Naguib Mahfouz - Cairo Modern

He looked stealthily at his mother, who was seated by his feet with her head bowed. He saw that she was enveloped by the black clothing she had sworn she would always wear in memory of his two sisters, who had died of typhoid. Her face was withered, and she looked older than her age, which was a little over fifty. She had succumbed to the burdens of a life spent by the flame of the cook-stove and heat of the oven — kneading dough, baking, washing, and sweeping. Her fingers were worn to the bone and the veins stood out on the back of her hands. She had lacked any opportunity for small talk during her life. She resembled the invisible fuel powering a large engine. She loved her son to the point of adoration, and this affection had doubled after his two siblings died in the bloom of childhood. Even so, she had not exerted any noticeable influence on his development. She had never had anyone she could talk to and had lived in silent ignorance as if mute. His father’s circumstances similarly had obliged him to withdraw from his son’s life. He worked nonstop at the firm from morning till after supper. Then he hurried off to Sufi dhikr circles, where he chanted till midnight. Thus he barely saw his son. He was a serious, indefatigable man, loyal to his chums and a good representative and reflection of them. He took pride in his kinship to a major bureaucrat — a relative of his wife’s. Like her, he never enjoyed any free time. He was not sustained by his marriage, and his supervision of his son was limited to forcing him to observe some of his religion’s duties — with frequent recourse to the stick. For all these reasons, Mahgub had feared his father while growing up and fled to the street where his upbringing and formation were completed. Thus his tie to his parents was weak and frayed. He loved his mother more than his father but remained ready to sacrifice his relationship to his parents in keeping with his nihilistic philosophy, which had no basis whatsoever. He did not grieve for his father as much as he felt anxious about the man who allocated three pounds to him each month.

On the morning of the second day, the physician came, examined the patient, and gave him an injection of camphor. Then he declared his satisfaction with the condition of his patient, who was definitely out of danger. Mahgub followed the man out of the room and caught up with him in the yard. The doctor turned toward him, realizing why he had trailed after him. “I told your father the truth. The stroke was partial; otherwise it would have been fatal. All the same, I told him just as candidly that he won’t be able to return to work. He’ll remain in bed for a few months. He should regain control of his paralyzed side. Indeed, he may even walk again.”

Mahgub stopped paying attention when he heard, “He won’t be able to return to work.” He grasped none of what was said after that. The world went dark. He returned to his father’s room, stunned. His father had a practical nature and never let a matter hang in suspense if he could say something to resolve it. So he told his son to come to his bedside and said in his slurred speech, “Listen, son. I won’t return to my position at the firm. That’s a fact. What do you think?”

Mahgub felt even more dejected. He remained silent waiting for the verdict, so the man continued, “Perhaps the company will pay me a small settlement. That will inevitably run out after a few months. Indeed, the safest assumption is that nothing will remain of it after three or four months at most. But I still have contacts who can find you work that can support all of us.”

Mahgub replied entreatingly, his eyes filled with pain and despair, “Father, the exam’s coming up soon. This is January, and it’s in May. If I take a job now, it won’t be as a university graduate. That would mean a big loss for my future.”

His father replied sorrowfully, “I know, but what alternative is there? I’m afraid we’ll be humiliated or starve.”

The young man begged fervently in a forceful, zealous voice, “Four months, just four months between me and the fruit of fifteen years of work. Give me a chance, Father. The settlement will last us till I can stand on my own two feet. We won’t go hungry. We won’t be humiliated, God willing.”

“What will become of us if your calculations are wrong? What if your effort is in vain — God forbid. Our lives are in your hands.”

Clinging desperately to hope, Mahgub responded, “You don’t know, Father, how hard I’ll work! Nothing’s going to come between me and success!”

The young man hesitated a moment before commenting, “And then there’s my mother’s relative Ahmad Bey Hamdis!”

His father raised his left hand to object and frowned disapprovingly. The young man feared that he had annoyed his father and that all his persuasion would fail. So he quickly said, “We don’t need anyone’s assistance. Matters will turn out as I hope, God willing.” He realized it had been a mistake to mention the name of their august relative, who had slighted them and scorned his tie to them ever since ascending to his lofty post. Yes, Mahgub’s father publicly boasted to strangers of the relationship but frequently criticized the man in Mahgub’s mother’s presence and normally disdained and condemned him. Mahgub regretfully realized this and added, “We don’t need anyone’s assistance. We just need to be patient and to seek reassurance from God’s mercy. Just four months and then relief!”

His father knew that his settlement would last them — with penny-pinching — five or six months. He reflected for a time and then asked, “Could you live on one pound a month?”

One pound. That’s what his room at the hostel cost. Good Lord! Yesterday the world seemed difficult when he had three pounds to spend. How would he manage tomorrow with only one pound? His father was merciless and added, “We have no alternative. The decision’s in your hands.”

Did he really have a choice? Definitely not. His father was in a tight spot. All Mahgub could do was to yield and submit.

“As you wish.”

The old man said, “As God wishes. God, who is responsible for granting you success in whatever is for the best, will deliver us from our helpless condition.”

The man suggested that his son should return to Cairo that evening to avoid losing any more time when he was most in need of it. So the young man said goodbye to his parents, kissed his father’s hand, and allowed his mother to kiss and bless him. As he started to leave the room, he heard his father say, “God be with you. Work hard and trust in God. Don’t forget: you are our only hope.”

He headed for the train station. No matter how things stood, he had been delivered from the anxiety that had consumed him on his arrival. He now knew that his hopes hung from a thread that had yet to be severed. He would figure out how to handle the ordeals the future had in store for him, no matter what the cost. He listlessly bade his hometown goodbye and took his seat in the train. He quickly forgot his house and family, thinking only of himself. As he plucked a hair from his left eyebrow, he asked why he had been born in that household. What had he inherited from his parents besides ignominy, poverty, and homeliness? Why had he been bound by those shackles before he even saw the light of day? Had he been the son of Hamdis Bey, for example, he would have had a different physique, face, and fortune. He surely would have known contentment and peace of mind. He would have acquired a car. He brooded sorrowfully about the poverty that lay in wait for him. He saw its mocking smile, which seemed to tell him, “You couldn’t fend me off when you had three pounds. How can you repel me with only one?” Where would he live? How would he eat? He shook his head in consternation without feeling any lessening or diminution of his worries. He was supremely self-assured and daring to the nth degree, although irascible and splenetic.