Naguib Mahfouz - Cairo Modern

She laughed delicately and replied frankly, “The fact is that we haven’t found anything to justify the trip.”

In a shaky voice, his eyes piercing hers, Mahgub said, “But the place is beautiful and calm.…”

She noticed his trembling voice and sensed his intense, fiery gaze. Then her eyes twitched and she looked down. Frowning anxiously, she said, “It’s time for us to leave.”

He nodded his head and tried to say something but found he could not speak. So he seized her hand, which she quickly took back, gazing at him with disgust. He paid no attention to this, took her hand again by force, and said — as emotion swept like a wave over the surface of his visage, “Let’s stay a little longer.” The devil of desire seized control of him. So he pressed her to him violently and put his arms around her. His mouth, which was burning to devour her, descended toward her. She, however, fended him off with her right hand and pulled her head away from him. Anger flared in her beautiful face, and she shouted at him in a voice that echoed disturbingly in the silent tomb, “You’re crazy! Let me go! Let go of my hand!”

Almost insane with torment, he pleaded with her, “Don’t be angry … I beg you … come to me.”

She broke free of his arms, however, with a wild force she did not know she possessed and shouted with stern determination, “Stay where you are! Don’t you dare touch me. Don’t you try to stop me.”

She headed for the door. He yielded and followed her, his head bowed, silent, weighed down by feelings of shame and embarrassment. They walked along silently, retracing the route they had traversed as happy friends. Her beautiful face was overcast by an angry dark red. She held her head high with pride and conceit. He did not know how to atone for his error. The longer the silence lasted, the more desperate and defeated he felt, as he wondered regretfully if he should have been more patient. He told himself sadly: Obviously a girl like Tahiya shouldn’t be treated like the butt collector. Perhaps he had not allocated to Tahiya a due amount of suave courtship. If only he had employed more deliberation and patience with her, he might well have succeeded. Damn unruly passion! It had cost him an auspicious opportunity.

When they reached the automobile, without glancing at him, Tahiya commanded, “Stay where you are!”

She climbed into the car, closed the door, and ordered the chauffeur to depart. He followed her with his eyes until she was lost from sight as the automobile quit the Pyramids Plateau, leaving him alone. He stayed where he was for a time — just as she had ordered — feeling gloomy. Then he shrugged his shoulders. As the spirit of contempt returned, he almost laughed at himself. He looked at the pyramid for a long time. Then he muttered sarcastically, “Forty centuries have watched my tragedy from the top of this pyramid.” A sudden wave of anger overwhelmed him, his pale face turned red, and his nostrils quivered. He felt like pelting Cairo with huge stones from the pyramids. His feet started moving, even though anger still devoured him. Why was he sad? She was just a female and no better than his girlfriend, the butt collector. Right. All the same, he had blown an opportunity, losing Tahiya and her father forever. He thought for a moment. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he murmured contemptuously, “Tuzz.”

Aperiod of relative stability ensued.

Mahgub put his failure behind him and set to work enthusiastically. He met the editor of The Star and was commissioned to translate some pieces at a rate of fifty piasters a month. So his income rose to a pound fifty, and this sufficed to ward off the prospect of starving to death. It rendered his life tolerable at any rate. He began to work nonstop, night and day, at both his university studies and his undemanding journalistic chores. He had no free time and thus rarely thought about himself or ruminated about his afflictions. Whole days passed when he did not clench his fist in anger or yell “Tuzz!” with sardonic fury. Yes, he experienced a few brief moments of inevitable rage when he prepared to consume his vile food, for example, when he saw Ali Taha’s athletic body and happy smile, or when he remembered knocking on doors to beg for a few piasters. Except for these occasions, life proceeded with tolerable comfort.

March passed with its mild weather, fine winds, and a sky that was beginning to shed its winter cloak to welcome spring’s heat and fragrance. Next came April with its sun — as jaunty as any other upstart — and its dust-laden winds and bilious, grimy weather. His father’s usual monthly letter arrived at the beginning of May. In it he said he was sending the last pound note he could spare. He prayed for his son’s good fortune and success. Then he added that he was expecting his son’s support, which he so badly needed, from that time forward. He included the good news that, God willing, he would soon be able to move and perhaps even to walk with a cane. There was nothing in the letter they had not already agreed on, but Mahgub could not repress the rage that shook him as he remembered his black nights — nights when he was starving and delirious. He kept saying of his parents, “If only they had been … I would have been.… If only they had been… I would have been…”

Then the examination came on the first of May, and the results were announced by the twentieth. The four friends, who had been classmates for four full years, all passed. The examination was for Mahgub not merely an academic exercise. As a matter of fact, it was his one and only opportunity to reap the reward for fifteen years of effort. So he was doubly delighted, breathing a huge sigh of relief. A graduate’s delight with his success is, however, brief. Indeed, it is a joy that lasts merely through the night the results appear. The next morning, especially if his circumstances resemble Mahgub’s, he is burdened by concerns of a new type — those of a young person whose student’s cloak has been shed only to confront alone the veiled tyrant, which brings opportunities for happiness and pitfalls threatening misery, called the future. The companions began to meet almost every evening at the university club where news reached them of classmates — with connections and family influence — for whom the doors of government service had opened. The four friends discussed their futures with positive comments and criticism, both optimistic and pessimistic. Ahmad Badir was wont to say contentedly, “My life’s plan isn’t going to change, because I’m not searching for a new career. Yesterday I was a student and a journalist. Now I can concentrate on journalism.”

Ma’mun Radwan did not know whether he would be sent to France or would stay in Egypt, but his objective, which was Islam, remained the same in either case. He once asked, “Couldn’t we start our real struggle with a Young Muslims Association? We would purify Islam of all the dusty pagan practices and reclaim its youthful spirit. We would broadcast our appeal across the entire Arab East before blanketing all Muslim lands.” Ali Taha’s objectives were unclear, and he seemed confused about how to achieve any of them. He was ready to get involved with politics, but only under the kind of political system that appealed to him, not with what was currently available. If he could find a party with progressive social principles, he would join without hesitation, but where was such a party? Should he wait for parties of this type to arise before entering politics or should he take the initiative now? It was doubtless easier to wait and also more judicious, since what use was there in advocating social reform in a country that was preoccupied by its constitution and pact with Great Britain. Perhaps it would be better to wait a little till he stockpiled more knowledge and information, and so on. He had not set his heart on a career appointment but also would not turn one down if it were offered.