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

“Stupid boy! What do you eat every morning?”

“I don’t know.”

“You good-for-nothing, ask him for beans with oil.”

I went off to the man and said, “A piaster’s worth of beans with oil, mister.”

With a frown of impatience he asked, “Linseed oil? Vegetable oil? Olive oil?”

I was taken aback and again made no answer.

“Make way for someone else,” he shouted at me.

I returned in a rage to my mother, who called out in astonishment, “You’ve come back empty-handed — no beans and no oil.”

“Linseed oil? Vegetable oil? Olive oil? Why didn’t you tell me?” I said angrily.

“Beans with oil means beans with linseed oil.”

“How should I know?”

“You’re a good-for-nothing, and he’s a tiresome man — tell him beans with linseed oil.”

I went off quickly and called out to the man while still some yards from his shop, “Beans with linseed oil, mister.”

“Put the piaster on the counter,” he said, plunging the ladle into the pot.

I put my hand into my pocket but did not find the piaster. I searched for it anxiously. I turned my pocket inside out but found no trace of it. The man withdrew the ladle empty, saying with disgust, “You’ve lost the piaster — you’re not a boy to be depended on.”

“I haven’t lost it,” I said, looking under my feet and round about me. “It was in my pocket all the time.”

“Make way for someone else and stop bothering me.”

I returned to my mother with an empty dish.

“Good grief, are you an idiot, boy?”

“The piaster…”

“What of it?”

“It’s not in my pocket.”

“Did you buy sweets with it?”

“I swear I didn’t.”

“How did you lose it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you swear by the Koran you didn’t buy anything with it?”

“I swear.”

“Is there a hole in your pocket?”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Maybe you gave it to the man the first time or the second.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you sure of nothing?”

“I’m hungry.”

She clapped her hands together in a gesture of resignation.

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll give you another piaster but I’ll take it out of your money-box, and if you come back with an empty dish, I’ll break your head.”

I went off at a run, dreaming of a delicious breakfast. At the turning leading to the alleyway where the bean seller was, I saw a crowd of children and heard merry, festive sounds. My feet dragged as my heart was pulled toward them. At least let me have a fleeting glance. I slipped in among them and found the conjurer looking straight at me. A stupefying joy overwhelmed me; I was completely taken out of myself. With the whole of my being I became involved in the tricks of the rabbits and the eggs, and the snakes and the ropes. When the man came up to collect money, I drew back mumbling, “I haven’t got any money.”

He rushed at me savagely, and I escaped only with difficulty. I ran off, my back almost broken by his blow, and yet I was utterly happy as I made my way to the seller of beans.

“Beans with linseed oil for a piaster, mister,” I said.

He went on looking at me without moving, so I repeated my request.

“Give me the dish,” he demanded angrily.

The dish! Where was the dish? Had I dropped it while running? Had the conjurer made off with it?

“Boy, you’re out of your mind!”

I retraced my steps, searching along the way for the lost dish. The place where the conjurer had been, I found empty, but the voices of children led me to him in a nearby lane. I moved around the circle. When the conjurer spotted me, he shouted out threateningly, “Pay up or you’d better scram.”

“The dish!” I called out despairingly.

“What dish, you little devil?”

“Give me back the dish.”

“Scram or I’ll make you into food for snakes.”

He had stolen the dish, yet fearfully I moved away out of sight and wept in grief. Whenever a passerby asked me why I was crying, I would reply, “The conjurer made off with the dish.”

Through my misery I became aware of a voice saying, “Come along and watch!”

I looked behind me and saw a peep show had been set up. I saw dozens of children hurrying toward it and taking it in turns to stand in front of the peepholes, while the man began his tantalizing commentary to the pictures.

“There you’ve got the gallant knight and the most beautiful of all ladies, Zainat al-Banat.”

My tears dried up, and I gazed in fascination at the box, completely forgetting the conjurer and the dish. Unable to overcome the temptation, I paid over the piaster and stood in front of the peephole next to a girl who was standing in front of the other one, and enchanting picture stories flowed across our vision. When I came back to my own world I realized I had lost both the piaster and the dish, and there was no sign of the conjurer. However, I gave no thought to the loss, so taken up was I with the pictures of chivalry, love, and deeds of daring. I forgot my hunger. I forgot even the fear of what threatened me at home. I took a few paces back so as to lean against the ancient wall of what had once been a treasury and the chief cadi’s seat of office, and gave myself up wholly to my reveries. For a long while I dreamed of chivalry, of Zainat al-Banat and the ghoul. In my dream I spoke aloud, giving meaning to my words with gestures. Thrusting home the imaginary lance, I said, “Take that, O ghoul, right in the heart!”

“And he raised Zainat al-Banat up behind him on the horse,” came back a gentle voice.

I looked to my right and saw the young girl who had been beside me at the performance. She was wearing a dirty dress and colored clogs and was playing with her long plait of hair. In her other hand were the red-and-white sweets called “lady’s fleas,” which she was leisurely sucking. We exchanged glances, and I lost my heart to her.

“Let’s sit down and rest,” I said to her.

She appeared to go along with my suggestion, so I took her by the arm and we went through the gateway of the ancient wall and sat down on a step of its stairway that went nowhere, a stairway that rose up until it ended in a platform behind which there could be seen the blue sky and minarets. We sat in silence, side by side. I pressed her hand, and we sat on in silence, not knowing what to say. I experienced feelings that were new, strange, and obscure. Putting my face close to hers, I breathed in the natural smell of her hair mingled with an odor of dust, and the fragrance of breath mixed with the aroma of sweets. I kissed her lips. I swallowed my saliva, which had taken on a sweetness from the dissolved “lady’s fleas.” I put my arm around her, without her uttering a word, kissing her cheek and lips. Her lips grew still as they received the kiss, then went back to sucking at the sweets. At last she decided to get up. I seized her arm anxiously. “Sit down,” I said.

“I’m going,” she replied simply.

“Where to?” I asked dejectedly.

“To the midwife Umm Ali,” and she pointed to a house on the ground floor of which was a small ironing shop.

“Why?”

“To tell her to come quickly.”

“Why?”

“My mother’s crying in pain at home. She told me to go to the midwife Umm Ali and tell her to come along quickly.”

“And you’ll come back after that?”

She nodded her head in assent and went off. Her mentioning her mother reminded me of my own, and my heart missed a beat. Getting up from the ancient stairway, I made my way back home. I wept out loud, a tried method by which I would defend myself. I expected she would come to me, but she did not. I wandered from the kitchen to the bedroom but found no trace of her. Where had my mother gone? When would she return? I was fed up with being in the empty house. A good idea occurred to me. I took a dish from the kitchen and a piaster from my savings and went off immediately to the seller of beans. I found him asleep on a bench outside the shop, his face covered by his arm. The pots of beans had vanished and the long-necked bottles of oil had been put back on the shelf and the marble counter had been washed down.