Naguib Mahfouz - The day the leader was killed

“It’s a matter that concerns me alone,” I retorted, annoyed.

“No. It concerns us all.”

Too bad; Elwan recedes far, far away and here we are talking about a new life.

Muhtashimi Zayed

Praise beto God! All is fine were it not for Elwan’s sorrow. This year spring is pleasant: the khamasin winds are rare. But when will Elwan cheer up and get over it? Praised be the Lord! The day goes by in worship, the recitation of the Quran, food, songs, and films. When one is eighty, one can expect the arrival of the inevitable guest at any time. O God, may it all end well! O God, spareus the anguish and pain of old age, and sprinkle the dewdrops of Thy mercy upon this old house!

God’s world is beautiful, worthy of all one’s love. What is this evil spell that has been cast upon it? The sky, the River Nile, the trees, the pigeons, and this wondrous voice:

Surely in the creation of the heavens and the earth and the alternation of night and day and the ship that runs in the sea with profit to men, and the water God sends down from heaven therewith reviving the earth after it is dead and His scattering abroad in all manner of crawling things, and the turning about of the winds and the clouds compelled between heaven and earth — surely these are signs for a people having understanding.

If only I could be left to myself in my old age, I would be truly happy. But I am not left in peace. Cheers, then, to the days of naive faith as they filter through the memory, to the days of skepticism fraught with conflict! Here’s to the days of heresy involving bold and daring challenges and the days of reason with their interminable discussions! And, finally, cheers to the days of faith and hope! Death is now the last of the promised adventures. Its imminence helps alleviate one’s burdens. It will reveal itself at some point and I shall gently say:

Pluck the fruit now that it is at its ripest.

One day as I was talking to Elwan about the new television series, he remarked:

“Grandpa, I congratulate you on your peace of mind.”

His words disturbed me.

“There is protest in your voice, Elwan,” I replied.

He laughed politely but said nothing, so I continued:

“There’s a last stage called old age. I stretch out my hand to grip the ring of the eighties at the peak of the mountain. I am now entitled to brood on my last days, leaving the woes of my country to its sons. In my days, I fulfilled my obligations to the best of my abilities. I tried my best to inculcate in you a sense of commitment. But I shall continue to warn you of the perils involved in premature aging. Your glossary consists of only one hero: a martyr. You spend days totally infatuated and spellbound; you are now wasting more time feeling confused and sorry for yourself. The least I can say about myself is that I have lived to see three of my pupils become ministers!”

“Do you consider this one of your achievements, Grandpa?” he asked, laughing.

I could not help laughing out loud myself.

“It may not be, but let history judge. You are faced with challenges fit to create heroes, not a lost generation!” I said. I patted his arm affectionately and went on, “Do your duty as opportunity arises so that you may ultimately be able to devote yourself to God with a clear conscience.”

Had only God endowed me with the power of working miracles, I would have found him a flat and made provisions for a dowry, but man proposes and God disposes. All he does now is struggle with his pain and wounds, and I can only pray for him. I recall the cynicism of Sulayman Mubarak, Randa’s father, years back.

“Has the wily dervish forgotten the bad old dissolute, happy-go-lucky days?”

“Love has replaced fear between God Almighty and myself,” I replied with a smile.

“You compete wholeheartedly with Satan and then aspire to forgiveness.”

“Even the dissolute old days I cherish among the fondest of life’s memories.”

“Hear, hear! Marvel at that modern dervish,” cried the man sarcastically.

“You fool! I have reached a point at which I can detect a Sufi strain in the song: ‘I am loved by many a one but it isyou who are on my mind.”

He let out a loud burst of laughter and then inquired:

“And how would you interpret the song: ‘The day I was bitten .

“Mock to your heart’s content. The whims of the venerable teacher discreetly concealed behind a sedate front were but a naive thanksgiving prayer.”

“Muhtashimi, I testify that you are the rightful patron of the brothels on the Pyramid Road and the dens of the Infitah smugglers,” he then cried out.

The real problem is Elwan. I wonder if he considers me responsible for his unhappiness?

“Elwan, I would like to know how you feel about things.”

“The fact is I don’t quite know what to do with my life,” he said, irritated.

“The country will, one day, reach the shore safely.”

“I will have become an old man before that happens.”

“And he creates what you know not,” I sighed.

“Grandpa, you so easily seem to find solutions in beautiful words.”

“Elwan, when I was in my thirties, I was fired from my job on the charge of instigating students to go on a strike. I was, at the time, responsible for a family and children and exceedingly poor. I taught at the National Secondary School for a mere pittance. I also held the accounts of a grocer, a friend of mine. We spent a whole year eating nothing but lentils. Ask your father, he can tell you.”

He was only half listening to me.

“I have come to hate myself,” he then said angrily.

“This may be the sign of a new birth,” I said jokingly.

“Or a new death,” he replied sarcastically.

“Let our conversation center on life not death!” I cried.

“Death is also life!” he retorted sharply.

And I could hear the echoing of the glorious Sura:

Whosoever is guided is guided only to his owngain, and whosoever goes astray, it is only to his own loss.

My pride wounded and my heart broken, I wander aimlessly about like a stray dog. The heat does away with the pleasures of walking. Café Riche is a refuge from the pain of loneliness. I sit and order a cup of coffee, and prick up my ears. This is a temple where offerings are made to the late hero, who has become a symbol of lost hope, hope for the poor and the alienated. Here, too, torrents of indignation are poured upon the hero of victory and peace, victory that has turned out to be but a dirty game, and peace, surrender. All this within earshot of Israeli tourists.I find solace in just sitting there listening.

If this kind of talk disturbs you, then just take a look at the street. Watch the passersby closely: ceaseless, uninterrupted, brisk motion. Sullen faces. What do they conceal? Men, women, children, and even pregnant women no longer stay at home: the tragic or the comic sums them all up. Furniture stores and boutiques are all crammed with goods. How many nations live side by side in this one nation? The lights in the square are bright and nerve-wracking, and equally exasperating are the bottles of mineral water on the tables of tourists. And what about us.What do we drink? And then the weirdest songs blast out from crazy radio stations in taxicabs. Only the trees and buildings remain the same. Some speech on the radio is being broadcast from some place. Lies fill the air and mingle with the dust. Fatigue, fatigue… Let’s return to the gossip: a tiny place falling in ruins selling for a hundred thousand pounds, academic crimes in university circles. How many millionaires are there? Relatives and parasites, smugglers and pimps. Shiites and Sunnis. Stories far better than the A Thousand and One Nights.The waiter has a story and so does the shoe-shine boy. When will the famine begin? Open bribes at top voice. The confiscation of lands.And who will cause sectarian rifts to flare up again? The People’s Assembly was a place for dancing; it has now become a place for singing. Imports with no transfer of funds. Different kinds of cheese. New banks.What do eggs cost today? The showering of banknotes on singers and dancers in nightclubs on the Pyramid Road simply as a token of appreciation.And the breaking up of the engagement! What did the Imam of the mosque say within earshot of the soldiers of the Central Security Forces? No public lavatory in the entire district. Why don’t we rent it furnished? He’s nothing but a failed actor. My friend Begin; my friend Kissinger.The uniform is Hitler’s; the act, Charlie Chaplin’s. Total silence as a woman coming up the street proceeds toward a brothel behind the café. A parallel is drawn between the swelling of her buttocks and public inflation in general. An optimist insists that she works in order to amass the necessary funds for her doctoral dissertation and that her heart is as good as gold. A homosexual proposes homosexuality as a means of solving the crisis of love among the classes with a fixed income and also as a means of achieving the objectives of family planning. A return to the Arabs and war, an everlasting war, and woe unto the agents of normalization.Enough, enough! There’s little time for dallying. Trying to escape from you is futile, Randa. Love sickness is cured only slowly and I’m afraid that it might be one of those chronic illnesses. The only consolation in my having harmed her is that I have been twice as hard on myself.