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

I gazed at the map in bewilderment. The telephone rang, and he took up the receiver.

“Take it,” he told me, generously. “We’re at your service.”

Folding up the map, I left and wandered off through the quarter, from square to street to alleyway, making inquiries of everyone I felt was familiar with the place. At last the owner of a small establishment for ironing clothes told me, “Go to the calligrapher Hassanein in Umm al-Ghulam — they were friends.”

I went to Umm al-Ghulam, where I found old Hassanein working in a deep, narrow shop full of signboards and jars of color. A strange smell, a mixture of glue and perfume, permeated its every corner. Old Hassanein was squatting on a sheepskin rug in front of a board propped against the wall; in the middle of it he had inscribed the word “Allah” in silver lettering. He was engrossed in embellishing the letters with prodigious care. I stood behind him, fearful of disturbing him or breaking the inspiration that flowed to his masterly hand. When my concern at not interrupting him had lasted some time, he suddenly inquired with unaffected gentleness, “Yes?”

Realizing that he was aware of my presence, I introduced myself. “I’ve been told that Sheikh Zaabalawi is your friend; I’m looking for him,” I said.

His hand came to a stop. He scrutinized me in astonishment. “Zaabalawi! God be praised!” he said with a sigh.

“He is a friend of yours, isn’t he?” I asked eagerly.

“He was, once upon a time. A real man of mystery: he’d visit you so often that people would imagine he was your nearest and dearest, then would disappear as though he’d never existed. Yet saints are not to be blamed.”

The spark of hope went out with the suddenness of a lamp snuffed by a power-cut.

“He was so constantly with me,” said the man, “that I felt him to be a part of everything I drew. But where is he today?”

“Perhaps he is still alive?”

“He’s alive, without a doubt…. He had impeccable taste, and it was due to him that I made my most beautiful drawings.”

“God knows,” I said, in a voice almost stifled by the dead ashes of hope, “how dire my need for him is, and no one knows better than you of the ailments in respect to which he is sought.”

“Yes, yes. May God restore you to health. He is in truth, as is said of him, a man, and more….”

Smiling broadly, he added, “And his face possesses an unforgettable beauty. But where is he?”

Reluctantly I rose to my feet, shook hands, and left. I continued wandering eastward and westward through the quarter, inquiring about Zaabalawi from everyone who, by reason of age or experience, I felt might be likely to help me. Eventually I was informed by a vendor of lupine that he had met him a short while ago at the house of Sheikh Gad, the well-known composer. I went to the musician’s house in Tabakshiyya, where I found him in a room tastefully furnished in the old style, its walls redolent with history. He was seated on a divan, his famous lute beside him, concealing within itself the most beautiful melodies of our age, while somewhere from within the house came the sound of pestle and mortar and the clamor of children. I immediately greeted him and introduced myself, and was put at my ease by the unaffected way in which he received me. He did not ask, either in words or gesture, what had brought me, and I did not feel that he even harbored any such curiosity. Amazed at his understanding and kindness, which boded well, I said, “O Sheikh Gad, I am an admirer of yours, having long been enchanted by the renderings of your songs.”

“Thank you,” he said with a smile.

“Please excuse my disturbing you,” I continued timidly, “but I was told that Zaabalawi was your friend, and I am in urgent need of him.”

“Zaabalawi!” he said, frowning in concentration. “You need him? God be with you, for who knows, O Zaabalawi, where you are.”

“Doesn’t he visit you?” I asked eagerly.

“He visited me some time ago. He might well come right now; on the other hand I mightn’t see him till death!”

I gave an audible sigh and asked, “What made him like that?”

The musician took up his lute. “Such are saints or they would not be saints,” he said, laughing.

“Do those who need him suffer as I do?”

“Such suffering is part of the cure!”

He took up the plectrum and began plucking soft strains from the strings. Lost in thought, I followed his movements. Then, as though addressing myself, I said, “So my visit has been in vain.”

He smiled, laying his cheek against the side of the lute. “God forgive you,” he said, “for saying such a thing of a visit that has caused me to know you and you me!”

I was much embarrassed and said apologetically, “Please forgive me; my feelings of defeat made me forget my manners.”

“Do not give in to defeat. This extraordinary man brings fatigue to all who seek him. It was easy enough with him in the old days, when his place of abode was known. Today, though, the world has changed, and after having enjoyed a position attained only by potentates, he is now pursued by the police on a charge of false pretenses. It is therefore no longer an easy matter to reach him, but have patience and be sure that you will do so.”

He raised his head from the lute and skillfully fingered the opening bars of a melody. Then he sang:

“I make lavish mention, even though I blame myself, of those I love ,

For the stones of the beloved are my wine.”

With a heart that was weary and listless, I followed the beauty of the melody and the singing.

“I composed the music to this poem in a single night,” he told me when he had finished. “I remember that it was the eve of the Lesser Bairam. Zaabalawi was my guest for the whole of that night, and the poem was of his choosing. He would sit for a while just where you are, then would get up and play with my children as though he were one of them. Whenever I was overcome by weariness or my inspiration failed me, he would punch me playfully in the chest and joke with me, and I would bubble over with melodies, and thus I continued working till I finished the most beautiful piece I have ever composed.”

“Does he know anything about music?”

“He is the epitome of things musical. He has an extremely beautiful speaking voice, and you have only to hear him to want to burst into song and to be inspired to creativity….”

“How was it that he cured those diseases before which men are powerless?”

“That is his secret. Maybe you will learn it when you meet him.”

But when would that meeting occur? We relapsed into silence, and the hubbub of children once more filled the room.

Again the sheikh began to sing. He went on repeating the words “and I have a memory of her” in different and beautiful variations until the very walls danced in ecstasy. I expressed my wholehearted admiration, and he gave me a smile of thanks. I then got up and asked permission to leave, and he accompanied me to the front door. As I shook him by the hand, he said, “I hear that nowadays he frequents the house of Hagg Wanas al-Damanhouri. Do you know him?”

I shook my head, though a modicum of renewed hope crept into my heart.

“He is a man of private means,” the sheikh told me, “who from time to time visits Cairo, putting up at some hotel or other. Every evening, though, he spends at the Negma Bar in Alfi Street.”

I waited for nightfall and went to the Negma Bar. I asked a waiter about Hagg Wanas, and he pointed to a corner that was semisecluded because of its position behind a large pillar with mirrors on all four sides. There I saw a man seated alone at a table with two bottles in front of him, one empty, the other two-thirds empty. There were no snacks or food to be seen, and I was sure that I was in the presence of a hardened drinker. He was wearing a loosely flowing silk galabeya and a carefully wound turban; his legs were stretched out toward the base of the pillar, and as he gazed into the mirror in rapt contentment, the sides of his face, rounded and handsome despite the fact that he was approaching old age, were flushed with wine. I approached quietly till I stood but a few feet away from him. He did not turn toward me or give any indication that he was aware of my presence.