Naguib Mahfouz - Sugar Street

Addressing Kamal, Abd al-Aziz said, "You're a bachelor in both your thought and your life."

Kamal noted this chance phrase with interest. Was his single status a consequence of his philosophy or vice versa? Or were both a product of some third factor?

Rdyad Qaldas said, "Being single's a temporary condition. Perhaps doubt is too."

Abd al-Aziz replied, "But it seemshe's averse to ever getting married."

Amazed, Riyad asked, "What's incompatible about love and doubt? What's to prevent a lover from getting married? A persistent refusal to marry cannot be justified by doubt, which admits no persistence in anything."

Without believing it himself, Kamal asked, "Doesn't love require a certain amount of faith?"

Riyad Qaldas answered laughingly, "Of course not. Love is like an earthquake, rocking mosque, church, and brothel equally."

"An earthquake?" Kamal asked himself. "What an appropriate comparison! An earthquake destroys everything and then drowns the world in deathly silence."

"What about you, Mr. Qaldas?" Kamal inquired. "You have praised doubt. Are you a skeptic?"

Abd al-Aziz laughed and said, "He's doubt incarnate."

They roared with laughter. Then Riyad, as though to introduce himself, commented, "I was a skeptic for a long time before renouncing it. I no longer have any doubts concerning religion, because I've abandoned it. But I believe in science and art. I always shall, God willing."

Abd al-Aziz asked sarcastically, "The God you don't believe in?"

Smiling, Riyad Qaldas answered, "Religion is a human artifact. We know nothing about God. Who can really say he doesn't believe in God? Or that he does? The prophets are the only true Believers. That's because they see and hear Him or converse with messengers bringing His revelations."

Kamal inquired, "Yet you believe in science and art?"

"Yes."

"There's some basis for belief in science. But art? I'd rather believe in spiritualism than in the short story, for example."

Riyad stared at him critically but said calmly, "Science is the language of the intellect. Art is the language of the entire human personality."

"What a poetic statement!"

Riyad received Kamal's sarcasm with an indulgent smile and replied, "Science brings people together with the light of its ideas. Art brings them together with lofty human emotions. Both help mankind develop and prod us toward a better future."

"What conceit!" Kamal exclaimed to himself. "He writes a two-page short story every month and imagines that he'shelping mankind progress. But I'm as nauseating as he is, for I summarize a chapter from Hoffdmg's History of Modern Philosophy and then deep inside claim to be the equal of Fuad Jamil al-Hamzawi, public prosecutor for al-Darb al-Ahmar. But how would life be bearable otherw: se? Are we insane, wise, or merely alive? To hell with everything!"

"What do you say about scientists who do not share your enthusiasm for science?"

"We should not interpret the modesty of science as weakness or despair. Science provides mankind with its magic, light, guidance, and miracles. It's the religion of the future."

"And the short story?"

For the first time it became clear that Riyad was offended, even though he attempted not to let it show. Kamal corrected himself almost apologetically, "I mean art in general."

Riyad Qaldas asked emphatically, "Can you live in absolute isolation? People need confidential advice, consolation, joy, guidance, light, and journeys to all regions of the inhabited world and of the soul. That's what art is."

At this juncture Mr. Abd al-Aziz said, "I have an idea. Let's get together with some of our colleagues once a month to talk about intellectual concerns. Then we can publish our discussion under the title 'Debate of the Month.'"

Looking at Kamal affectionately, Riyad Qaldas said, "Our debate will continue. Or that's what I hope. Shall we consider ourselves friends?"

Kamal replied with sincere enthusiasm, "Most certainly! We must meet as often as possible."

Pervaded by happiness because of this new friendship, Kamal sensed that an exalted side of his heart had been awakened after a profound slumber. He was more convinced than ever of the important role friendship played in his life. It was vital and indispensable for him. Without it, he was like a thirsty man perishing in the desert.

The new friends parted at al-Ataba, and Kamal returned by the Muski. Although it was nearly 8 p.m., the air he breathed in was hot enough to be stifling. He slowed down on reaching al-Gawhari Alley, which he entered. Then he stepped into the third house on the right, climbing the stairs to the second floor. After he rang the bell, a little window in the door opened, revealing the face of a woman over sixty. She welcomed him with a smile, which showed off her gold teeth, and admitted him.

"Welcome to my lover's son!" she exclaimed. "Welcome to my brother's son!"

He followed her to a sitting room surrounded by bedrooms. The two sofas were placed opposite each other. Between them were a small carpet gleaming with gold and silver thread, a table, and a water pipe. The fragrance of incense permeated the room.

The woman was plump, but old enough to be fragile, and her head was wrapped in a spangled kerchief. Although decorated by kohl, her eyes had a heavy look indicative of drug abuse. The wrinkles of her face revealed traces of her former beauty and of an enduring wantonness. Sitting down cross-legged on the sofa near the water pipe, she gestured for him to sit beside her.

Obeying her, he smiled and asked, "How is Mrs. Jalila?"

She protested, "Call me 'Aunt.'"

"How are you, Auntie?"

"Superb, son of Abd al-Jawad". Then she shouted in a harsh voice, "Girl! Nazla!"

In a few minutes the maid brought two full glasses, which she placed on the table. Jalila directed: "Drink!.. How often I said that to your father in those sweet bygone days___"

As Kamal picked up a glasshe remarked jovially, "It's really sad that I arrived too late…."

She gave him a punch that made the gold bracelets covering her arm jangle. "Shame on you! Would you have wished to ravage what your father adored?" Then she added, "But what are you compared to your father? He had already married a second time when I met him. He married young, as was the custom then. But that did not prevent him from keeping me company for a period that was the sweetest of my life. Then he left me for Zubayda, may God take her by the hand. And there were dozens of other women besides us, may God be indulgent with him. But you're still a bachelor, and even so you only visit my house once a week, Thursday evenings. Shame on you! What ever happened to virility?"

The father he heard about from her was not the one he knew personally. This was not even the father Yasin had described to him. Jalila's lover had been a passionate and impetuous man with a heart untroubled by qualms. What was Kamal compared to that man? Even when he visited this brothel each Thursday, only alcohol could release him from his worries long enough for him to enjoy "love" here. Without its intoxication, he would have felt the brothel's atmosphere to be devastatingly grim. That first night, when fate had led him to this house, had been unforgettable. He had seen this woman for the first time, and she had invited him to sit with her until a girl was ready. When he had revealed his full name during the course of the conversation, she had cried out, "Are you the son of al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad whose store is in al-Nmhasin?"

"Yes. Do you know my father?"

"A thousand welcomes to you!"

"Do you know my father?"

"I know him far better than you do. We were lovers, and I performed at your sister's wedding. In my time, I was as famous a singer as Umm Kalthoum in your gray days. Ask anyone about me."