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

The eyes of the group fastened on him.

“Is it him?”

“Yes, he’s the director.”

The man once again addressed the road, murmuring, “Keep going, don’t make any mistakes or we’ll have to take everything from the beginning.”

Then one of the men asked him, “Sir, would you be…?”

But he cut him short with an abrupt, unfriendly gesture, so the man swallowed the remainder of his question and kept quiet. But someone else, deriving courage from the tautness of his nerves, asked, “Are you the director?”

The man did not turn to his questioner but continued his surveillance, at which a human head rolled toward the bus stop, coming to rest several feet away, blood spouting profusely from where it had been severed from the neck. The people under the shelter screamed in terror, while the man with the telescope stared for some time at the head, then mumbled, “Well done…well done!”

“But it’s a real head and real blood!” a man shouted at him.

The man directed his telescope toward a man and a woman copulating, then called out impatiently, “Change position — take care it doesn’t get boring!”

“But it’s a real head!” the other man shouted at him. “Please explain to us what it’s all about.”

“Just one word from you would be enough for us to know who you are and who these people are,” said another man.

“Nothing’s stopping you from speaking,” implored a third person.

“Sir,” a fourth entreated, “don’t begrudge us peace of mind.”

But the man with the telescope gave a sudden leap backward, as though to hide himself behind them. His arrogance melted away in a searching look; his haughtiness disappeared. It was as though he had become old or been shattered by some illness. The people gathered under the shelter saw a group of official-looking men wandering about not far away, like dogs sniffing around. The man tore off at a mad run under the rain; one of the men wandering around darted after him, followed, like a hurricane, by the others. Soon they had all disappeared from view, leaving the road to murder, copulation, dancing, and the rain.

“Good heavens! It wasn’t the director after all.”

“Who is he, then?”

“Perhaps he’s a thief.”

“Or an escaped lunatic.”

“Or perhaps he and his pursuers belong to a scene in the film.”

“These are real events and have nothing to do with acting.”

“But acting is the sole premise that makes them somewhat acceptable.”

“There’s no point in concocting premises.”

“Then what’s your explanation for it?”

“It’s reality, quite regardless of…”

“How can it be happening?”

“It is happening.”

“We must be off at any price.”

“We shall be called to give evidence at the inquiry.”

“There’s some hope left….”

The man who said this advanced toward the policeman and shouted, “Sergeant…!”

He called four times before the policeman took note. He scowled, clearing his throat, at which the other gestured to him in appeal, saying, “Please, Sergeant…”

The sergeant looked at the rain in displeasure, then fastened his overcoat around his body and hurried toward them until he was standing under the shelter. He scrutinized them sternly and inquired, “What’s it to do with you?”

“Haven’t you seen what’s happening in the street?”

Without averting his eyes, he said, “Everyone at the bus stop has taken his bus except for you. What are you up to?”

“Look at that human head.”

“Where are your identity cards?”

He examined their cards as he gave a cruel, ironic smile. “What’s behind your assembling here?”

They exchanged glances proclaiming their innocence, and one of them said, “Not one of us knows any of the others.”

“A lie that will not help you now.”

He took two steps back. Aiming his gun at them, he fired quickly and accurately. One after the other they fell lifelessly to the ground. Their bodies were sprawled under the shelter, the heads cushioned on the sidewalk under the rain.

“The German army has invaded Polish territory….”

The news burst forth from the radio jammed in an aperture in the wall of the sole room still standing in the ruins, and made its way beyond the boundaries of the vast Khafeer area.

“Quiet!” shouted Dahroug sharply. “Listen, the lot of you!”

The boy and his three sisters stopped making a noise. When they saw from their father’s face that he was serious, they slunk off between the piles of scrap iron, tires, and spare parts to the most distant part of the ruins. There they continued their games, safe from his wrath.

Amna, hanging out the washing, paused and raised her head above the line stretched between a bar in the window of the room and the roof of an old truck. “You scared away the children,” she called out at her husband in protest. “That blasted radio and its news!”

Dahroug, without anger, ignored her. He took a last puff from the cigarette butt he held between his fingers. “It’s war, then!” he said.

Salama realized the words were directed at him, so he raised his head from the tire he had been fixing. With eyes gleaming out of a face surrounded by a thick black beard that reached down his neck, the man stared back, then said scornfully, “Yes, they finally believed it.”

While Dahroug’s head was turned toward the radio, Salama seized the chance to steal a glance at the woman. His gaze lingered on her face that craned upward, then descended to her slim body with the full breasts. The woman caught sight of him before he withdrew his stare, as though she had expected it. Then she turned her back on him, and Salama leaned over the wheel, thinking how terrible was war in the heat of August. How terrible the heat!

Dahroug turned toward him. “For a long time they’ve been predicting it will bring the world to ruin. But what’s it to us?”

“We’re far away,” answered the bearded man, smiling. “Let them devour one another.”

Dahroug crossed his legs as he sat on an upturned can and cast a dreamy look far afield. “We heard fantastic things about the last war,” he said.

“The fact is you’re old,” said Amna, laughing.

Dahroug gave a laugh through his blackened teeth, saying scornfully, “All you care about is your stomach.”

Salama, who though no longer young was a good ten years younger than his companion, said, “Yes, we certainly heard some fantastic things.”

“Look at al-Asyouti for instance, who was he? Before the war he was nothing but a porter.”

The children, having forgotten the threats, returned and brought with them their rowdiness. Mahmoud, a boy of seven and the eldest, was running about with the young girls trailing after him. His father glanced at him admiringly and called out, “Mahmoud, my boy, take courage — war’s broken out.”

In the late afternoon Dahroug and Salama sat together on a piece of sacking outside the fence around the ruins. Before them stretched the desert right up to the foot of the Muqattam Hills, the sands extinguished under their shadow. A faded yellowness, the remnants of choked breaths of high summer, was diffused into the limpid sky. Feeble rays from the inclining sun were quickly scaling the mountain summit, though the desert was puffing out a refreshing breeze with the approach of evening.

Dahroug began counting out piasters, while Salama, his head resting against the fence, gazed distractedly toward the horizon. Amna brought tea, and the children, barefoot and half naked, ran to the wasteland. Dahroug sipped a little of the hot tea.

“My heart tells me, Salama, that the work’s going to really take off.”