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

“What’s to be done?”

The decision was made to apprehend the young man and place him in the Tor prison camp, as a danger to public security who had to be put away. In this manner the problem was disposed of, the minds of the police were put at rest, and Farouk the Second was almost forgotten.

The July Revolution came about, and hammer blows were struck at the ancien régime . A journalist wrote about someone resembling the deposed king lying forgotten in a prison camp, and the words brought about the young man’s release. He returned to his life of vagrancy, this time without illusions, though he gave thanks to God for his freedom.

Certain magazines published his picture, and he achieved a fame he had never dreamed of. A film company decided to produce a film depicting the corruption that existed in the time before the Revolution, and the king was to appear in it in a marginal role behind the events. The young man was invited to audition for the part. His performance proved satisfactory owing to the simplicity of it, and he achieved a not inconsiderable reputation. Even so, the road to success was not opened to him, for he was not shown to possess any particular talent.

The authorities came to the conclusion that there were too many stories about the young man and that his picture was being published too often. And so a new problem arose, one that no one had taken into consideration. “Our people are good-hearted,” it was said with farsightedness, “and it is not unlikely that there are some who are sympathetic toward the king in spite of his corruption, and the existence of this young man could be a spur to such sympathy….”

“Then the publication of his picture should be forbidden.”

“The most appropriate thing is for him to disappear completely.”

The young man thought he had been born anew in order to meet a new age. The small role he had played in the film set his ambitions ablaze, and he expected boons and blessings with each day the sun came up. Whenever he felt the bitterness of impatience, he comforted himself with the thought that God had not created him with this appearance without some profound purpose….

But without apparent reason, he disappeared: no one any longer saw him at his usual times and places. It seems that he disappeared for good.

During that period at the beginning of the century, the people of Farghana were the most wretched of human beings. Their alley lay between the Da’bas quarter on the one side and Halwagi on the other. The two quarters were at bitter odds, and there was ceaseless strife between them. The inhabitants of both quarters were known for their ferocity, roughness, and belligerence, their prime amusement being to play fast and loose with other people and with the law.

In the time of Gu’ran, the big boss of Halwagi, and of el-A’war, the big boss of Da’bas, the enmity between the two quarters became more intense, blood was spilled, and many were the battles that raged along the tracks and in the Muqattam Hills.

“What have we done wrong?” the people of Farghana asked themselves uneasily, “when we’re neither from Da’bas nor from Halwagi?” Because no sooner had battle been joined than they would be seized by terror and hide away everything they owned — or themselves — behind locked doors. It was not unusual for the two adversaries to be locked in battle on Farghana soil, where the crow of destruction would caw, carts would be turned over, chains would be smashed, and screams would ring out. The innocent would suffer indiscriminately until life for the people of the alley became unbearable, their own losses far outstripping those of the contending parties; even the happy ones began to hate their existence.

Then one day they sought the assistance of the men of religion. These did their very best to get the two enemies to agree to spare Farghana the woes of their battles. It was a great day when they succeeded, and Farghana relaxed to a sense of peace. But what sort of peace? It cost them dearly in the way of good behavior, tact, and strict adherence to neutrality in their conduct, to the extent that fortunes were expended and honor demeaned. Whenever it became too much for them to bear and they were on the point of rebelling, they remembered the tragedies of the past and put up patiently with the suffering. Yet despite all this, they did enjoy a period of comparative peace not previously known.

This was the position until Na’ima, the daughter of Uncle Laithi, vendor of liver, appeared in the quarter.

When the old man’s sight became so bad he was unable to distinguish between a one-millieme and a two-millieme piece, he used to take Na’ima with him to help him in his work, and this was at the time when she was ripe for marriage. She embarked on her business life wearing a galabeya that, while covering her from neck to ankle, showed off her well-proportioned figure to the best advantage. It casually clung to the budding parts of her body and accentuated her face, with its plump roundness and color of a ripe doum fruit, and the almond-shaped eyes the color of clear honey in whose glances there played the liveliness of youth naively responding to admiration. The eyes of the young men gazed at her with interest, and they were drawn, as flies to sugar, to the oven on the handcart where the liver was cooked.

It was not long before old Uncle Laithi had recited the Fatiha, the opening chapter of the Koran, with a young vendor of sweet potatoes named Hamli, as a seal of Na’ima’s engagement to him. People waited for the wedding celebrations to be held, but when they were gathered one evening at the Mulberry Café—so named because it was sited under the branches of a mulberry tree — they read distress clearly written on the old man’s wan face. The owner of the café asked him, “God protect us, Laithi — what is it?”

The old man replied with a sigh. “The unlucky man finds bones in liver!”

Heads turned to him from over their water pipes and glasses of cinnamon tea.

“Na’ima,” he said with meaningful terseness.

“What about her? Has Hamli done something wrong?”

The man shook his turbaned head and said, “Hamli has nothing to do with my worries. I met el-A’war, the boss of Da’bas, and he greeted me with extraordinary friendliness — then he told me he wants to marry Na’ima.”

Eyes sparkled with interest and disquiet, then the driver of a donkey cart asked, “And what did you say to him?”

“I was all confused. With great difficulty I told him I’d read the Fatiha for her with Hamli and he shouted, ‘EI-A’war himself comes to you and you talk to him of Hamli?’ The fact of the matter is, I panicked.”

“And then?”

The wrinkles of the old man’s face filled with disgust. “Without knowing what I was doing I stretched out my hand and recited the Fatiha with him.”

“And what about Hamli’s Fatiha?”

“I met with him and confessed my dilemma. The good lad was unhappy, but he went off without saying anything.”

The men exchanged looks in silence, and the vacuum was filled with the gurgling sounds of the water pipes. The café owner decided to soften the old man’s pain and said magnanimously, “You’re not to blame. Any one of us in your place would have behaved as you did. Say a prayer to the good Lord and take it easy.”

“But the trouble doesn’t stop there,” said the old man, striking himself with his clenched fist.

“And can there be anything worse?” enquired the café owner in astonishment.

“Two hours after el-A’war’s Fatiha, I found Gu’ran, the boss of Halwagi, in front of me.”

“God save us! And what did he want?”

“Also Na’ima!”

The owner of the café brought the palms of his hands together, then raised his face to the ceiling of the café as though addressing himself to the heavens. The old man said, “He stood in my path like divine fate. I didn’t know what to say or do. Then I found myself compelled to confess to him about el-A’-war’s Fatiha.”