Naguib Mahfouz - Palace of Desire

Al-Sayyid Ahmad proclaimed at once, "I'm finished with her."

Muhammad Iffat asked, "Zanuba?"

He nodded in the affirmative, and the other man asked smilingly, "So quickly?"

Laughing sarcastically, al-Sayyid Ahmad answered, "Would you believe she demanded I marry her? I got fed up."

Muhammad Iffat laughed scornfully and said, "Not even Zubayda herself would think of that. How amazing! Her excuse is that you pampered her beyond her wildest dreams. So she wanted even more."

Al-Sayyid Ahmad muttered derisively, "She's crazy."

Muhammad Iffat laughed again and said, "Perhaps love for you affected her brain?"

"What a jab," he thought. "Laugh to compensate for the pain."

"I told you she's crazy. That says it all."

"What did you do?"

"I told her bluntly that I was leaving, never to return. Then I left."

"How did she take it?"

"She cursed and threatened me. She said, 'Go to hell.' So I left the lunatic. It was a mistake from the very beginning."

Shaking his head with satisfaction, Muhammad Iffat replied, "Yes. We've all slept with her but never thought of having an affair with her."

"You've pounced and roamed with the lions only to be routed by a mouse," he told himself. "Hide your shame even from your closest friends and praise God that it's all over."

But in fact nothing really was over, for she lived on in his imagination. In the following dayshe realized that he could not think of her in the abstract. Her image was always linked to a deep pain, which spread and increased. It became clear to him that this pain was not caused merely by anger over outraged honor but by regret and longing. Apparently it was a tyrannical emotion that demanded nothing less than the destruction of the person experiencing it. All the same, he was fiercely proud of the victory he had recently won and indulged himself in the hope of eventually vanquishing his high-handed and traitorous emotions. For whatever reason, peace of mind had left him. He spent his time in thought, mulling over his sorrows, tormented by thingshe imagined and remembered. He occasionally felt so weak he considered telling Muhammad Iffat about the pains tormenting him. Indeed he went so far as to think once of asking for Zubayda's help. But these moments of weakness were like bouts of fever, and when he recovered from one he would shake his head with perplexed amazement.

His crisis lent a coarseness to his behavior, although he resisted as much as possible, relying on his forbearance and civility. His self-control was lessened only to a limited degree, and that change passed unnoticed except by friends and close acquaintances accustomed to his mildness, understanding, and tact. The members of his family were not aware of any shift, for his conduct with them remained much the same. What differed was the sentiment underlying his behavior. His feigned ferocity became so real that only he was aware of its intensity. Yet he did not escape his own cruelty. In fact, he may have been its primary target. He attacked himself, scolding and railing against his humiliation. Eventually he began to acknowledge his disgrace, wretchedness, and loss of youth.

He consoled himself by saying, "I won't make a move. I won't humiliate myself any further. Let my thoughts wander in all directions. Let my emotions be convulsed repeatedly. I'll stay right where I am, and only the compassionate and forgiving God will know the pain I'm suffering."

He would suddenly find himself wondering whether she was still on ttie houseboat or not. If still there, did she have enough of his money to make her independent of other men? Or was the other man meeting her there? He frequently asked himself questions like these, and each time the torture he experienced leached from his spirit to his flesh and bones, breaking him down bit by bit. The only time he felt at peace was when he recollected that final scene in the houseboat. He had left her with the impression, which he had almost shared, that he was repudiating and shunning her. But he c ould not help recalling scenes recording his humiliation and weakness, and others of unforgettable happiness. His imagination also created fresh scenes in which they met again, quarreled, settled accounts, scolded each other, and then were reconciled and reunited…. This was a dream he saw frequently in his inner wodd, which was teeming with countless varieties of sorrow and happiness…. But why should he not discover for himself what had become of the houseboat and its resident? After dark he could go there without being seen by anyone.

Concealing himself in the shadows like a thief, he set off When he passed the houseboat he saw light filtering out from the shutters, but he did not know whether she or some new tenant was benefiting from this light. Yet his heart felt it was her light, not someone else's. Looking at the houseboat, he imagined that he could detect the mistress's spirit and that all he needed to do to see her face to face was to knock on the door. When it opened, there she would be, just as in the old days, both the happy and the miserable ones. But what would he do if a man's face confronted him? She really was close, but how remote…. He had been eternally forbidden use of this gangplank. Oh, had this situation appeared in any of his dreams? She had told him to leave. She had said it from her heart and then had proceeded on with her life as though she had never known him and was totally oblivious to his existence. Such a cruel person could not be expected to pay attention to a plea for mercy or forgiveness.

He went there repeatedly. It became a customary pastime for him to loiter in front of the houseboat after night fell and before he went to his friends' party. He did not seem to want to do anything in particular, except satisfy an insane but sterile curiosity.

He was about to go on his way one evening when the door opened and a figure he could not see clearly in the shadows emerged. His heart pounded with fear and hope. He crossed the road quickly and stood beside a tree, his eyes staring into the darkness. The figure crossed the wooden gangplank to the road and set off in the direction of the Zamalek Bridge. He could tell it was a woman. His heart told him it was Zanuba. He followed her at a distance, not knowing how the evening would end. Whether it was his former mistress or not, what did he have in mind? … Yet he continued on, concentrating his attention on the figure. When she neared the bridge and got in range of the lights, his hunch was confirmed. He was now certain that it was Zanuba. But she was cloaked in the traditional black wrap, which she had not worn during their affair. He was surprised by that and wondered what it implied. His suspicion was and how many he had that there was an incriminating reason for it. He saw her approach the stop for the Giza streetcar and wait there. He walked beside the fields until he passed the point opposite her and then crossed to her side, where he stood out of sight. When the streetcar came, she boarded it. He raced over and clambered up, taking a seat at the end of the bench nearest the steps, so that he could watch people get off. At every stop he looked out, no longer apprehensive about being discovered. Even if he were caught, she would have no way of knowing that he had been waiting for her in front of the houseboat and spying on her. She got off at al-Ataba al-Khadra. Climbing down, he saw her walk toward the Muski. Again he followed her at a distance, rejoicing in the darkness of the street. Had she resumed contact with her aunt? Or was she going to a new gentleman? But why would she go to his place when she had a houseboat for entertaining lovers?

When they reached the Husayn district, afraid of losing her in the crowd of women wearing wraps, he watched her even more closely. The point of this covert pursuit escaped him, but he was driven fDrward by a painful, futile, and even violent curiosity, impossible to oppose. She walked past the front of the mosque and made her way to Watawit Alley, where the pedestrians were fewer and the beggars more persistent. She continued on as far as al-Gamaliya and turned into Palace of Desire Alley. Although afraid Yasin would run into him or see him from a window, al-Sayyid Ahmad trailed after her. If he met his son he could claim he was going to visit Ghunaym Hamidu, a neighbor of Yasin's in Palace of Desire Alley and the owner of an oil-pressing establishment. Before he knew what was happening she had entered the first cul-de-sac, which had only one house — Yasin's. His heart pounded and his feet felt heavy. He knew the residents of the first two floors. The families that lived there could have no conceivable link to Z anuba. He was so anxious and uneasy that his eyes looked every which way. But he found himself going into the cul-de-sac without worrying about the consequences. He went close enough to the front door to hear her footsteps as she climbed the stairs. Entering the stairwell, he raised his head to listen. He heard her pass the first door and then the second. Then she was knocking on Yasin's door. Breathing heavily, he remained nailed to his spot. He turned his head, feeling weak and on the verge of collapse. He sighed deeply, pulled himself away, and retraced his steps. He could not see the street, his mind was so crowded with jumbled thoughts and ideas.