Naguib Mahfouz - Cairo Modern

Salim al-Ikhshidi sighed with relief and said as he stood up, “Come, let me introduce you to the bey.”

Trying his utmost to control his emotions, Mahgub rushed after him. They entered a sumptuous room where the bey was seated at the far end behind a large desk. They approached the desk respectfully till they could almost touch it. For the first time Mahgub saw al-Ikhshidi descend from his high horse and bow submissively over the bey’s hand. So he did the same. When he straightened up, he cast a fleeting glance at the seated man, who was in his forties, of medium build, with a handsome face, elegant clothes and accessories, and a pretty little mustache. His appearance suggested that he was a tutor in the school of love. When al-Ikhshidi introduced Mahgub, praising him with deliberate reserve, the bey asked, “Are you a member of this year’s graduating class?” When Mahgub answered in the affirmative, the bey told him, “I hope you live up to Mr. al-Ikhshidi’s high opinion of you.”

Then he held out his hand to indicate that the meeting had concluded. He had intentionally made it an official interview to curb the young man’s conceit. Mahgub returned to al-Ikhshidi’s room and found him proud and self-satisfied. Mahgub was infuriated with him, but this wrath did not last long, because in spite of everything, he was pleased. He asked politely, “When will the appointment be made?”

“That’s the easy part. The memo of your appointment will be drafted today. Then it’s a question of preparing the documents that justify the appointment. God willing, all of this will be completed within a few days. Now let us deal with the other matter.” He was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “Do me the honor of coming by my home this afternoon.”

“Why?” Mahgub asked in astonishment.

The other man replied calmly, “To sign your marriage contract.”

Mahgub replied uneasily, “Wouldn’t it be better to postpone that till after my appointment?”

“Why?”

Smiling, the young man replied, “So I can deck myself out a little.”

“Mr. Mahgub, the best good deed is the most expeditious one. You’ll be paid a respectable amount that you can use for your wedding until you receive your first salary payment. The wedding won’t set you back anything. Your apartment is waiting for you. All you need to do is to buy some new clothes.”

The young man, who had never imagined that everything was already organized this way, was bowled over. The trap was fully baited, just waiting for the mouse, and now the mouse had fallen for it. Would he find honey or poison?

“Won’t you give me a week’s delay?”

“The marriage contract will be signed today to reassure the hearts of the bride’s parents. The wedding ceremony will come after you’re appointed.”

Mahgub sighed submissively and asked, “Where is the bridegroom’s apartment?”

“Nagi Street, the Schleicher Building, number 4.”

The young man said with astonishment, “That’s an expatriate neighborhood, and rents are doubtless high.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

Mahgub asked uneasily, “Why not?”

“You’re long on questions and short on patience. Sir, the bey has leased the apartment for a year.”

The young man’s mind felt muddled. He commented shrewdly, “If the choice were left to me, I would choose an Egyptian neighborhood.”

Al-Ikhshidi smiled in a way that showed his contempt for his companion’s cunning. He said scornfully, “Expatriate dwellings lack noseyparkers. Thus if the bey decides to visit you, he may do so free of meddlers.”

Mahgub glanced at the speaker and found that he was pretending to look at some papers. He felt the blood rush to his head again. His heart pounded violently. He remembered — he was not sure why — his pal Ahmad Badir and Mrs. Ikram Nayruz’s party. He imagined himself seated at such an event and his friend the journalist stealthily pointing him out from a distance and talking about him. Always people. People always. Would he allow people to destroy his happiness?

Which would he prefer? To be one of the fortunate few and let Ahmad Badir say whatever he wished or to be one of the wretched masses about whom journalists found nothing to report. He frowned angrily. Was he still hesitating? How could he have forgotten his cherished “tuzz”? What a despicable coward he was. His anger intensified. Then he looked at his companion and said sharply, “So be it.”

Al-Ikhshidi replied, “I’ll expect you this afternoon.”

As Mahgub left the office manager’s room, his gaze fell on the facing room, which bore a plaque reading “Private Secretary.” His heart pounded. As he went outside, he began to tell himself: An idiot considers a cuckold’s horns disgraceful, whereas I see them as a precious ornament. The two horns cause no harm, whereas hunger … I may be anything, but I’m not a fool. A fool angrily refuses a position on account of something he terms honor. A fool kills himself for the sake of something he refers to as his fatherland. A fool is someone who denies himself a pleasure because of one of the fantastic notions that humanity has contrived. All this is true and beautiful, but I still react emotionally and rebelliously. Why? That’s because the intellect is not the only factor guiding our conduct. While the intellect proffers wisdom, the emotions spawn foolishness. So wisdom must eradicate foolishness. Let al-Ikhshidi be my role model. That resourceful fellow obtained his position through treachery and has risen through the ranks because he’s a pimp. So forward, ever forward.

Clenching his right fist, he brandished it in the air and quickened his pace as a glimmer of light shone from his protruding eyes.

He left his room that afternoon after donning his suit carefully and trying hard to look elegant and nicely turned out. He headed to the road to al-Munira, to al-Ikhshidi’s residence. Throughout the day he had been brooding, and his reflections had been punctuated by expressions of wonderment. He would tell himself incredulously: I’m getting married today. The paper on which he had jotted down the main points of his article on the charity event of the Society for Blind Women was still on his desk. How could things have progressed so far? The doors to government service had sprung open, and here he was marching off to pay the price. Marriage? He shouldn’t let the word scare him. It was only a word. Frequently what we think of as facts or values are really just words. It was a social custom. In some countries people were polyandrous and in others polygynous. Adultery might be permitted in one country and free love was the law in some societies. There was no absolute law for marriage. So he should deck himself out with his customary courage and daring. He was telling himself such things en route when he remembered his parents and then felt depressed in spite of himself. He was dismayed. His brow dripped with sweat. In his mind’s eye he could see his mother, who believed he would never do anything wrong. He could see his rural father, who was eminently good, pious, and jealous. He was getting married without informing them. He did not know when they would hear about it. Was it possible that they would ever learn the truth? Neither his philosophy nor his nerves could help him confront such a challenge. The memory of his parents was a frightening specter that must be expelled from his imagination. How badly he needed to be clear-headed now, as well as quick-witted and self-possessed. Wasn’t his bride awaiting him? This fact seemed much more like an imaginary fantasy. Who might his bride be? What would she look like? Who was her family? What were her manners and circumstances? His heart told him she was beautiful; otherwise she would not have attracted someone like Qasim Bey. Likewise, she was doubtless poor. His selection as her bridegroom suggested that, and a rich girl would have no trouble finding a husband. Only the poor are handicapped by honor. What would his conjugal life be like? How would she feel about him? What was the true nature of the tie that would bind them together? How would he receive the bey if he came to visit? What a life! What an experiment! Tomorrow his philosophy and strength would be tested. He would proceed toward his goal, allowing nothing to distract him. His mind could find no solution then for all these problems that the future had tucked away for him. If he confronted them head on, he would know how to overcome them and would emerge victorious as he always had in the past. He felt confident, vain, and conceited. His two feet were striking the pavement resolutely by the time he reached al-Ikhshidi’s dwelling. The man opened the door himself. Escorting him to his bedroom, he asked, “Are you ready?”