Naguib Mahfouz - The Time and the Place - And Other Stories

But Tutu would not listen, so the old man bent down and released the cat from the child’s grip, saying, “I’ll feed her, then bring her back to you.”

Tutu jumped up angrily and pushed against his grandfather’s knees. The old man staggered, then took an uncertain step backward, swayed, and would have fallen had it not been that the wall supported him. With the cat still on his arm, he remained in his tilted position, unable to right himself. His head was reeling slightly. He pressed his foot down onto the floor and his shoulder against the wall in order to straighten himself but was unable to do so. The cat crawled up his arm to rest on his raised shoulder. Despite the slight dizziness in his head, he realized the danger that threatened his bones. With such strength as he had left, he called out, “Mubarka!”

Tutu was screaming and threatening a fresh onslaught. The old man despaired of saving himself. More fatigued than ever, he was incapable of calling out again. Tutu prepared himself to jump up to where the cat had sought refuge, and hurled himself forward with all his strength. But, rushing out of her room, her eyes dazed with sleep, his nanny caught him by the waist. Then at last Mubarka came, awakened by all the uproar, and ran toward her master, calling out to God in her distress.

She grabbed hold of him from behind and gently righted him, while he moaned. He stood motionless as a statue, and Nargis jumped to the floor and fled. With great difficulty the old man, leaning on Mubarka’s arm, returned to his armchair. Some time passed as he sat there in silence with the woman ceaselessly asking him how he was. He motioned with his hand to set her mind at rest, then leaned his head against the back of the chair, his legs stretched out, breathing deeply. He closed his eyes to collect himself.

All at once he remembered a commemorative celebration in honor of someone who had died, a memory deeply rooted in his soul. He had returned from the platform after delivering an appropriate speech and had sat down beside a friend. The friend had leaned across and whispered some complimentary words in his ear. But who was that friend? Ah, he was confident he would bring him back to mind. How distressed he was to have forgotten him! The friend had said something that likewise he could not possibly forget. He would certainly recall it. The clapping and cheering rang out. The meowing of cats grew louder, every eye wept. He could hear the shouting of children. Once again his friend leaned over toward him and spoke. He was sure that he would take possession of the memories, of all of them.

And in no time he had sunk into sleep.

Life was going on with all its clamor, just as though nothing had happened. Every human being embraces his own secret, possesses it on his own. I cannot be the only one. If the inclinations of the inner self were to assume concrete form, crimes and acts of heroism would be rife. For myself, the experience has come to an end, all because of a blind impulse. Nothing remains but a farewell outing.

At the crossroads, emotions flare up, memories are resurrected. How great is my distress! An extraordinary strength is required to control myself, otherwise the moments of saying goodbye will disappear. Look and enjoy everything, move from place to place, for in every corner there is some forgotten happiness that you must bring to mind. What a crushing blow, filled with bitterness, fury, and hate! I have plunged headlong recklessly, quite oblivious of the consequences. A life that was not bad has been scattered to the winds. Look and remember, be happy, then be sad. For reasons there is no time to enumerate, the angel turned into a devil. How often decay afflicts everything that is good! Love had been uprooted from my heart and it had turned to stone. Let us ignore all that in the short time that remains. What a crushing blow! Of what significance was it?

Port Said Street stirs under an umbrella of white autumnal clouds. The fumes that rise from my chest darken the beauty of things. The nostalgic beckonings from the distant past rap at the doors of my heart. My feet drag me to pay a visit to my sister. Her calm pallid face gazes at me from behind the door. It lights up with happiness. “A rare and unexpected pleasure at this early hour,” she says.

She went off to make the coffee, and I sat down to wait in the living room. Our parents and brothers and sisters, who had passed away, looked down at me from their photographs hanging above the tables. No one was left to me except this widowed sister who, being childless, had given her abundant love to me and to Samira and Gamal. Had I come here to commit my son and daughter to her care? She returned with the coffee. She wore a white dressing gown. “Why didn’t you go to the office?”

“I took the day off because I felt out of sorts.”

“You don’t look well — is it a cold?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t neglect yourself.”

My face had begun to betray me. What, I wondered, was now happening in my unhappy flat?

“Yesterday Samira and Gamal paid me a visit.”

“They love you just as you love them.”

“And how is Seham?”

What an innocent question!

“She’s fine.”

“Haven’t things got better between you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m always nice to her but I feel she’s uneasy with me.”

I was seized with grief and kept silent.

“The times we live in need patience and wisdom.”

I wanted to ask her to look after Samira and Gamal, but how to do so? Later she would realize the import of my visit. Would Samira and Gamal forgive me for what I had done? How great is my distress!

“What if I went with you now to the doctor’s?”

“That’s not necessary, Siddiqa. I’ve got to go and do certain jobs.”

“How can I be sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll visit you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Once again I am walking in the street. Look and enjoy, and move from place to place. The Sporting Club beach is solitary, devoid of human beings, the waves clapping out their summons and no one answering. The heart beats under the tightly closed envelope of worries. The moment she emerged from the water with her slim body, the skin tinged by the sun’s gossamer, she wrapped herself in her beach robe and hurried to the cabin to seat herself by her parents’ feet. I was walking by, in shorts, and our eyes met. I was pervaded by a sensation of pleasure to which my heart responded. A voice called to me, and I answered and thus found myself in her company, for the person who had called was her uncle, a colleague of mine in the firm. We were introduced, and some casual conversation between us followed — but how enjoyable it was! Moments of sheer unadulterated happiness, moments that were not to be repeated, moments that refused to be repeated. Now they circle around my heart in the form of a passing yearning that has its warm existence despite the fact that the threads that one day bound them to reality have been torn apart. And her saying that day, “You’ve a good heart and that is something beyond price.” Was it true? Who, then, was it who said that there was no one more vile and despicable than you? And who was it who said that the Lord had created you to torture her and make her miserable? Love should have risen up and stood against the disparities of temperament, but it was the disparities that had put an end to love. Each of us had been stubborn, we had each had as our slogan All or nothing. You were crazy about inane outward appearances and would shout at me saying I was retarded. In terror Samira and Gamal would take refuge in their rooms. How greatly we had harmed them! The love between us had suffered hour by hour and day by day till it breathed its last. It had been choked in the hubbub of continuing arguments, quarrels, and exchanges of abuse. Yet it was in this outdoor café, in this actual corner, that I had disclosed to her uncle my admiration for her.