Naguib Mahfouz - Sugar Street

Riyad Qaldas replied vigorously, "I have transferred from science to art a sincere devotion to the truth, a willingness to confront the facts no matter how bitter they are, an impartiality of judgment, and finally a comprehensive respect for all creatures."

These were grand words, but what relationship did they have to comic stories? Riyad Qaldas looked at him and, reading the doubt in his expression, laughed aloud. Then Riyad said, "You have a low opinion of art. My only consolation is that there's nothing on earth that escapes your doubts. We understand with our minds but live with our hearts. Despite your skeptical stance, you love, work together with other people, and share in the political life of your nation. Whether we are conscious of it or not, behind each of these initiatives there is a principle that is no less powerful than faith. Art is the interpreter of the human world. Besides that, some writers have produced works forming part of the international contest of ideas. In their hands art has become one of the weapons of international progress. There is no way that art can be considered a frivolous activity."

"Is this a defense of art or of the artist?" Kamal asked himself. "If the man who sells melon seeds had a talent for debating, he would prove that he plays a significant role in the life of mankind. It's quite possible that everything has an intrinsic merit. Similarly, it's not out of the question that everything, without exception, is worthless. Millions of people are breathing their last at this moment, and yet a child's voice is raised to bewail the loss of a toy and a lover's moans resound throughout existence to broadcast the torments of his heart. Should I laugh or weep?"

Kamal remarked, "With regard to what you said about the international competition of ideas, let me tell you that it's being played out on a small scale in our family. One of my nephews is a Muslim Brother and one a Communist."

"Sooner or later this struggle will be reflected in some form everywhere. We don't live in a vacuum. Haven't you thought about these issues?"

"I read about Communism when I studied materialist philosophy, and similarly I've read books about Fascism and the Nazis."

"You read and understand. You're a historian with no history. I hope you observe the day you emerge from this condition as your true birthday."

Kamal was offended by this remark, not only because of its stinging, criticism but also because of the truth it contained. To avoid commenting on it, he said, "Neither the Communist nor the Muslim Brother in our family has a sound knowledge of what he believes."

"Belief is a matter of willing, not of knowing. The most casual Christian today knows far more about Christianity than the Christian maiatyrs did. It's the same with you in Islam."

"Do you believe in any of these ideologies?"

After some reflection, Riyad replied, "It's clear that I despise Fascism, the Nazi movement, and all other dictatorial systems. Communism might be able to create a world free from the calamities of racial and religious friction and from class conflicts. All the same, my primary interest is my art."

In a teasing tone, Kamal asked, "But more than a thousand years ago Islam created this ideal world you've mentioned."

"But it's a religion. Communism is a science. Religion is nothing more than a myth". Then, smiling, he added, "The problem is that we interact with Muslims, not with Islam."

They found Fuad I Street very crowded despite the cold weather. Riyad stopped suddenly and asked, "What would you think about having macaroni with an excellent wine for supper?"

"I don't drink in places where a lot of people will see me. If you want, vve could go to Ukasha's cafe."

Riyad Qaldas laughed and said, "How can you bear to be so sedate? Spectacles, mustache, and traditional mores! You've liberated your mind from every fetter, but your body is bound with chains. You were createdat least your body was to be a teacher."

Riyad's reference to his body reminded Kamal of a painful incident. He had attended the birthday party of a colleague, and they had all become intoxicated. Then a guest had launched a verbal attack on him, pointing out his head and nose, and everyone had laughed. Whenever he thought of his head and nose he also remembered A'ida and the past — A'fda, who had first made him self-conscious about his features. It was amazing that when love receded, nothing came to take its place. All that remained were bitter dregs.

Riyad pulled at his arm and said, "Let's go drink some wine and talk about literature. Then afterward we'll go to Madam Jalila's house in al-Gawhari Alley. If you call her 'Auntie,' I will too."

There was a flurry of activity at Sugar Street, or more precisely in the apartment of Abd al-Muni'm Shawkat. Gathered in the bedroom around Na'ima's bed were Amina, Khadija, Aisha, Zanuba, and a nurse-midwife. In the parlor, sitting with Abd al-Muni'm were his father Ibrahim, his brother Ahmad, Yasin, and Kamal. Yasin was teasing Abd al-Muni'm: "Arrange things so that the next birth doesn't come when you're preparing for an exam."

It was the end of April. Abd al-Muni'm was tired, delighted, and anxious in equal measure. Screams provoked by labor pains carried through the closed door, and the entire spectrum of pain was present in these shrill cries.

Abd al-Muni'm remarked, "Pregnancy has exhausted her and has left her incredibly weak. Her face is so pale that all the blood seems to have drained away."

Yasin belched contentedly and then said, "This is normal. It's always this way."

Smiling, Kamal observed, "I still remember when Na'ima was born. It was a difficult delivery, and Aisha suffered terribly. I was very upset and stood here with her late husband, Khalil."

Abd al-Muni'm asked, "Do you mean to tell me that difficult deliveries are hereditary?"

Gesturing heavenward with his finger, Yasin said, "He can make everything easy."

Abd al-Muni'm said, "We got a nurse-midwife who is known throughout the entire district. My mother would have preferred to have the woman who delivered us, but I insisted on having a trained professional. There's no doubt that she is cleaner and more skillful".*

Yasin replied, "Naturally. Although, as a whole, childbirth is in God's bands. He controls it."

Lighting a cigarette, Ibrahim Shawkat said, "Her labor pains began early in the morning. Now it's almost five p m The poor dear is as insubstantial as a shadow. May our Lord come to her aid."

Then glancing with languid eyes at the other men, particularly at his sons, Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad, he said, "Oh, if only you would remember the pain a mother endures…."

Laughing, Ahmad said, "How can you expect a fetus to remember anything, Papa?"

The man scolded his son: "When it's a question of gratitude, there's no need to depend solely on memory."

The screams stopped. The bedroom was silent, and everyone looked in that direction. After a few moments, his patience exhausted, Abd al-Muni'm rose, went to the door, and knocked. The door was opened just enough to reveal Khadija's plump face. He gave her a questioning look and tried to poke his head inside. But she blocked him with the palms of her hands and said, "God hasn't granted a delivery yet."

"It's taking a long time. Could it be false labor?"

"The midwife knows better than we do. Calm down and pray for a safe delivery."

She closed the door. The young man resumed his seat next to his father, who justified Abd al-Muni'm's anxiety: "You'll have to excuse him. This is his first time."

Wishing to distract himself, Kamal took out al-Balagh, the newspaper that had been folded up in his pocket, and started to leaf through it. Then Ahmad said, "The results of the last election were announced on the radio". Smiling scornfully, he added, "How ridiculous they were…."