Naguib Mahfouz - The Thief and the Dogs

"You can say things like that!" she said, giving him a quizzical stare. "Sometimes I almost think the police know more about kindness than you."

"No, do believe me, I'm happy being with you."

"Truly?"

"Yes. Truly. You're so kind, so good. I don't know why anyone could resist you."

"Wasn't I like that in the old days?"

No easy victory can ever make one forget a bloody defeat! "At that time, I just wasn't an affectionate person."

"And now?"

"Let's have a drink and enjoy ourselves," he said, picking up his glass.

They set about the food and drink with gusto, until she said, "How did you spend your time?"

"Between the shadows and the graves," he said, dipping a piece of meat in tahina. "Don't you have any family buried here?"

"No, all mine are buried in al-Balyana, God rest their souls."

Only the sounds of their eating and the clink of glasses and dishes on the tray broke the silence, until Said said, "I'm going to ask you to buy some cloth for me — something suitable for an officer's uniform."

"An army officer?"

"You didn't know I learned tailoring in jail?"

"But why do you want it?" she said uneasily.

"Ah, well, the time has come for me to do my military service."

"Don't you understand, I don't want to lose you again?"

"Don't worry about me at all," he said with extraordinary confidence. "If no one had given me away the police would never have caught me."

Nur sighed, still troubled.

"You're not in any danger yourself, are you?"

Said asked, grinning, his mouth stuffed with food.

"No highwayman's going to waylay you in the desert, right?"

They laughed together, and she leaned over and kissed him full on the lips. Their lips were equally sticky.

"The truth is," she said, "that to live at all we've got to be afraid of nothing."

"Not even death?" Said said, nodding towards the window.

"Please. Don't."

"Listen, I even forget that too when time brings me together with someone I love."

Astonished at the strength and tenacity of her affection, Said relaxed and let himself feel a mixture of compassion, respect and gratitude towards Nur.

A moth overhead made love to a naked light bulb in the dead of the night.

Not a day passes without the graveyard welcoming new guests. Why, it's as though there's nothing more left to do but crouch behind the shutters watching these endless progressions of death. It's the mourners who deserve one's sympathy, of course. They come in one weeping throng and then they go away drying their tears and talking, as if while they're here some force stronger than death itself has convinced them to stay alive.

That was how your own parents were buried: your father, Amm Mahran, the kindly concierge of the students' hostel, who died middle-aged after a hard but honest and satisfying life. You helped him in his work from your childhood on. For all the extreme simplicity, even poverty of their lives, the family enjoyed sitting together when the day's work was done in their ground-floor room at the entrance to the building, where Amm Mahran and his wife would chat together while their child played.

His piety made him happy, and the students respected him well. The only entertainment he knew was making pilgrimage to the home of Sheikh Ali al-Junaydi, and it was through your father that you came to know the house. "Come along," he'd say, "and I'll show you how to have more fun than playing in the fields. You'll see how sweet life can be, what it's like in an atmosphere of godliness. It'll give you a sense of peace and contentment, the finest thing you can achieve in life."

The Sheikh greeted you with that sweet and kindly look of his. And how enchanted you were by his fine white beard! "So this is your son you were telling me about," he said to your father. "There's a lot of intelligence in his eyes. His heart is as spotless as yours. You'll find he'll turn out, with God's will, a truly good man." Yes, you really adored Sheikh Ali al-Junaydi, attracted by the purity in his face and the love in his eyes. And those songs and chants of his had delighted you even before your heart was purified by love.

"Tell this boy what it's his duty to do," your father said to the Sheikh one day.

The Sheikh had gazed down at you and said, "We continue learning from the cradle to the grave, but at least start out, Said, by keeping close account of yourself and making sure that from whatever action you initiate some good comes to someone."

Yes, you certainly followed his counsel, as best you could though you only brought it to complete fulfillment when you took up burglary!

The days passed like dreams. And then your good father disappeared, suddenly gone, in a way that a boy simply could not comprehend, and that seemed to baffle even Sheikh Ali himself. How shocked you were that morning, shaking your head and rubbing your eyes to clear away the sleep, awakened by your mother's screams and tears in the little room at the entrance to the students' hostel! You wept with fear and frustration at your helplessness. That evening however, Rauf Ilwan, at that time a student in Law School, had shown how very capable he was.

Yes, he was impressive all right, no matter what the circumstances, and you loved him as you did Sheikh Ali, perhaps even more. It was he who later worked hard to have you — or you and your mother, to be more precise — take over Father's job as custodian for the building. Yes, you took on responsibilities at an early age.

And then your mother died. You almost died yourself during your mother's illness, as Rauf Ilwan must surely remember, from that unforgettable day when she had hemorrhaged and you had rushed her to the nearest hospital, the Sabir hospital, standing like a castle amidst beautiful grounds, where you found yourself and your mother in a reception hall at an entrance more luxurious than anything you could ever have imagined possible. The entire place seemed forbidding, even hostile, but you were in the direst need of help, immediate help.

As the famous doctor was coming out of a room, they mentioned his name and you raced towards him in your gallabeya and sandals, shouting, "My mother! The blood!"

The man had fixed you in a glassy, disapproving stare and had glanced where your mother was lying, stretched out in her filthy dress on a soft couch, a foreign nurse standing nearby, observing the scene. Then the doctor had simply disappeared, saying nothing. The nurse jabbered something in a language you did not understand, though you sensed she was expressing sympathy for your tragedy. At that point, for all your youth, you flew into a real adult's rage, screaming and cursing in protest, smashing a chair to the floor with a crash, so the veneer wood on its back broke to pieces. A horde of servants had appeared and you'd soon found yourself and your mother alone in the tree-lined road outside. A month later your mother had died in Kasr al-Aini hospital.

All the time she lay close to death she never released your hand, refusing to take her eyes off you. It was during that long month of illness, however, that you stole for the first time — from the country boy resident in the hostel, who'd accused you without any investigation and was beating you vigorously when Rauf Ilwan turned up and freed you, settling the matter without any further complications. You were a true human being then, Rauf, and you were my teacher too.

Alone with you, Rauf had said quietly, "Don't you worry. The fact is, I consider this theft perfectly justified. Only you'll find the police watching out for you, and the judge won't be lenient with you," he'd added ominously with bitter sarcasm, "however convincing your motives, because he, too, will be protecting himself. Isn't it justice," he'd shouted, "that what is taken by theft should be retrieved by theft? Here I am studying, away from home and family, suffering daily from hunger and deprivation!"