Naguib Mahfouz: The Thief and the Dogs

"Damnation!" cursed Said as he read the news.

The hue and cry was deafening now.

A huge reward was offered to anyone giving information of his whereabouts and articles warned people against any sympathy for him. Yes, he thought, you're the top story today, all right. And you'll be the top story until you're dead. You're a source of fear and fascination — like some freak of nature — and all those people choking with boredom owe their pleasure to you. As for your gun, it's obvious that it will kill only the innocent. You'll be its last victim.

"Is this madness, then?" he asked himself, choking on the question.

Yes, you always wanted to cause a real stir, even if you were only a clown. Your triumphant raids on the homes of the rich were like wine, intoxicating your pride-filled head. And those words of Rauf that you believed, even though he did not — it was they that really chopped off your head, that killed you dead!

He was alone in the night. There was still some wine in a bottle, which he drank down to the last drop. As he stood in the dark, enveloped in the silence of the neighboring graves, slightly giddy, he began to feel that he would indeed overcome all his difficulties, that he could disdain death. The sound of mysterious music within him delighted him.

"A mis-aimed bullet has made of me the man of the hour!" he declared to the dark.

Through the window shutters he looked over the cemetery, at the graves lying there quiet in the moonlight.

"Hey, all you judges out there, listen well to me," he said. "I've decided to offer my own defence for myself."

Back in the center of the room he took off his gown. The room was hot, the wine had raised his body heat. His wound throbbed beneath the bandage, but the pain convinced him it was beginning to heal.

"I'm not like the others," he said, staring into the dark, "who have stood on this stand before. You must give special consideration to the education of the accused. But the truth is, there's no difference between me and you except that I'm on the stand and you're not. And that difference is only incidental, of no real importance at all. But what's truly ridiculous is that the distinguished teacher of the accused is a treacherous scoundrel. You may well be astonished at this fact. It can happen, however, that the cord carrying current to a lamp is dirty, speckled with fly shit."

He turned to a sofa and lay down on it. In the distance he could hear a dog barking. How can you ever convince your judges, when there is a personal animosity between you and them that has nothing to do with the so-called "public welfare"? They're kin to the scoundrel after all whereas there's a whole century of time between you and them. You must then ask the victim to bear witness. You must assert that the treachery has become a silent conspiracy: "I did not kill the servant of Rauf Ilwan. How could I kill a man I did not know and who didn't know me? Rauf Ilwan's servant was killed because, quite simply, he was the servant of Rauf Ilwan. Yesterday his spirit visited me and I jumped to hide in shame, but he pointed out to me that millions of people are killed by mistake and without due cause."

Yes, these words will glitter; they'll be crowned with a not-guilty verdict. You are sure of what you say. And apart from that, they will believe, deep down, that your profession is lawful, a profession of gentlemen at all times and everywhere, that the truly false values — yes! — are those that value your life in pennies and your death at a thousand pounds. The judge over on the left is winking at you; cheer up!

"I will always seek the head of Rauf Ilwan, even as a last request from the hangman, even before seeing my daughter. I am forced not to count my life in days. A hunted man only feeds on new excitements, which pour down upon him in the span of his solitude like rain."

The verdict will be no more cruel than Sana's cold shyness towards you. She killed you before the hangman could. And even the sympathy of the millions for you is voiceless, impotent, like the longings of the dead. Will they not forgive the gun its error, when it is their most elevated master?

"Whoever kills me will be killing the millions. I am the hope and the dream, the redemption of cowards; I am good principles, consolation, the tears that recall the weeper to humility. And the declaration that I'm mad must encompass all who are loving. Examine the causes of this insane occasion, then reach your judgement however you wish!"

His dizziness increased.

Then the verdict came down: that he was a great man, truly great in every sense of the word. His greatness might be momentarily shrouded in black, from a community of sympathy with all those graves out there, but the glory of his greatness would live on, even after death. Its fury was blessed by the force that flowed through the roots of plants, the cells of animals and the hearts of men.

Eventually sleep overtook him, though he only knew it when he awoke to find light filling the room and he saw Nur standing looking down at him. Her eyes were dead tired, her lower lip drooped and her shoulders slumped. She looked the very picture of despair. He knew in an instant what the trouble was; she'd heard about his latest exploit and it had shocked her deeply.

"You are even more cruel than I imagined," she said. "I just don't understand you. But for heaven's sake have mercy and kill me, too." He sat up on the sofa, but made no reply. "You're busy thinking how to kill, not how to escape, and you'll be killed, too. Do you imagine you can defeat the whole government, with its troops filling the streets?"

"Sit down and let's discuss it calmly."

"How can I be calm? And what are we to discuss? Everything's over now. Just kill me too, for mercy's sake!"

"I don't ever want harm to come to you," he said quietly and in a tender tone of voice.

"I'll never believe a word you say. Why do you murder doorkeepers?"

"I didn't mean to harm him!" he said angrily.

"And the other one? Who is this Rauf Ilwan?

What is your relationship with him? Was he involved with your wife?"

"What a ridiculous idea, he said, laughing so drily, it was like a cough. "No, there are other reasons. He's a traitor, too, but of another sort. I can't explain it all to you."

"But you can torture me to death."

"As I just said, sit down so we can talk calmly."

"You're still in love with your wife, that bitch, but you want to put me through hell all the same."

"Nur," he pleaded, "please don't torture me. I'm terribly depressed."

Nur stopped talking, affected by a distress she could never have seen in him before. "I feel as if the most precious thing in my whole life is about to die," she said at last, sadly.

"That's just your imagination, your fear. Gamblers like me never admit to setbacks. I'll remind you of that sometime."

"When will that be?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, sooner than you think," Said replied, pretending boundless self-confidence.

He leaned towards her and pulled her down by the hand. He pressed his face against hers, his nose filling with the smell of wine and sweat. But he felt no disgust and kissed her with genuine tenderness.

Dawn was close, but Nur had not returned — though the waiting and all his worry had exhausted him, bouts of insomnia kept crushing against his brain — and now the warm darkness was splitting apart to reveal one flaming question: Was it possible that the promised reward was having some effect on Nur?

Suspicion had tainted his blood to the last drop now: he had visions of infidelity as pervasive as dust in a wind storm. He remembered how sure he was once that Nabawiyya belonged to him, when in reality she'd probably never loved him at all, even in the days of the lone palm tree at the edge of the field.