Naguib Mahfouz: The Thief and the Dogs

Said took the glass of tea from the waiter, and raised it to his lips without waiting for it to cool, then turned to the proprietor: "How's business these days?"

Tarzan curled his lower lip. "There aren't many men you can rely upon nowadays," he said contemptuously.

"What do you mean? That's too bad."

"They're all lazy, like bureaucrats!"

Said grunted sympathetically "At least a lazy man is better than a traitor. It was thanks to a traitor I had to go to jail, Mr.

Tarzan."

"Really? You don't say!"

Said stared at him surprised. "Didn't you hear the story, then?" When Tarzan shook his head sympathetically, Said whispered in his ear, "I need a good revolver."

"If there's anything you need, I'm at your service."

Said patted him on the shoulder gratefully, then began to ask, with some embarrassment, "But I haven't — "

Tarzan interrupted, placing a thick finger on Said's lips, and said, "You don't need to apologize ever to anyone!"

Said savored the rest of his tea, then walked to the window and stood there, a strong, slim, straight-backed figure of medium height, and let the breeze belly out his jacket, gazing into the pitch-dark waste land that stretched away ahead of him. The stars overhead looked like grains of sand; and the café felt like an island in the midst of an ocean, or an aeroplane alone in the sky. Behind him, at the foot of the hillock on which the café stood, lighted cigarettes moved like nearer stars in the hands of those who sat there in the dark seeking fresh air. On the horizon to the west, the lights of Abbasiyya seemed very far away, their distance making one understand how deeply in the desert this cafe had been placed.

As Said stared out the window, he became aware of the voices of the men who sat outside, sprawled around the hillock, enjoying the desert breeze — the waiter was going down to them now, carrying a water pipe with glowing coals, from which sparks flew upward with a crackling noise — their lively conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter. He heard the voice of one young man, obviously enjoying a discussion, say, "Show me a single place on earth where there's any security."

Another one disagreed, "Here where we're sitting for instance. Aren't we enjoying peace and security now?"

"You see, you say "now". There's the calamity."

"But why do we curse our anxiety and fears?

In the end don't they save us the trouble of thinking about the future?"

"So you're an enemy of peace and tranquillity."

"When all you have to think about is the hangman's rope round your neck, it's natural enough to fear tranquillity."

"Well, that's a private matter — you can settle it between yourself and the hangman."

"You're chattering away happily because here you're protected by the desert and the dark.

But you'll have to go back to the city sometime soon. So what's the use?"

"The real tragedy is that our enemy is at the same time our friend."

"On the contrary, it's that our friend is also our enemy."

"No. It's that we're cowards. Why don't we admit it?"

"Maybe we are cowards. But how can you be brave in this age?"

"Courage is courage."

"And death is death."

"And darkness and the desert are all these things."

What a conversation! What did they mean?

Somehow they're giving expression to my own situation, in a manner as shapeless and strange as the mysteries of that night. There was a time when I had youth, energy and conviction too — the time when I got arms for the national cause and not for the sake of murder. On the other side of this very hill young men, shabby, but pure in heart, used to train for battle. And their head was the present inhabitant of villa number 18. Training himself, training others, spelling out words of wisdom. "Said Mahran," he used to say to me, "A revolver is more important than a loaf of bread."

"It's more important than the Sufi sessions you keep rushing off to the way your father did." One evening he asked me, "What does a man need in this country, Said?" and without waiting for an answer he said, "He needs a gun and a book: the gun will take care of the past, the book is for the future. Therefore you must train and read." I can still recall his face that night in the students' hostel, his guffaws of laughter, his words: "So you have stolen. You've actually dared to steal. Bravo!

Using theft to relieve the exploiters of some of their guilt is absolutely legitimate, Said. Don't ever doubt it."

This open wasteland had borne witness to Said's own skill. Didn't it used to be said that he was Death Incarnate, that his shot never missed? He closed his eyes, relaxing, enjoying the fresh air, until suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. And looking around he saw Tarzan, holding out to him a revolver in his other hand.

"May it be fire for your enemy, God willing." Tarzan said to him.

Said took it, "How much is it, Mr. Tarzan?" he said, inspecting the action.

"It's a present from me."

"No, thank you, I can't accept that. All I ask is that you give me some time until I can afford to pay you."

"How many bullets do you need?"

They walked back to Tarzan's sofa. As they passed the open doorway, they heard a female laugh ringing outside. Tarzan chuckled, "It's Nur, remember her?"

Said looked into the darkness, but could see nothing. "Does she still come here?" he asked.

"Sometimes. She'll be pleased to see you."

"Has she caught anybody?"

"Of course. This time it's the son of the owner of a candy factory." They sat down and Tarzan called the waiter over: "Tell Nur — tactfully — to come here."

It would be nice to see her, to see what time had done to her. She'd hoped to gain his love, but failed. What love he'd had had been the exclusive property of that other unfaithful woman. He'd been made of stone. There's nothing more heart-breaking than loving someone like that.

It had been like a nightingale singing to a rock, a breeze caressing sharp-pointed spikes. Even the presents she'd given he used to give away — to Nabawiyya or Ilish. He patted the gun in his pocket and clenched his teeth.

Nur appeared at the entrance. Unprepared, she stopped in amazement as soon as she saw Said, a few steps away from him. He smiled at her, but looked closely: She'd grown thinner, her face was disguised by heavy make-up, and she was wearing a sexy frock that not only showed her arms and legs, but was fitted so tightly to her body that it might have been stretched rubber. What it advertised was that she'd given up all claims to self-respect. So did her bobbed hair, ruffled by the breeze. She ran to him.

"Thank God you're safe," she said, as their hands met, giggling a little to hide her emotion, squeezing him and Tarzan.

"How are you, Nur?" he asked.

"As you can see," Tarzan said for her with a smile, "She's all light, like her name."

"I'm fine," she said. "And you? You look very healthy. Only what's wrong with your eyes? They remind me of how you used to look when you were angry."

"What do you mean?" he said with a grin.

"I don't know, it's hard to describe. Your eyes turn a sort of red and your lips start twitching!"

Said laughed. Then, with a touch of sadness, he said, "I suppose your friend will be coming soon to take you back?"

"Oh, he's dead drunk," she said, shaking her head, tossing the hair from her eyes.

"In any case, you're tied to him."

"Would you like me," she said with a sly smile, "to bury him in the sand?"

"No, not tonight. We'll meet again later.

I'm told he's a real catch," he added, with a look of interest that did not escape her.

"He sure is. We'll go in his car to the Martyour's Tomb. He likes open spaces."

So he likes open spaces. Over near the Martyour's Tomb.