Naguib Mahfouz: Palace Walk

The truth was that he had a special reason for resenting the Australians. Their tyranny separated him from the Ezbekiya Garden entertainment district, which he had abandoned in defeat, except for the few rare opportunities he could snatch. He could not stand to expose himself to soldiers who openly plundered people of their possessions and took pleasure in abusing and insulting them without restraint.

He began to ask after the "children," as he called them, making no distinction between the eldest of them, a clerk in al-Nahhasin School, and the youngest, who was a pupil in Khalil Agha Elementary School. Then he inquired suspiciously, "And Kamal? You better not be covering up his mischief".

The woman thought of her young son, whose innocent pranks she did in fact conceal. Her husband did not recognize that there could be innocent games or amusements. She replied meekly, "He respects his father’s commands".

Her husband was silent for a moment. His thoughts seemed to be wandering. Once more he was harvesting memories from his happy evening. Then his memory slipped back to the events of the day before the party. He remembered all at once that it had been a momentous day. In his condition, he did not feel like keeping from her anything that floated to consciousness. He said as though addressing himself, "What a fine man Prince Kamal al-Din Husayn is! Do you know what he did? He refused to ascend the throne of his late father so long as the British are in charge".

The woman had heard the day before of the death of Sultan Husayn Kamal, but this was the first time she heard the name of his son. She could not find anything to say, but moved by her feelings of veneration for the speaker and afraid not to comment on something he said, she responded, "May God have mercy on the Sultan and bless his son".

Her husband continued his remarks: "Prince Ahmad Fuad, or Sultan Fuad as he will be known from now on, accepted the throne. The celebration came to a climax today with his investiture. Then he went in a procession from Bustan Castle to Abdin Palace. Praise to God, the Everlasting".

Amina listened to him with interest and delight. She was interested in any news of the outside world, about which she knew almost nothing. Her delight was inspired by the affectionate attention she could boast of because her husband had spoken to her of such weighty matters. Moreover, the knowledge represented by the conversation gave her pleasure, because she could repeat it to her children, especially her two daughters, who were as totally ignorant of the outside world as she. She could think of nothing better to repay him for his generous sentiments than to repeat in his hearing the prayer she knew he heartily endorsed. She was also expressing her own sincere emotions when she said, "Our Lord can return our sovereign Abbas to us".

The man shook his head and murmured, "When?… When? Only the Lord knows. All we read about in the papers are British victories. Will they really win or will the Germans and Turks be victorious in the end? Answer our prayer, O God".

The man closed his eyes from fatigue and yawned. He stretched out, saying, "Take the lamp back to the sitting room".

The woman got to her feet and took the lamp from the table. Before she left the room, she heard her husband belch. She stammered, "Health and strength".

Through the stillness of the early morning, when the dark dawn sky was transfixed by arrows of light, there rose from the courtyard oven room the sound of dough being kneaded rhythmically, like the beating of a drum. Amina had been up for about half an hour. She had finished her ablutions [5] ablutions — the washing of one’s body or part of it (as in a religious rite) and prayed before going down to the oven room to rouse Umm Hanafi, the servant, who was in her forties and had been a maid in the house when she was a girl. She had left the house to marry and had returned after her divorce. While Umm Hanafi worked the dough, Amina busied herself preparing breakfast.

The house had a wide courtyard with a well at the far right. The well’s opening had been fitted with a wooden cover once children’s feet began pattering across the ground. That was followed by the installation of water pipes. On the far left, by the entrance to the women’s quarters, were two large chambers. The oven occupied one, devoted to baking, and the other served as a storeroom.

The oven room, although isolated, had a special claim on Amina’s affections. If the hours she had passed inside it were added up, they would be a lifetime. Moreover, the room came alive with the delights of each holiday in its season, when hearts, merry with the joys of life, kept an anxious watch. Appetites were whetted by all the delicious foods prepared there for each holiday in turn, like the sweet fruit compotes and doughnuts for Ramadan or the cake and pastries for Id al-Fitr marking the end of Ramadan. For Id al-Adha, the Feast of the Sacrifice, there was the lamb that was fattened up and pampered only to be slaughtered while the children watched. Thus the universal rejoicing was not without a mournful tear. The blaze of the fire gleamed from the depths of the oven through the arched opening, like a flaming firebrand of joy in the secret recesses of the heart. It seemed both one of the ornaments of each festival and its harbinger.

If Amina, in the upper stories, felt she was a deputy or representative of the ruler, lacking any authority of her own, here she was the queen, with no rival to her sovereignty. The oven lived and died at her command. The fate of the coal and wood, piled in the right hand corner, rested on a word from her. The stove that occupied the opposite corner, beneath shelves with pots, plates, and the copper serving tray, slept or hissed with flame at a gesture from her. Here she was the mother, wife, teacher, and artist everyone respected. They had full confidence in everything she produced. The only praise she ever succeeded in eliciting from her husband, if he did favor her with praise, was for a type of food she prepared and cooked to perfection.

Umm Hanafi was the right arm of this small empire, whether Amina directed the work herself or allowed one of her daughters to practice this craft under her supervision. Umm Hanafi was a stout woman who was shapeless and formless. The single goal governing her ample increase in flesh had been corpulence. Considerations of beauty had been ignored. She was totally satisfied, for she reckoned corpulence to be beauty of the finest sort. No wonder, then, that all her household chores seemed almost secondary to her in comparison with her primary duty, which was to fatten up the family, or more specifically the females, with miraculous remedies that were not only charms to produce beauty but its secret essence. Although these potions did not always do the trick, they had proved their value more than once and deserved the hopes and dreams invested in them. It was not surprising that Umm Hanafi should grow plump in these circumstances. But her weight in no way diminished her vigor. The moment her mistress woke her, she rose, ready to get to work. She hastened to the bread basin, and soon there rang out the sound of the kneading, which served as an alarm dock in this house. It reached the children on the first floor and the father on the top floor, notifying everyone that it was time to rise.

Mr. Ahmad Abd al-Jawad rolled over on his side and opened his eyes. He scowled at once, furious at the sound that had disturbed his sleep. He suppressed his anger, however, since he knew he had to wake up. Normally his first sensation after regaining consciousness was of his hangover. He struggled against it forcefully and sat up in bed, although still dominated by a desire to go back to sleep. His boisterous nights were not able to make him forget his daytime duties.