Naguib Mahfouz: The day the leader was killed

Looking at my parents at dinnertime, I quite envied them. Work has relieved them of many worries: work has consumed them. That’s a good thing. Not as I had imagined.

“Spare us this talk of yourself and the country! You would imagine we were toiling away just for your sake. Solve your own problems by yourself and let God handle those of the country,” they told me quite firmly.

I can still recall my father’s enthusiasm. He hailed the Revolution, mourned its defeat, and was quite ruined by the Infitah.

“The days go by and I find time neither for a haircut nor for paring my fingernails,” I have heard him say. “I shove myself into the bus and draw Hanaa close to me to shield her from the eyes of the hungry. On Friday — our day off — obligations pile up: one must find time for a bath, for condolences, for apologies, and then there’s just one hour left for relaxation, during which I’m swamped by your worries and those of the country.”

In my state of confusion, I run into my professor at the Graduates’ Club. Professor Alyaa, I have broken off my engagement. She thinks it is wrong, and asks me to arrange for a meeting between her and the two of us. Farewell, Professor! Gone are the days of idle talk. I promise you I shall be a staunch enemy of words for the rest of my life. It seems to me that al-Mahruqi has solved his problems by simply defecting. He believes he has had the upper hand, manipulating the times to serve his own ends. What has he done with himself? He has learned the skills of plumbing and has thrown his certificate in the nearest dustbin. I asked him: How about the store?

“I walk about carrying a bag of tools and cry out:

Plumber! Plumber! On the spot, I’m showered with requests for repairs. I shall soon be richer than Sayyidna Zubayr,” he said, not smiling, for rarely does he smile.

“I invite you to join a new religion called Islam, that is, ‘surrender.”

When I found myself alone in the company of Anwar Allarn, he said:

“I’m sorry but I think you did the right thing. Now the world will be a happier place for you.”

A few weeks later, he asked me to stop over at his Dokki flat for some urgent work. When the job was done, he invited me to dinner. I had been expecting that from the very start. Nor was I surprised when Gulstan joined us. She intimated in passing that she was sorry about the engagement. Then the conversation centered on modern singing. Anwar Allam made us listen to a variety of tapes.

“You seem to like it, sir.”

“To say the least, I don’t dislike it,” he remarked casually.

Gulstan and I exchanged fleeting glances which revealed unconcealed sympathy: warm, deep, and furtive. She makes no attempt to hide her charm or poise, as though she were telling me: I’m a virtuous woman but I cannot help exuding charm. How about this for feminine wiles besetting young men? As far as I’m concerned, it’s first and foremost a matter of hunger. She may consider me a lamb, but I myself eye her more like a wolf. What a relief if she would only consent to become my mistress! But how, when, and where?

“In a month’s time, at the very most, Gulstan’s new villa will be ready and she’ll move in, leaving me here all alone,” said Anwar Allam.

To keep the conversation going, I asked:

“Why don’t you move in with her, sir?”

“I’m thinking of getting my flat ready for settling down. It’s about time I got married!” he replied.

Randa Sulayman Mubarak

Time begets hope: it too brings about both death and life. Some day the microbe will be killed and recovery will be in sight. God will not forsake a true believer. Now we actually talk to each other and collaborate as would two colleagues working in the same office, like colleagues, indeed, but also like strangers who have never tasted the sweetness of a kiss. And sometimes, like me, he invites pity. I no longer condemn him but neither do I respect him. I am now involved in a new experience:

Anwar Allam. He is unusually friendly, addressing me in a flirtatious fashion that spells out admiration and sympathy. I have expectations. I sit and brood. My pride will not give in to defeat. Mother now considers the truce to be over and thinks that it is time she spoke up.

“I heard that Ibrahim Bey is ready to propose again,” she said one day as we were sitting together in the living room. He’s an elderly man, the owner of a mining factory, who had proposed two years ago and was turned down. She seems to have noticed that I was annoyed.

“We’ve agreed that as long as you have no one in mind, the matter should be settled rationally,” she said.

“But he’s a widower and a father!” I said, objecting.

“He’s also rich, and is ready to accept you just as you are,” she pleaded.

“It’s not just a matter of buying and selling.”

“But we won’t find the likes of him easily.”

“I’m in no hurry,” I retorted sharply.

“Time is running out…“ she said in a compassionate tone.

“I won’t be the first spinster in history,” I said defiantly.

My father had kept quiet the whole time. I hadn’t been absolutely honest in expressing how I actually felt. The fact is I want to assert myself but not at the expense of my dignity. There should be both money and respectability. Anwar Allam has both. Had he been a dubious person, it would have probably been known already. At least, he’s acceptable and not physically repulsive. The age difference between us is not unreasonable. As for love, it would be foolish to think about it right now.

I did not have to wait long, for, one morning, after he had ratified the report I held in my hand, he said:

“I would now like to have your opinion.”

“What about, sir?”I asked, my heart pounding in anticipation.

“I’m asking your hand in marriage. How about that?”I was speechless, like one struck totally dumb.

“I may not know how to talk about love, but it is there. I may not he faultless hut, I daresay, as far as you’re concerned you more than meet all my requirements,” he said.

“It comes as a surprise to me,” I whispered.

“Of course, you’ll need some time to think about it. Fair enough! But allow me to give myself proper credit, for people like me do not embark on marriage unless they are perfectly sure that they are able to shoulder the responsibility.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

I discussed the matter with my parents that evening. “That’s just fine,” said my mother without any hesitation.

“We’ll go along with whatever you say,” said my father.

When I was alone with my mother, I asked her what she thought we could afford to contribute on our side.

“Nothing on your father’s side.As for me, I still have some jewelry which I can sell to get your trousseau ready. The man had better know everything though,” she said bitterly.

The bitterness of the experience I had undergone had just about destroyed the hollow masques of diffidence. I had matured in the process far more than I had ever imagined. I insisted on revealing the whole truth, although I had not needed to, for he was already aware of my problem.

“I shall handle the furnishing of the flat and all that,” he said quite bluntly.

Naturally I consented.

“We ought to know that the time factor is important and that everything ought therefore to be settled as soon as possible,” he said.

The engagement took place in our flat. The party was restricted to my parents and sisters and, on his side, Gulstan and an elderly brother of his. None of our lifelong friends and neighbors attended. Gulstan offered me a gold necklace encrusted with an expensive diamond.

Deep down, I was tense and nervous, but I did my utmost to control my feelings. I acted my part amazingly well. But when I was alone with Sanaa in our room, I could no longer keep up the show and burst Outcrying.