Naguib Mahfouz - Cairo Modern

The youthful journalist said, “Congratulations on your new digs.”

Smiling, Mahgub replied, “Thanks.”

Ahmad Badir asked, with a crafty smile, “From a good family or a good-time girl?”

Mahgub immediately grasped his companion’s meaning and was relieved by it. With a mysterious smile, he replied, “This is a secret that cannot be disclosed.”

“Does she live with you or come every night?”

Mahgub proclaimed proudly, “As you know, cohabitation courts suspicions.”

The journalist nodded his head and puckered his lips. Then he exclaimed, “Lucky devil!”

As February’s days passed and the cares of life beat him down, hunger’s ghost haunted him night and day, because his stomach felt full for only limited moments. In addition to his schoolwork, he swept his room, cleaned his desk, made his bed, and washed his handkerchiefs, socks, and shirts. He did not know how to acquire necessities others would have considered a trivial expense whether a bar of soap, kerosene for the lamp, or the paper he needed. Some days he was forced to limit himself to one meal. Hunger ground him down. He grew ever leaner and his face more sallow, until he feared for his life, for his person, which he loved more than the whole world or which he loved even without loving the world. In a room that some of his friends thought a nest of fiery passion, he holed up, hungry and solitary. Why didn’t he ask his brethren to feed him? Had he asked Ali Taha, that young man would not have hesitated or delayed. If he had asked Ma’mun Radwan, he would have shared his food with him, even if only a morsel of bread. What prevented him? A sense of honor? Pride? Damn that! Hadn’t he spurned everything? Didn’t he disparage all values? What were honor and pride to him? Damn it! His philosophy was still merely words and nonsense. When would he become a true man? When would he liberate himself from honor and reputation as if brushing dirt from his shoe?

His distress peaked when he was required to buy a Latin text that cost twenty-five piasters. He was dumbfounded. He did not even have a millieme he could devote to that, and the exam loomed ever nearer. What was he going to do? To ask one of his friends was an odious, hateful solution — especially since he knew he would never be able to repay the money. So what was he to do? One day after another passed as his life became ever more disturbed. He had almost given in to despair when he remembered his mother’s distinguished relative — Ahmad Bey Hamdis. How could he despair when he had a notable relation like this? It was true that his father held a serious grudge against him, saying he was an ungrateful fellow who had forgotten his family and snubbed them. This was actually true, but his father was wrong to be angry. The bey’s conduct was appropriate. If his relative put on airs, so did all men like him. They had a right to be uppity. The stupid rural moral code was solely responsible for his father’s anger. Although the bey was conceited, that would not prevent him from viewing Mahgub’s plight with an affectionate eye and from extending a helping hand. So he should seek out the bey in good conscience instead of loathing him.

He left his room, fully resolved to visit his relative and try his luck. He spared no expense in getting ready. He pressed his fez and shined his shoes for a whole piaster — in other words, the price of an entire meal. Even so, he looked like an invalid with a pale face and emaciated body. He looked up his relative’s address in the telephone directory — al-Fustat Street in Zamalek — and hurried off.

On his way there, his imagination soared through a world of half-forgotten memories illuminating a distant period when he was eight and his relative was still Ahmad Effendi Hamdis, an engineer in al-Qanatir. The engineer’s family consisted of his lovely wife, their daughter Tahiya, who was four, and a little boy of two. It was a happy family that drew strength from the exceptionally beautiful lady of the house. At that time the Hamdis family had not grown too important to exchange social visits with the Abd al-Da’im family, and Abd al-Da’im went all out to honor this dear family. How often he rushed to the markets to buy chickens and pigeons to prepare a tasty meal for them! Mahgub himself had won the affection of Hamdis Bey’s spouse, who praised his intelligence and admired his cleverness. She allowed Tahiya to play with him in the yard and the street. What would Tahiya be like now? Would she remember him? That era had been buried by fifteen years. It was forgotten, obliterated, and finished. Memories of it had been carried away by time and neglect. If they were of any significance, some trace of them must lie in a deep layer of memory. The Hamdis family, however, had ascended and become significant, whereas his family had remained as nondescript and insignificant as ever. Al-Qanatir had been erased from life’s record and memories of it had sunk into the past’s gloomy stretches. Abd al-Da’im Effendi, as a clerk in a Greek-owned firm, had been dismissed from mind. What was Tahiya like? Wasn’t it possible she would remember him? That boy who carried her in his arms and ran with her from the house to the train station! Hamdis Bey could not have forgotten him; even if he had, he would remember him the moment he set eyes on him. He would not refuse to give him a hand.

He reached Zamalek and found his way — after asking for directions — to al-Fustat Street. Like Rashad Pasha Street, it was grand and still. On either side, towering trees were massed, and their branches met overhead, forming a canopy of red flowers. He cast an incredulous look at the mansions with his protruding eyes. This look seemed to ask, “Is it possible for suffering to penetrate these thick walls? Is what claimants to wisdom say true or do they enclose inflamed hearts?” With steady steps he approached the villa at number 14, where he asked the doorman in a refined accent and dignified tone for the bey, informing the man that he was a relative who had come to visit. So the Nubian doorman invited him into the parlor, and he entered a large, splendidly furnished chamber. He had never been in a house like this before or found himself in such a room. So he examined everything with a mixture of astonishment, admiration, and regret. Looking out a nearby window, he saw part of a garden that was filled with nature’s fragrant beauties. How would the bey receive him? Would his wife invite him in so she could see what had become of the boy now that he was grown? Would they remember the time in al-Qanatir and ask affectionately about their old friend Abd al-Da’im Effendi? Would they be moved by his illness and discern the motive that had induced Mahgub to knock on their door and then extend a helping hand to him out of their good will? What a fine room! Wasn’t it possible that he might own such a mansion that needy people would seek out?

Hearing footsteps, he looked toward the door. Then he saw the bey, whom he recognized at first glance, although his appearance had changed and he was older. As the bey approached, he rose and advanced toward him politely, extending his hand. They shook hands, and the bey scrutinized him. Then, smiling, the bey said, “So it’s you! I didn’t recognize the name at first, but then my memory came to my aid. Now you’re a man. How are your parents?”

I didn’t recognize the name at first! So it’s you!

Mahgub overlooked all that and replied respectfully, “My mother’s fine, but my father’s ill. In fact, his condition is serious.”

Then they sat down. The bey was wearing an overcoat. So it seemed he was preparing to leave the house. Leaning back in his chair, the man said, “I hope he’ll recover. What’s the matter?”

Mahgub said carefully and clearly, “My father had a stroke that has left him paralyzed in bed. He’s had to quit his job and things are rough.”