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

Midnight struck. One o’clock. Receiving secret orders, he meekly made ready to carry them out, scrupulously and with blind obedience. The man rose slowly to his feet and strode toward the door. He opened it, and the other man walked out in front of him, silent and obedient. He wanted to shriek, but the sound came to nothing in his throat. He went down the stairs, the man following him. On the way he met a houseboy, the hotel manager, the reception clerk, but no one heeded him. The miracle attracted no one’s attention, caused no astonishment or interest.

In front of the hotel stood a carriage without a horse. The man moved toward the seat and quietly sat down. As for the other man, he took the place of the horse, putting the shafts under his arms. None of the passersby looked at what was happening. No crowd gathered. Every individual was occupied with something tangible or with something unseen. In fact one of the passersby even broke into song. “Those in love, O night.”

At the crack of the whip, he began pulling the carriage. He went off gracefully, gently, submissively. He saw both sides of the road but not what stretched out ahead of him. Thus it was into the unknown that he plunged.

Moving forward in a straight line or making a turn, his instructions come to him through tugs on the reins. To where is the man driving him? What does he have in mind for him? He does not know and does not care. He goes on without stopping. He urinates and defecates without stopping. Sometimes he neighs and raises his head, touching the bit with his dry tongue, while the sound of his hoofs on the asphalt echoes rhythmically. A monotonous rhythm that gives warning of a journey without end.

Let the battle be fierce and savage and let it satisfy the thirst for revenge that had burned through twenty years of patient waiting and watching. The man’s face was aflame as his followers thronged behind him, some grasping their gnarled sticks, whose every knot gave warning of the breaking of bones, some carrying baskets filled with stones. The men proceeded along the desolate mountain path, vigorously resolved to fight.

You’re in for a tough time, Shardaha!

From time to time a street sweeper or garbage collector would gaze at the strange procession, concentrating with a curious, probing disbelief on the man who occupied the central position. They asked each other about this tough whom no one had ever seen.

You will know him and remember him well, you scum.

The inclining sun cast scorching rays on the embroidered scarves, and a khamsin wind blew like a thing possessed, burning the men’s faces and stirring up a loathsome gloom in the air. One of the followers leaned forward to the man’s ear and asked, “Master Sharshara, does Shardaha lie on the mountain road?”

“No, we have to cross through the Gawwala quarter.”

“News will spread quickly, and your enemy will make himself ready.”

A frown came to Sharshara’s face as he said, “What has to be done is not easy. A surprise attack will win the day, but it will not satisfy my thirst for revenge.”

A thirst of twenty years’ exile far from ever-wakeful Cairo, an exile spent in the darknesses of the port at Alexandria, with no hope in life but revenge. Food, drink, money, women, sky, earth, all were absorbed into heavy clouds; all sensation was confined to the aching state of being ever ready; the only thought to enter his mind was that of vengeance. No love, no stability, no leaving one’s wealth untouched, for everything disappeared in preparing for the dread day. And so the bloom of life melted away in the furnace of rancor and painful hatred. You had no delight in your slow but sure ascendancy among the port laborers. You reaped no real benefit from your victory over the Gaafaris in the battles of Kom al-Dikka. Nothing was easier for you than to live as a revered and respected gang leader and to adopt Alexandria as your home and hear the name Sharshara ring out under its skies. Yet your bloodshot eyes saw nothing of the world but Shardaha, with its narrow road, its steep, rambling quarters, and its odious tyrant, Lahlouba. Curse him!

The desolate mountain track ended at the gateway. The procession of men passed through it into the teeming quarter of al-Gawwala. In a sharp, commanding voice, like the fall of an axe on stone, Sharshara called out, “Not a word to anyone.”

The passersby made way for the procession; heads craned out of shops and windows and gazed at the unmistakable leader. Then fear and unrest spread.

“They’ll think we’ve come to harm them,” said Sharshara’s companion, in warning.

Sharshara eyed the pale faces and said loudly, “Men, I give you safety.”

Features relaxed and voices rose in greeting. Then, giving his companion a meaningful glance, he addressed the people, “We are on our way to Shardaha!”

He brandished his fearsome stick as he moved forward.

They are still looking at you in wonder. It is as though you had not been born in this quarter, in the very heart of Shardaha. But only murderers and criminals are remembered.

As a young man in his twenties, he had worked at the vegetable-oil press, his hobby playing marbles under the mulberry tree. He was an orphan who had no place to sleep except at the press, an act of charity on the part of Uncle Zahra, the owner. The first time he carried linseed oil to Lahlouba’s house, he had been given a slap on the back of the neck — that was the way Lahlouba had greeted him.

And Zeinab, how beautiful she had been! Had it not been for Shardaha’s tyrant, she would have been your wife these last twenty years. He could easily have asked for her hand before you did, but it seems she only became attractive to him the very night of your wedding. The hurricane lamps were broken, the singer fled, and the musical instruments were smashed. You were grabbed like some receptacle or piece of furniture. You were neither weak nor a coward, but to resist was beyond you. He threw you down under his feet, with dozens of other feet around you. He gave a hateful laugh and said scornfully, “Welcome, the linseed-oil bridegroom!” Your new galabeya was torn to shreds, your scarf lost, and what remained of your life’s savings stolen. You said, “I’m from Shardaha, master. We’re all your men and we rely on your protection.”

He gave you a slap on the back of the neck, proclaiming his sympathy. He then addressed his men sarcastically. “What treatment, you vile creatures!”

—

“I’m at your service, Master, but let me go….”

“Is the bride waiting for you?”

“Yes, boss, and I want my money. As for the galabeya, God will make it up to me.”

Lahlouba grasped his forelock and dragged him along by it. “Sharshara!” he said in a new, frighteningly grave tone.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“Divorce her!”

“What?”

“I’m telling you, divorce her! Divorce your bride — now!”

“But…”

“She’s beautiful — but life is more beautiful.”

“I made the marriage contract with her this afternoon.”

“You’ll be writing the divorce document tonight — and the sooner the better.”

He let out several groans of despair. Lahlouba kicked him mercilessly, and in seconds he was stripped of his torn clothes. He was thrown to the ground following a blow to the back of the head. Then he was beaten with a cane till he fainted, and his face was thrust into a hollow full of horse urine. “Divorce her!” Lahlouba kept saying.

He wept from the pain and the humiliating subjugation, but he did not protest. In mock sympathy Lahlouba told him, “No one will ask you to pay the sum agreed on in the event of divorce.”

One of Lahlouba’s men shook him violently. “Give praise to your Lord and thank your master.”