almost drowned out the voices of the mob.

The seminarian was the first to attack. He threw himself on Yasin and grabbed his shirt. Then he pulled hard to drag him out of the refuge he had created for himself between his father and his brother so the blows would not miss him. Yasin grasped the man’s wrist to fight him off and al-Sayyid Ahmad intervened. For the first time in his life, Fahmy saw his father in an alarming situation. He was so outraged that he was oblivious to the danger engulfing them. Fahmy shoved the theology student in the chest hard enough to force him back. He shouted at the man threateningly, "Don't you dare come a step closer".

The seminarian lost his temper and screamed, "Get all of them!"

At that moment a powerful voice commanded, "Wait, Mr. Shaykh… Everyone, wait".

Eyes were turned toward the voice. It was a young effendi who emerged from the crowd heading for the circle with the prisoners. He was followed by three others his age, dressed like him in modern clothing. They marched forward in a confident and resolute manner until they stood between the young shaykh and his victim and the victim’s family. Many people whispered to ask each other, "Police… police?"

The questioning ceased when the theology student held out his hand to the commander of the group, and the two shook hands warmly. The leader asked the seminarian resolutely, "Where’s this spy?"

The young shaykh pointed with scorn and loathing at Yasin. The leader turned to scrutinize him coldly. Before he could say a word, Fahmy took a step forward to attract his attention. When the man noticed him, his eyes quickly grew wide in amazement and disbelief. He muttered, "You…"

Fahmy smiled wanly and said somewhat sarcastically, "This spy is my brother".

The leader turned to the seminarian to ask, "Are you certain of what you're saying?"

Fahmy answered first: "He may be correct in saying he saw him talk to the English, but he really misinterpreted what was happening. The English are camped in front of our house and confront us whenever we go in or out. At times we're forced to talk to them, against our wills. That’s all there is to it".

The theology student started to speak, but the young leader silenced him with a gesture. Putting his hand on Fahmy’s shoulder, he addressed the crowd: "This young man is one of our friends among the freedom fighters. We both work on the same committee, so I'll take his word for it… Let them pass".

No one said a thing. The young shaykh from al-Azhar withdrew without any hesitation and the crowd began to disperse. The young patriot shook hands with Fahmy and then went off, followed by his companions. Fahmy patted Kamal on the head until he stopped crying.

Silence reigned while everyone nursed his psychic wounds. Al-Sayyid Ahmad realized that some of his acquaintances had gathered around him. They began to offer him their condolences and apologies for the grave mistake committed by the theology student and those in the crowd whom he had misled. They assured him that they had spared no effort to defend him. He thanked them, although he did not know when they had arrived or how they had defended him. He renounced the visit to al-Husayn’s sepulcher, because he was so overwhelmed by emotion. He headed for the door, frowning, his lips pressed tight together. His sons followed him in total silence.

Al-Sayyid Ahmad got his breath back in the street, relieved to be away from the people who had participated in the incident, even if only by watching. He hated everything to do with the misadventure and hurled insults at it. He saw scarcely anything of the street along which he was walking. He exchanged greetings twice with acquaintances in a cursory, formal manner he never used. He concentrated on himself and his wounded soul, which was boiling with anger.

"I would rather die than be humiliated like that: the prisoner of a mob of rabble," he reflected. "This ill-fed, louse-infested theology student claiming to be a patriot attacked me shamelessly. He showed no respect for my age or dignity. I wasn't made to be treated like this. I'm not a person who can be humiliated this way. And when I'm with my sons… Don't be surprised… Your sons are the source of the problem. This ox, born of misery, will never stop causing trouble for you. He has acted scandalously in my home and alienated me from my dearest friend, crowning the year with a divorce. Was that enough?… No, Haniya’s son feels compelled to chat publicly with the English and let me pay the price of being attacked by riffraff. Take your friends the soldiers to your mother so her museum of lovers can be rounded out with Englishmen and Australians.

"It seems you'll be causing trouble for me as long as I live". This sentence slipped out bitterly, but he resisted the temptation to upbraid his son.

Despite his anger, he could see the state Yasin was in and felt sorry for him. He observed that his son was dazed, pale and ill, and he could not force himself to attack. The trouble Yasin had gotten himself into sufficed for now. He was not the only one giving him trouble. There was the hero. "But let’s postpone his case till we recover from the headaches caused by the ox… an ox at home and in the tavern, a bull with Umm Hanafi and Nur. But in the battle at the mosque, he was totally useless, a spineless wonder". What bastards his sons were… If God would only dispense with children, descendants, and families… "Oh… why are my feet leading me home? Why don't I get a bite to eat away from the poisoned atmosphere of the house? Amina, for her part, will wail when she hears the news. I don't need to feel any more disgusted. I'll get some kabob at al-Dahan's… I'll surely find a friend there to whom I can recount my disaster and tell my troubles… But no, I have other problems that cannot wait that long. The hero… a new calamity we must remedy. On to the disastrous dinner. Wail, lament, and cry, woman, and curses on your father too".

Fahmy had only just finished changing clothes when he was summoned to talk to his father. Despite his depleted energy and his distress, Yasin could not keep himself from muttering, "Now it’s your turn".