Cairo Modern (29 page)

Mahgub was already predisposed to terror and pessimism. His tormented soul told him that he was the victim of a perfidious plot of which his father was merely one of many lethal weapons. He felt despondent, convinced that his glory hung from a fragile thread. Looking at the woman disapprovingly, he said in a low voice, since he was apprehensive about her loud voice that his father could hear, “Yes, madam, I am.”

She scowled angrily, her lips curled disdainfully, and she said harshly, “Come on, show me the room where my husband is secluded with your chaste wife.”

This request pierced his heart, splitting it in two, his energy evaporated, and he felt almost oblivious to his surroundings. The woman turned from him toward the bedroom door like a madwoman. She twisted the doorknob but found the door locked. She struck it hard with the palm of her hand, screaming with crazed fury, “Open the door! Open up, man, Mr. Important Minister. Your cover is blown. I saw you enter this brothel with my own eyes. If you don’t open the door, I’ll break it down.”

The young man’s despair reached its zenith. He stayed where he was, making no motion, as if he were watching a dreadful calamity that did not concern him and that had no bearing on his destiny. It seemed to be more than he could bear to accept that his glory, for which he had mobilized so much energy and thought and on which he had built so many dreams, could in a minute be annihilated. He sensed his father approaching. He asked, in voice Mahgub had come to hate, “What is it? What is this lady saying?”

The young man, however, did not trouble himself to reply. He seemed not to have heard the question. He no longer noticed him. The woman had not stopped pounding on the door, screaming angrily, “I’m warning you that if you don’t open the door voluntarily, I’ll have the police open it by force.”

Mahgub collected what little energy he retained and approached the lady. In a pleading voice, he said, “Madam …”

But she did not allow him to speak. She turned on him and spitefully slapped his face hard, yelling at him, “Don’t say a word, you vile pimp.”

Mahgub retreated in alarm to where his father was standing, paying no attention to him. Then the door opened, and Qasim Bey Fahmi emerged, closing the door behind him. Mahgub heard the key turn from the inside. The man was trying to put on a brave front, but his discomfort was too profound to hide. He quickly told his wife, “Come outside with me, please.”

Crazed with anger, she shouted at him, “Open this door! It must be opened.”

In a low voice he replied, “Not so loud, madam. This isn’t becoming.”

She yelled sarcastically, “You’re going to tell me what’s becoming and what’s not, Your Excellency the Bey? Do you suppose it’s becoming for me to catch you in the bedroom of this insolent pimp’s wife? Will you be happy when your son and daughter learn about your praiseworthy conduct?”

“That’s enough. Enough. Come with me, and we’ll sort through our differences at home.”

He tried to take her arm, but she wrested it from his grip contemptuously and shouted, “I’ll leave this filthy house, but don’t fool yourself into hoping that you can ‘sort through’ this quarrel. This is the last straw! There’ll be no sorting through things after today. My revenge on you will stand for all time as a lesson to libertines.”

The woman headed toward the apartment door, with the bey on her heels. They left together.

In a hoarse voice, Mahgub muttered, “It’s all over.”

What an amazing fact it was! Had his monumental struggle miscarried? Wouldn’t he ever receive his new salary?

Could fortunes die of cardiac arrest like men?

His father’s mournful voice interrupted his reflections. “What does all this mean, son?”

This question might just as well have been gasoline poured on his flaming breast. He turned on his father passionately, his eyes shooting sparks, and said resentfully and rancorously, “It’s all over. No more job. No more salary. Let’s go beg together.”

A stunned, uncertain look appeared in the man’s feeble eyes. His bewilderment seemed potentially fatal and his distress pronounced. He could not believe what his eyes had seen and his ears had heard. His pain was agonizing and his anger stifling. Had he not sensed his son’s despair and delirium, his own volcano would have erupted. It was not just the job and salary that were finished. His son was too. He had lost his money and his son. If he made it back to his hometown, he would tell his wife, “Don’t ask about Mahgub. He’s finished. He’s nothing but a memory.” Then he felt so weak and enervated he was sure he would fall if he did not find a place to sit down. He turned his back on the young man and exited with heavy steps, leaning on his stick, as apt to fall on his face as not.

Mahgub threw himself down on a chair in the sitting room, resting his hand on its arm and leaning his head in the palm of his other hand. The quiet was so pervasive the apartment seemed deserted. Everything was where it belonged, as if his life had not just been turned upside down. Could his rebellious spirit withstand this cascade of erratic fortune? Would he be able to mount a counterattack against this dreadful crisis, brandishing his normal banner: tuzz? What other stratagem could he employ if that didn’t work? When suffering conspired against his happiness, how should an egoist, who cared for nothing in the world but himself, react? His only remaining option was death. Damn his luck!
How had his glory ended with such insane speed? Wasn’t the world crammed full of adventurers on whom it smiled to the end? The sound of light footsteps roused him from his reflections. Raising his heavy head, he saw Ihsan looking at him with a face suffused with the pallor of death. Their eyes met in painful silence, as if each was asking the other: Is this the reward for all our struggle and effort?

Finally, in a weak voice, she asked, “Has everyone left?”

In as weak a voice, he replied, “Yes, as you see.”

After hesitating for a moment, she asked, “What will become of us?”

How could he know? All the same, he shook his head and his left hand started to tug at his eyebrow. He said, “I can’t predict the future. Anything may happen, but it doesn’t look good. Certainly our dreams have evaporated. That’s for sure.”

A heavy silence followed. Her eyes had a vacant look as she began to recall memories she had accumulated from the past. She remembered her hopes and how they had been dashed, one after the other. Then her breast surged with pain and regret till her eyes were bathed in tears. Mahgub sank into his own reflections once more. He, however, felt no remorse, acknowledged no fault—certainly not—and rejected none of his ideas. He started to wonder whether the morrow would reveal a new life or whether death was all that awaited him. Even so, this time, he gave in and surrendered to despair and depression as a dark cloud swept before his eyes. He did his best to rouse his rebellious spirit, murmuring in a scarcely audible whisper, “tuzz,” but this time the interjection—atypically—reflected the despair and submission of his heart.

T
he three pals—Ali Taha, Ahmad Badir, and Ma’mun Radwan—met at the office of the
New Light Journal,
which was published by Ali Taha. Ma’mun Radwan had been spending a lot of time with his two friends as he prepared for his imminent departure. People had been talking recently about nothing besides the major scandal that was on everyone’s lips. It was said that Qasim Bey Fahmi’s wife had intended to publish a statement in the newspapers that would reveal the reasons for their divorce. It was said that a certain figure had intervened and convinced her to abandon that idea. So the issue was resolved with the minister’s resignation. The memo that would have promoted his office manager was withdrawn from consideration by the cabinet and that individual was transferred to Aswan. The scandal was kept out of the newspapers’ columns but was no longer a secret to anyone. The three comrades had discussed it with intense regret but had not forgotten their former classmate. They still remembered their relationship with him and the time they had spent together at the university and the hostel. Of the three, Ali Taha was the most upset, but his pain remained hidden together with its deeper causes. Ahmad Badir said, “Do you all remember our wretched friend’s reckless comments? Do you recall his famous ‘tuzz’? I always thought it was a bluff or a sarcastic joke—not anything he believed or would implement.”

Ma’mun Radwan said in a voice that revealed his
distress, “When a person’s faith in God is shaken, he becomes an easy prey for every evil.”

In spite of his grief and sorrow, Ali Taha smiled and protested, “Allow me to argue against this assertion!”

Ma’mun Radwan amended his claim. “You have your own set of beliefs, even though I think they’re inadequate.” His large eyes betrayed his smile. Before anyone could comment, he asked, “Do you suppose we’ll become sworn enemies in the future?”

Ahmad Badir chortled with laughter and said, “That’s for sure. This journal, which you now bless with your hopes for its future, will attack you and accuse you tomorrow of being a stultifying reactionary. And you’ll accuse its publisher—your friend—of perverse ideas and atheism and of being a freethinker. Live and learn!”

The friendly adversaries smiled. Then Ma’mun Radwan declared with confident conviction, “Today’s tragedy results from perverse ideas!”

Ali Taha shook his head skeptically and replied, “Many believers are rogues. You don’t understand the truth of the matter. Our wretched friend is at one and the same time predator and prey. Don’t forget society’s role in his offense. The happiness of hundreds of believers assumes the sufferings of millions of others. They are no less at fault than our miserable friend. Our society encourages crime, even though it defends the clique of powerful criminals and destroys the weaker ones. I would like to ask you whether the minister’s resignation suffices.”

Ma’mun Radwan replied, “Umar ibn al-Khattab wouldn’t have hesitated to stone him!”

Ahmad Badir commented sarcastically, “Spare us Umar. Our society can stomach this minister and others like him once he’s seasoned with forgetfulness. He’ll skulk for a year
or two at the Muhammad Ali Club. Future nationalist demonstrations may extricate him from his solitude and carry him heroically back to the ministry. Then he’ll return to his previous conduct or play some new role. Live and learn.”

Ma’mun Radwan said bitterly, “The fact of the matter is that I think good is spiritual whereas you two see it—or the editor does—as related to a loaf of bread. When bread is distributed fairly, evil is eradicated.”

In a rather sharp tone, Ali retorted, “I don’t agree with this analysis of the issue. You certainly know I’m a fan of spiritual pleasures. The society we dream of will not be free of evil, because there’s nothing good about a society that contains no defect to encourage us to work toward perfection. The society we dream of, however, erases evils we currently consider predestined and inevitable.”

At this point Ahmad Badir laughed out loud and asked, “Why are the two of you waging your battle now, prematurely?”

The pals smiled, and these friendly adversaries exchanged a knowing look, as if each was wondering what the morrow would bring.