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

“Good evening, Mr. Wanas,” I greeted him cordially.

He turned toward me abruptly, as though my voice had roused him from slumber, and glared at me in disapproval. I was about to explain what had brought me when he interrupted in an almost imperative tone of voice that was nonetheless not devoid of an extraordinary gentleness, “First, please sit down, and second, please get drunk!”

I opened my mouth to make my excuses, but, stopping up his ears with his fingers, he said, “Not a word till you do what I say.”

I realized I was in the presence of a capricious drunkard and told myself that I should at least humor him a bit. “Would you permit me to ask one question?” I said with a smile, sitting down.

Without removing his hands from his ears he indicated the bottle. “When engaged in a drinking bout like this, I do not allow any conversation between myself and another unless, like me, he is drunk, otherwise all propriety is lost and mutual comprehension is rendered impossible.”

I made a sign indicating that I did not drink.

“That’s your lookout,” he said offhandedly. “And that’s my condition!”

He filled me a glass, which I meekly took and drank. No sooner had the wine settled in my stomach than it seemed to ignite. I waited patiently till I had grown used to its ferocity, and said, “It’s very strong, and I think the time has come for me to ask you about—”

Once again, however, he put his fingers in his ears. “I shan’t listen to you until you’re drunk!”

He filled up my glass for the second time. I glanced at it in trepidation; then, overcoming my inherent objection, I drank it down at a gulp. No sooner had the wine come to rest inside me than I lost all willpower. With the third glass, I lost my memory, and with the fourth the future vanished. The world turned round about me, and I forgot why I had gone there. The man leaned toward me attentively, but I saw him — saw everything — as a mere meaningless series of colored planes. I don’t know how long it was before my head sank down onto the arm of the chair and I plunged into deep sleep. During it, I had a beautiful dream the like of which I had never experienced. I dreamed that I was in an immense garden surrounded on all sides by luxuriant trees, and the sky was nothing but stars seen between the entwined branches, all enfolded in an atmosphere like that of sunset or a sky overcast with cloud. I was lying on a small hummock of jasmine petals, more of which fell upon me like rain, while the lucent spray of a fountain unceasingly sprinkled the crown of my head and my temples. I was in a state of deep contentedness, of ecstatic serenity. An orchestra of warbling and cooing played in my ear. There was an extraordinary sense of harmony between me and my inner self, and between the two of us and the world, everything being in its rightful place, without discord or distortion. In the whole world there was no single reason for speech or movement, for the universe moved in a rapture of ecstasy. This lasted but a short while. When I opened my eyes, consciousness struck at me like a policeman’s fist, and I saw Wanas al-Damanhouri peering at me with concern. Only a few drowsy customers were left in the bar.

“You have slept deeply,” said my companion. “You were obviously hungry for sleep.”

I rested my heavy head in the palms of my hands. When I took them away in astonishment and looked down at them, I found that they glistened with drops of water.

“My head’s wet,” I protested.

“Yes, my friend tried to rouse you,” he answered quietly.

“Somebody saw me in this state?”

“Don’t worry, he is a good man. Have you not heard of Sheikh Zaabalawi?”

“Zaabalawi!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet.

“Yes,” he answered in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know where he is now. He was here and then he left.”

I was about to run off in pursuit but found I was more exhausted than I had imagined. Collapsed over the table, I cried out in despair, “My sole reason for coming to you was to meet him! Help me to catch up with him or send someone after him.”

The man called a vendor of prawns and asked him to seek out the sheikh and bring him back. Then he turned to me. “I didn’t realize you were afflicted. I’m very sorry….”

“You wouldn’t let me speak,” I said irritably.

“What a pity! He was sitting on this chair beside you the whole time. He was playing with a string of jasmine petals he had around his neck, a gift from one of his admirers, then, taking pity on you, he began to sprinkle some water on your head to bring you around.”

“Does he meet you here every night?” I asked, my eyes not leaving the doorway through which the vendor of prawns had left.

“He was with me tonight, last night, and the night before that, but before that I hadn’t seen him for a month.”

“Perhaps he will come tomorrow,” I answered with a sigh.

“Perhaps.”

“I am willing to give him any money he wants.”

Wanas answered sympathetically, “The strange thing is that he is not open to such temptations, yet he will cure you if you meet him.”

“Without charge?”

“Merely on sensing that you love him.”

The vendor of prawns returned, having failed in his mission.

I recovered some of my energy and left the bar, albeit unsteadily. At every street corner I called out “Zaabalawi!” in the vague hope that I would be rewarded with an answering shout. The street boys turned contemptuous eyes on me till I sought refuge in the first available taxi.

The following evening I stayed up with Wanas al-Damanhouri till dawn, but the sheikh did not put in an appearance. Wanas informed me that he would be going away to the country and would not be returning to Cairo until he had sold the cotton crop.

I must wait, I told myself; I must train myself to be patient. Let me content myself with having made certain of the existence of Zaabalawi, and even of his affection for me, which encourages me to think that he will be prepared to cure me if a meeting takes place between us.

Sometimes, however, the long delay wearied me. I would become beset by despair and would try to persuade myself to dismiss him from my mind completely. How many weary people in this life know him not or regard him as a mere myth! Why, then, should I torture myself about him in this way?

No sooner, however, did my pains force themselves upon me than I would again begin to think about him, asking myself when I would be fortunate enough to meet him. The fact that I ceased to have any news of Wanas and was told he had gone to live abroad did not deflect me from my purpose; the truth of the matter was that I had become fully convinced that I had to find Zaabalawi.

Yes, I have to find Zaabalawi.

“The time has come for you to be useful,” said my mother to me. And she slipped her hand into her pocket, saying, “Take this piaster and go off and buy some beans. Don’t play on the way and keep away from the carts.”

I took the dish, put on my clogs, and went out, humming a tune. Finding a crowd in front of the bean seller, I waited until I discovered a way through to the marble counter.

“A piaster’s worth of beans, mister,” I called out in my shrill voice.

He asked me impatiently, “Beans alone? With oil? With cooking butter?”

I did not answer, and he said roughly, “Make way for someone else.”

I withdrew, overcome by embarrassment, and returned home defeated.

“Returning with the dish empty?” my mother shouted at me. “What did you do — spill the beans or lose the piaster, you naughty boy?”

“Beans alone? With oil? With cooking butter? — you didn’t tell me,” I protested.