Cairo Modern (9 page)

H
e felt calmer when he awoke the next day. The fantasies that his visit to the Hamdis family had aroused had died away. Thus he returned to his senses and decided that he should seek out Hamdis Bey at the ministry and present his request, even though this meant sacrificing his friendship with Tahiya and Fadil. He felt obliged to skip class and ate no breakfast so he would have enough money to ride the tram both ways. He set off at once, reaching the Ministry of Works at exactly ten a.m. He learned the way to his relative’s secretary, whom he found to be a man in his forties. He greeted him politely and told him, “I wish to see His Excellency the Bey.”

“Who are you?”

“One of the bey’s relatives—Mahgub Abd al-Da’im.”

The man asked him to wait a moment and disappeared. Mahgub brooded about what he might say to the bey and how he should phrase his statement in the most moving fashion. The man returned shortly, sat down at his desk, and said, “The bey is chairing the Advisory Council; so it would be best for you to return another day.”

This answer caught him off guard and upset him. He felt he had received a direct blow to the head. He implored the man, “But I want him for a very important matter.”

“No doubt about that, but, God willing, some other day.”

“I can wait an hour or two.”

Then the man said in a tone that made it clear he wanted to extricate himself and move to something else, “Come in the evening if you want.”

He left there enraged and infuriated. Should he let the tram gobble up his remaining money? No—to hell with the bey and his advisory council! He realized immediately that to save the cost of transportation he ought to wait down-town till afternoon if he wanted to see the bey. Since he could no longer resist the hunger that was wringing his stomach, he went to al-Azhar Square to search for a beanery. He took the food, on which he had subsisted for three weeks, and hurried to Qasr al-Nil Street to cool his heels in its gardens while he waited. The weather was cold and the sky overcast. He walked along with his head bowed, repeating resentfully and angrily, “The criminal humiliated me. The criminal humiliated me!” Nevertheless, he would need to chase after the man again. He was an enemy who must be befriended. The bey was simply another pain the world was using to test him. He passed his fingers over his fiery forehead and declared, “I won’t cry … I’ll keep a stiff upper lip. No matter how hungry I get, I won’t scream like the cowards who call out, ‘O Lord!’ ” His feet finally carried him to the garden where he began to split his time between sitting and walking in annoyed disgust. His limbs were cold and his stomach felt tired. In frightened alarm, he asked himself, “Isn’t it possible that these black days will leave permanent scars?” His pale face frowned while sorrowful anxiety showed in his eyes. After waiting for half an hour, while he was walking on the road beside the Nile, not knowing where he would find the patience to wait for the appointment, he saw near the back gate of the Andalusian Garden two smiling girls, who were heading his way while chatting. Glancing casually at them he recognized that one of them
was none other than Tahiya Hamdis. She did not notice him since her attention was focused on her companion. Coming upon her unexpectedly, however, had an overwhelming impact on Mahgub. His former train of thought was interrupted. He forgot her father and the advisory council. He turned a blind eye to his pains and hunger, because his attention was focused on one thing: meeting her. He could care less about his appearance and the presence of the girl he did not know. He kept his eyes on Tahiya, whose gray overcoat was draped around her with aristocratic elegance. Perhaps she sensed his gaze, because she glanced toward him when a few meters away. He stood right in front of her, bowing to greet her. Her face showed her astonishment and then she blushed. She glanced quickly at him and then offered him her hand. She introduced her friend, and then the three stood there somewhat awkwardly. He had been so keen to carry out his plan that he could think of nothing to say now and fell back on conventions of conversation, asking, “How is your family?”

She replied with natural grace, “They’re fine, thanks.”

Then his mind rescued him from his quandary, reminding him of the excavations. Delighted to have hit upon a conversation topic, he said, “This happy occasion gives me a chance to remind you that a free person keeps his promises.”

Frowning in bewilderment, she said, “I don’t understand.”

In a censorious tone, he replied, “The excavations, the university’s excavations.”

“Oh … of course I haven’t forgotten.”

“When?”

“When!”

“Yes, let’s be practical. What do you think about next Friday afternoon?”

She hesitated momentarily and then—since she liked the suggestion—said, “Fine.”

“How about Fadil Bey?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Let’s set a time.”

“We don’t want to inconvenience you. So you name the time.”

“Four p.m., in front of the bus station in Giza Square.”

They said goodbye and parted. He continued on his way. This was a dazzling victory that surpassed all his expectations. The dream had turned into a date. Yes, he had noticed that her companion had scrutinized his appearance, but looks did not matter. Wasn’t the most contemptible man one caught between two women? What if that man was Mahgub Abd al-Da’im! Probably their relationship would become stronger. This was no small affair, because Tahiya represented luck’s compassionate arms that could raise lucky fellows on high. Moreover, she herself was precious and to be cherished. Who could say? All the same he realized that it was no longer possible for him to beg from Hamdis Bey. It simply did not make sense to beg from the father one day and have an affectionate and respectful meeting with his daughter the next. If he did that, the man would refuse to allow his daughter to accompany such a despicable young man, and out of self-respect she herself would refuse to go. The choice was between begging and meeting. But there was no longer any room for choice, or put another way he had already chosen without realizing it. That door had closed in his face. He found himself, after all the effort expended, wondering anxiously what he should do. “How can I get the cash?” He hurried along, perplexed and worried, his mind spinning ceaselessly. Then he remembered Mr. Salim al-Ikhshidi. His bulging eyes suddenly lit up. Yes, this
former neighbor, who wasn’t Ma’mun Radwan or Ali Taha—he wouldn’t feel too embarrassed to ask him for assistance. Why shouldn’t he look him up? What an idea! And the day was barely half over. The distance between him and the ministry would take half an hour at the most on foot. He should go there without any delay. So off he set.

H
e asked for the office of Mr. Salim al-Ikhshidi, secretary to Qasim Bey Fahmi, but was told, “No, he’s office manager.” They gave him directions. A tall, broad-shouldered office messenger with a luxuriant mustache stood at the door. He asked permission to enter from this man, who disappeared for a moment and then returned to say in a gruff voice, “Enter.” Then he found a room packed with seated people, men and women. Al-Ikhshidi and his office were obscured by a half-circle of lower-ranking employees who were presenting their files. The young man looked at his surroundings and asked himself: When will this mass of humanity clear out? When would he get a chance to put in a word? Al-Ikhshidi’s voice resounded through the room, and its tones rang with authority and power, as he commented, criticized, and chastised. The voices of his subalterns whined with explanation, interpretation, and apology. The subordinates eventually collected their files and left, one after the other, until the director was finished with them. Then he noticed the young man, offered him his hand, and invited him to have a seat. Next he turned to the visitors, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and puffed out the smoke with pleased exhilaration. Delight and pride lit up his face while Mahgub stole some fleeting glances at him. He was smug and happy. Doubtless he had breakfasted on butter, cream, and honey. He looked healthy and contented in his large chair. Mahgub hated him and wondered sarcastically why
he had not hung in his large office a picture of his revered mother—Umm Salim—in her black gallabiya soiled with straw. As usual the visitors came with special requests. Some presented pleas to be exempted from school fees, a lady asked for his help in advancing her son to the fifth level, a man asked that a relative be transferred to Cairo after spending twenty years serving in rural areas, and a young man asked permission to see the bey to present a composition about a child’s life to the age of five. He heard all these people respectfully and deferentially refer to Salim as “Your Excellency,” while he responded deliberately, haughtily, and arrogantly. Mahgub waited patiently with pained anxiety till this administrator had time for him. Then the miracle occurred, and the room was empty.

Al-Ikhshidi turned toward him and said, “This is how I spend my day. Then it resumes at night in the bey’s mansion.”

Mahgub wondered resentfully: Do you want me to pray to God to relieve you of your post? Then, smiling, he said flatteringly, “The more judicious a person is, the more judgments he’s asked to make.”

Al-Ikhshidi nodded his large head. He never tired of extolling his own grandeur and of mocking the merit of others. He was known for his sharp tongue and for attacking enemies and friends alike. It was truly said of him that he had constructed his life on the basis of continual labor, self-promotion, and slander of his competitors. His egoism, however, portrayed most of those in contact with him as competitors, and therefore only a few were spared his malice. He paid no attention to what was said of him, and it seemed he unconsciously preferred for people to call him atrocious rather than excellent. If some negative comment about him came to his attention, he would say disdainfully, “Everyone who loves truth is hated.”

Nodding his large head, he told the young man, “I work nonstop, but has that protected me from people’s slander? Far from it! Some people will never cease repeating that al-Ikhshidi advanced to the fifth level without spending even two years in the sixth.”

Pretending to be incredulous, Mahgub said, “Was the merit promotion system devised to discount qualifications?”

“On the face of it I work in a ministry. The fact of the matter is that it’s a dunghill. Now, my dear friend, what do you need?”

Mahgub swallowed, sat up straight, and then in a hopeful tone said, “Salim Bey, you’re a former neighbor and a former classmate, and our refuge in difficult times. Your Excellency, my father is bedridden, and we’re suffering. I’m in a desperate crisis. My money has run out. So allow me to ask you for some assistance.”

Examining him with round eyes, Al-Ikhshidi saw he was emaciated. He had no training at all, however, in giving and no background in charity. He was not one of those “weaklings” whose hearts are swayed by visible manifestations of misery. Thus he considered the young man and his wants a ridiculous impediment to his chain of thoughts. His first reaction was to act to eradicate this impediment. But what would be the appropriate thing to do? Should he apologize to the young man? He hated apologizing, especially to the powerless. Then, remembering something, he asked the youth, “Are you good in French and English?”

Mahgub felt disappointed. He had been expecting more than a pointless question. All the same, he replied, “Yes, I’m good at both.”

“Excellent. Do you know the magazine
The Star?
The owner is my friend and classmate. He might welcome you as a favor to me.”

“Would I translate some pieces?”

“Yes, articles … humorous pieces. Take my card to him. I’ll speak with him about you by phone. You must excuse me now; I’m going to present my files to the bey. Isn’t this the most honorable and expeditious solution for you?”

Al-Ikhshidi stood up, and—taking a file in his left hand—held out his right to the youth. Shaking hands, the miserable young man asked, “Does this kind of work pay well?”

Al-Ikhshidi laughed—Mahgub hated him intensely then—and said, “Perhaps you’ve heard about the wealth of journalists! It will be enough for you if your immediate needs are satisfied.” Al-Ikhshidi preceded him to the door. Mahgub felt extremely apprehensive and was about to shout to request a few piasters, but the door opened before he could, and the office messenger’s tall, burly body appeared. So he quit the room carrying away the card. He left the ministry gloomy and anxious, since his crisis was unresolved.
The Star
magazine, even if his initiative met with success, was a long-range solution. So what was he to do? How could he get hold of the cash? It was going on three p.m. and the weather was as cold as it had been that morning. He was walking along the street aimlessly, his mind clouded by despondency. The whole world had rejected him. Making a threatening fist, he said resentfully and angrily, in a voice that was almost a sob, “The whole world will pay for all my pains!” He had realized that his only hope was to ask Ali Taha and Ma’mun Radwan. He hated asking them but had no alternative now. The inevitable is inevitable. As he headed for the tram he wondered which would be better. Each of them was a noble young man, but he did not love Ali whereas he did not hate Ma’mun. Moreover, Ma’mun was a religious, God-fearing person who
could be trusted to keep a secret, leaving it in the realm of mystery. He would most likely be forbearing if he was late in repaying his debt.