Naguib Mahfouz - Cairo Modern

She turned back but declared in an admonitory tone before proceeding any further, “Three piasters!”

He murmured with relief, “Fine.”

The price was a pittance and would not upset his budget. Moreover the girl had swelling breasts. He merely hoped that the dark brown was her natural color and not layers of dirt and that all he needed to worry about was her body’s foul odor. Never mind; something was better than nothing, and could he forget that he himself had — back in al-Qanatir — bathed only for festivals? Indeed, he asked himself, “Don’t all women look alike in the dark?” When they were finished, he asked, “Have you been going with that doorman a long time?”

“No. This was the first night.”

“Didn’t you arrange another meeting?”

“Certainly not.”

Mahgub said with relief, “But this won’t be our last night.”

While arranging the veil around her head, she murmured, “Gladly.”

Although darkness was swallowing the world, he remained at his station by the window, waiting for his rendezvous with his girlfriend. Then he heard a knock at the door and sauntered to open it. He saw the hostel’s concierge waving a letter at him. He took it and shut the door again. Casting a quick glance at the envelope he saw that it had been posted in al-Qanatir. Then he noticed easily that the handwriting was not his father’s. Who could be writing him? He had not seen this handwriting before.

He opened the envelope in astonishment and read the following.

Young Master Mahgub Effendi Abd al-Da’im:

May you enjoy God’s peace and compassion.

We are sad to inform you that your dear father is ill and

bedridden. We ask God to provide a satisfactory outcome,

but you must come as quickly as possible to reassure your

self about his condition. They asked me to write you this

letter. So don’t delay. Peace.

This meant that his father was too ill to hold a pen. What had happened to him? As he read the letter a second time, apprehension showed on his pallid face and caused him to tug on his left eyebrow. The amazing thing was that he never remembered his father complaining of ill health a single day. His body had always been strong and his step firm. No doubt a grave illness had gotten the better of him and debilitated him. Mahgub wondered what the future concealed for him. What did it have in store for him and his mother?

But it was wrong to waste time with pointless conjectures or to delay his journey even a minute. He scribbled a note to Ma’mun Radwan explaining his sudden departure, wrapped his gallabiya in an old newspaper, and then left the hostel. He did not head to al-Izba Street as he had been longing to do minutes before. Instead he took Rashad Pasha Street, or Ali-and-Ihsan’s street, as he called it sarcastically. He proceeded to tell himself: If the man’s time has come, all my hopes will be buried alive. My Lord! Is it possible that this is happening when I’m only four months from the final examination? He hurried down that deserted street where the mansions were sunk in majestic silence, hearing only the sound of his footsteps till he reached Giza Street and boarded the tram. Melancholy cast a shadow over his face and eyes. Sitting there grief-stricken, his mind turned to the two friends closest to him: Ma’mun Radwan and Ali Taha. He envied them their contentment and confidence. Ma’mun Radwan’s father taught in the institutes and had a nice salary — so his family did not live in the shadow of fear. He gave his son more than enough. If it were not for Ma’mun’s stupidity, which caused him to devote his life to learning and worship, he would have enjoyed life’s pleasures. But he was stupid, and stupid people are always lucky. Ali Taha’s father was a translator for the city of Alexandria and received a huge salary. His friend was not immune to life’s pleasures, within the limits set by his ideals. He was a happy young man. All he needed to be happy was Ihsan. Possibly no other person so excited Mahgub’s envy as this handsome, successful young man. Whereas he … he was wretched! His father — do you suppose he still had a father? — was a clerk in a Greek-owned creamery in al-Qanatir. He had worked there for twenty-five years and earned eight pounds. If he stopped working, he would only be recompensed for a few more months. The man allocated three pounds to him every month during the academic year. This sum covered necessities like housing, food, and clothing, and the young man was grudgingly satisfied, though he eyed Cairo’s pleasures from afar, eavesdropping on news of them with woeful avidity. His unruly passion blended with unbridled ambition. These ideas occurred to him in succession, spoiling that hour more than ever before. Then, oblivious to the vistas of fields and waterways that the tram afforded in its speedy transit, he thought about his relationship with the two young men and what people call friendship. Did he really have a friend? Certainly not; what was friendship if not one of the virtues he scorned? He actually was partial to them. Ma’mun’s debates attracted him, and Ali’s spirit endeared him to Mahgub. He enjoyed spending time with them, discussing and debating, but what did all that have to do with friendship? Besides, he envied and despised them. He would not hesitate to destroy them if he found that to his advantage. He proceeded to say, as if egging himself on, “Total freedom, total tuzz. Let me take Satan for my role model — the perfect symbol for total perfection. He represents true rebellion, true arrogance, true ambition, and a revolt against all principles.” The tram’s last stop was al-Is’af, where he got off and boarded another tram for Maydan al-Mahatta. Then he entered the train station itself and rushed to the third-class window to buy a ticket. When he moved away from the window he found himself face-to-face with a young man who was in his thirties, of medium build, on the short side, and somewhat portly, with a large, triangular face, thick eyebrows, penetrating gaze, and round eyes, and who was casting a completely self-confident, vain, and supercilious look at everything around him. Recognizing this fellow, Mahgub approached, holding out his hand and calling out respectfully, “Mr. Salim al-Ikhshidi! Greetings.”

He turned toward Mahgub without altering his expression, which he rarely modified, for he was not surprised or startled and looked neither glad nor sad. Whenever he wished to express his anger, which he frequently did, he would speak in a rude tone of voice. Turning toward Mahgub, he said with calm composure, “How are you, Mahgub?”

“Thanks to you and praise to God! But, sir, what brings you to the railway station?”

Al-Ikhshidi replied in his composed voice, “I’m traveling to our hometown, al-Qanatir, to visit my father. But what brings you? It’s not time for your vacation.”

Mahgub said with obvious sorrow, “I’m heading to al-Qanatir as well to tend to my sick father.”

“Abd al-Da’im Effendi’s ill? May God restore his health! Give him my greetings.”

Then they walked side by side to the platform for al-Qanatir. Not having heard any news of al-Ikhshidi for some time, Mahgub asked, “Sir, are you still Qasim Bey Fahmi’s secretary?”

Al-Ikhshidi, whose eyes showed the hint of a smile, replied, “I’ve now been nominated to become his office manager. The memo is with personnel.”

Mahgub responded with unalloyed delight, “Congratulations, congratulations, sir!”

Raising his eyebrows arrogantly, the other man added tersely, “Level five.”

Mahgub exclaimed, “Congratulations, congratulations! Next it will be level four!”