The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail (29 page)

           

T
he funeral would be held at Al-Qubbat al-Fidawiyya on the following afternoon. Isa got there early to welcome the mourners, and his arrival coincided with that of Hasan, his cousin, in his Mercedes. Naturally the car was no surprise to Isa, but the sight of it irritated him. He was amazed at the sudden and obvious improvement in his cousin's health; an air of superiority gave him an upright bearing, and his eyes had a look of authority in them. They shook hands and stood there waiting in the shade of a tree. Hasan started looking him over. “You don't look as healthy as I would have expected!” he said.

“Perhaps the weather doesn't agree with me,” Isa replied, reviewing his sorrows in a single fleeting moment.

“That was a meaningless trip to Alexandria,” the young man said in a decisive and official tone of voice, “but then, you're a stubborn man.”

Hasan was still hanging on to his old dream, Isa thought, of marrying him off to his sister. Then Isa's friends, Samir Abd al-Baqi, Ibrahim Khairat, and Abbas
Sadiq, arrived with various former senators and representatives. Countless groups of people came to offer their condolences to Hasan, and the tent was crowded with them all, even though it was huge. There was an anxious moment when Ali Sulaiman got out of his car. Hasan welcomed him, and Isa saw no way out of greeting him too. They shook hands with each other and Isa accepted his condolences, but neither of them looked at the other once. The traditional stages in the ceremony followed, one after the other. Isa lost his composure only at the burial itself, when his eyes filled with tears in spite of the effort he made to control his emotions. He had supervised the entire proceedings himself. Unable to resist the eternal temptation, he looked at the grave pit for a long time. He wanted to be left alone to say some important things to her. He suddenly remembered the last time he had said goodbye to her in the old house. She had kissed him on the forehead. “Do whatever you want,” she had said. “May the good Lord protect you wherever you are. I'll hold back my tears so that you can leave in peace!”

He could hardly remember the expression on her face because he had not been looking at her closely; but her hands had felt cold, lean, and trembling.

When the recitation started, he moved to one side, and more than once exchanged glances with his friends. He asked himself why they looked sadder than they needed to be. This, then, is the ultimate destination for everyone, he thought with a comforting enthusiasm and a certain amount of malice, for poor people and tyrants alike; yes, and tyrants too!

The condolences in the house that night were restricted to members of the family and his three friends. Ali Sulaiman did not come, and Isa avoided going to the harem
so as not to see his uncle's family. Nevertheless, he wondered whether Susan Hanem and Salwa had come. The scene in the room where Samir, Abbas, Ibrahim, and Hasan were sitting with him was almost comical. None of his friends dared to express his political views in front of Hasan, and since the discussion of politics could not be avoided in any gathering, they saw no solution except to be hypocritical. So they started praising the startling historic actions of the revolution, the abolition of the monarchy, the end of feudalism, and the evacuation—especially the evacuation, that age-old dream. Isa contributed only a little to the conversation; he was exhausted and felt empty and sad. He concealed his sarcastic thoughts about the situation by pretending to listen to the Qur'an reciter, who was sitting in the lounge on the third floor. Hasan had become a key figure, he told himself, someone to really reckon with! Wasn't that laughable? He surrendered to the incredible notion that his mother had not really died, that she was still alive in some way, or that her spirit had not yet left the house. Then he recalled in amazement the old dream of the evacuation and how he had listened to the news of its announcement with a feeling of languid satisfaction mixed with anger merely because it was not his party that had brought it about. He could not help saying, “The fact is that the evacuation is really a fruit of the past!”

None of his friends said a word, but Hasan went to great efforts to prove that this theory was wrong.

“The truth is,” Ibrahim Khairat said, “none of our old revolutions achieved any startling results. Now this revolution has come along to fulfill the missions of the old ones as well as achieve its own particular goals.”

The conversation continued until the house was empty. When Isa went to see Hasan to the door, the latter stopped
suddenly and smiled at him fondly. “Your trip was a mistake,” he said. “You should examine your position again.”

Isa smiled. He had not the least inclination to talk.

“Tell me one of your past hopes,” Hasan continued, “which hasn't been achieved today. You should jump on the train and join the rest of us!”

Isa shook his head enigmatically. They shook hands.

“When you change your mind,” Hasan said, “you'll find me at your beck and call.”

Isa thanked him gratefully. In fact, he was greatly touched by his kindness, but he refused to think about moving that wall which kept them apart. He often admitted his adversary's logic and acknowledged his own secret defeat in front of him. But every time he seemed more convinced, he felt a bitter resentment building up inside him.

Afterwards, he sat down with Umm Shalabi, who greeted his arrival with a flood of tears over the death of his late mother. He waited till she quieted down. “How was she?” he asked.

“She didn't sleep for a single day.”

“Suddenly then?”

“Yes, and, fortunately, in my arms.”

“Was she alone in the house for a long time?”

“Never. One of your sisters came to see her every day.”

“Didn't Susan Hanem come tonight?”

“Yes, sir, she did.”

“And Salwa?” he asked after a short pause.

“No, sir, she didn't come.” She blinked and then continued. “She's engaged to your cousin Hasan…”

His weary eyes leapt in a look of astonishment. “Salwa and Hasan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Since when?”

“Last month.”

He stretched out his legs carelessly and leaned back against the headrest of his chair. He saw the old, faded ceiling resting on its horizontal pillars. His gaze settled on a large gecko at the top of the wall; it was so still that it seemed to be crucified there.

           

I
t was nice to sit on the El Bodega pavement in the warm June air, especially when the evening brought with it a gentle breeze. Silence prevailed when a pretty girl walked by, but Isa and his friends were by no means tired of talking about politics. Even though Abbas Sadiq had a position in the government, and Ibrahim Khairat worked as a lawyer and writer for the revolution, they still held the same views as Isa or Samir Abd al-Baqi, who tended to be reticent. Ibrahim summed up their general feelings. “It's right there in your hands, and then someone else gets it!” he said.

Signs of resignation were written all over their faces, but they still hoped for a miracle. Sometimes they would seize on the most trivial news, and a hidden flicker of life would rouse in the barren wasteland of their hearts. Incredibly enough, Ibrahim Khairat and Abbas Sadiq were even more disgruntled than Isa.

“One of you is an important writer,” Isa told them with a laugh, “and the other is an important civil servant. So what do you want?”

“On a personal level,” Abbas replied in his ringing and harmonious voice, his eyes flashing wide, “things may be reassuring; but that doesn't alter the general picture.”

“The truth is,” said Ibrahim Khairat, “no one has any value today, however senior his position may be. We're a country of bubbles.”

“When I was only in the sixth grade,” Abbas said, “I was as good as an entire ministry!”

“Nothing bothers me anymore,” said Samir Abd al-Baqi with a soothing tone of resignation.

“But your position is at least as difficult as any of ours!”

Samir hurriedly revised his statement of his views. “I meant that I'm no longer troubled by regrets about the past. Sometimes I wish them success. My own dismissal doesn't bother me because I chose it.”

“You mean, it was imposed on you,” said Isa jokingly.

“But, at the same time, I chose it. May God's will be done.”

Ibrahim Khairat rubbed Isa's shoulder. “Why aren't you saying anything?” he asked. “Haven't you any news?”

“A few days ago,” Isa said simply, “I hung a ‘For Sale' sign on my late mother's house.”

“It's old, but at least it's land!”

“My share of it will enable me to live like a notable,” Isa said joyfully, “and that's how I'll carry on for as long as possible.”

“Do you think that's a decent way to live?”

“Maybe it'll cure me of my split personality.”

“Is that some modern illness?” asked Abbas Sadiq.

“The truth is,” replied Isa after thinking for a moment, “although my mind is sometimes convinced by the revolution, my heart is always with the past. I just don't know if there can be any settlement between the two.”

“It isn't a question of principles to be convinced by,”
said Ibrahim Khairat. “The relationship between ruler and ruled is regulated secretly, just as in love. We can say that the ruler who will be most attractive to his subjects is the one who respects their humanity the most. Man shall not live by bread alone!”

“But that's why I should still be out of work, even if I got scores of jobs,” Isa replied sadly.

“Is that your heart or your mind speaking?” Abbas Sadiq asked.

“The heart means totally different things to us,” Samir Abd al-Baqi said with a smile.

“Why are we laughing,” Isa asked, “when life is a tragedy in every sense of the word?”

“We think of death as the ultimate tragedy,” said Ibrahim Khairat, “and yet the death of the living is infinitely worse than that of the dead.”

Abbas Sadiq gave an explosive laugh. “Isn't it appropriate,” he said, “that the conversation should take us from death to the atom!”

Isa had still not fully emerged from his sudden feeling of sorrow. “One of the things about using the atom as a threat,” he said, “is that it lightens life's drudgery; I mean, our life…”

“What about modern civilization?” Abbas Sadiq asked sarcastically. “Aren't you worried about what may happen to it?”

“Fortunately for us, we haven't entered the world of modern civilization yet. So why should we be afraid of getting wet?”

“I hope it'll be an age like the flood,” Ibrahim Khairat said. “Then the earth will be purified.”

“Have you heard that from an official source?” Abbas Sadiq asked.

“Let's admit,” said Samir Abd al-Baqi, “that if it weren't for death, our life wouldn't have any value at all.”

“What a lot of talk about death!”

At that, Isa remembered his mother's death, Salwa's marriage to Hasan, and the harsh way he had treated Riri. How consoling it was, he thought, to be able to chat with these friends of his. Talking to Hasan only made his split personality even more acute. Samir leaned toward him. “Your problem's easy compared with the problems of the world,” he said. “You need a job and a wife.”

“That's why I like horror films,” Isa replied with no obvious connection.

“The trouble with those films,” Abbas Sadiq commented, “is that they're imaginary.”

“On the contrary,” Isa replied, “the trouble with them is that they're too realistic.”

The air-raid siren went off by mistake and blared for half a minute. Isa thought that eventually he would find himself searching for a job and a woman. But that would not happen till he admitted defeat and made a final exit from history.

           

T
he pleasures of the night are very intense, but they do not last long; and besides, they cost too much. The Arizona was particularly beautiful at midnight; gorgeous girls of various nationalities were dancing around, and drinks were mingled with the early morning dew. You could make do with lies. In the back garden, it was all love and lovers, moonlight or starlight. Money had no value at all, and emotions spilled over unchecked. There's nothing new about the picture, Isa thought, but he was still maintaining the deceits of his daily life in a fearsomely dull atmosphere. Here, on the other hand, you could blend in with the singing in a joyful ambience. Salwa had known about luxury, but she had never really known joy. It occurred to him to ask his Italian companion in the garden a question. “You've been to a number of countries; what do you think of people?”

She was something for all five senses to enjoy. “They're usually looking for pleasure when I meet them,” she replied, “so they're all very nice!”

“But that's all lies.”

“At least they're genuine about wanting me!”

“That's just a passing emotion.”

“Everything's like that!”

He laughed and paused for a moment. “Can't you find even that passing emotion in yourself?” he asked.

“So you don't believe I love you?” she asked jokingly.

“How is it,” he asked her with interest, “that it doesn't occur to people like you to enjoy a little stability in your lives?”

She sang an Italian song, and for a moment he was impressed by her beauty. Then his own degradation made him feel sad. Everything of value except beauty comes to the same end, he thought; people barter shamelessly with freedom, humanity, and even religion, and they are all really a single tragedy. In the past, he himself had indulged in this futile pastime. He had stomached all kinds of corruption and taken part in it himself; his bank balance was still there to prove it. Why couldn't purity prevail? What was it that had prevented it for so many centuries? Was there a single man anywhere on the face of the earth living without fear or blemish?

He began to amuse himself by following girls in the Cairo streets, especially young ones; it was as though some force were pushing him toward the sources of innocence. But these were mysterious and fruitless trips which brought no results. Every time the political storms blew up, and some idea or person from his past was thrown out, he reeled under the impact of the blow. Eventually there came a time when he wished that the Egyptians—like some other peoples—had a colony, in South America
perhaps, where they could emigrate. The Egyptians were reptiles, he told himself angrily, not birds. The dream of some radical change in his life attracted him, but everything he did was just a waste of time. When he complained to his friend, Samir Abd al-Baqi, his friend had replied, “Where's your sail? You're a boat drifting without a sail!”

One day at about four in the afternoon, the real estate agent came to say that some people wanted to look at the house. Two women appeared, an old lady in her seventies and her daughter—at least that was what he deduced from their resemblance—who was in her forties or slightly younger. He took them from one room to another and answered their questions. The old lady was thin, with a white complexion, gray eyes, and thick eyebrows, and her expression full of experience and self-confidence. Her daughter was of medium height and had a full figure and a round face; her eyes were like those of a cow and equally placid. He noticed the women's amazement at the obvious discrepancy between the old house and the magnificent, contemporary furniture. This irritated him. After they had looked at the large courtyard, he invited them to sit in the reception room and offered them some coffee. The agent joined the group, and in his white
gallabiyya
¹⁶
looked at everyone with his narrow eyes. “The house covers a large area,” he said, “and one could add a building on two sides. The northwest corner is a magnificent site; the quarter around it is rapidly being modernized, as you've seen. Five new buildings are being erected at the same time, and that'll raise its value.”

“But the house is old,” said the daughter. Isa again
noticed her black eyes and elegant clothes. “It's not fit to live in.”

“You're not buying a house to live in, of course,” Isa said. “It's a site to build on, as Al-Hajj* Husain just pointed out. It's a good location, and the price is right. You can make your own inquiries and find out for yourself!”

“And that's just the present,” Al-Hajj Husain continued. “The entire quarter's guaranteed for the future as well. There's no quarter in the world like this one; it's in a perfect location, there are so many people living here, and transportation is good—it's ideal.”

The daughter asked Isa about the dimensions of the property. She had a guttural voice that was rounded like her face, but provocative at the same time. Her magnificent appearance indicated to him that she was a woman who deserved some respect; she might be quite desirable too, for a while.

“A thousand square meters,” he replied. “Al-Hajj Husain may have told you the price I'm asking.”

“Ten thousand pounds!” the old lady exclaimed. “Where will you find someone to pay that much?!”

“Here!” Isa replied, pointing at her with a laugh.

“It's the kind of opportunity the world doesn't offer twice,” Al-Hajj Husain said emphatically. “God be my witness!”

Isa refused to consider lowering the price a single piaster. The bargaining went on interminably, but it foundered on his determination. During all this haggling Isa and the daughter exchanged probing glances which had nothing at all to do with business. He got the impression that she was not married, and told himself that she was rich and acceptable. She was not the type he liked, it
was true, and they were not the same age, but she was wealthy, placid, and well mannered, as far as he could tell. These were just passing notions, but it struck him that the old lady was following his train of thought. The meeting came to an end without his changing his mind or the old lady accepting his price.