The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail (3 page)

           

H
is sudden happiness gave way to an agitation, alarming in its intensity, a feeling he had not known for the last twenty years. Buthayna, wearing a printed blouse and brown tapered pants, came at his beckoning to the balcony overlooking the sea.

“I wanted to invite you to watch the sunset with me,” he said as she sat down in front of him.

She seemed on the verge of excusing herself, for, as he knew, this was the time she went out with her mother and sister for a late-afternoon stroll on the Corniche, so he said, “You'll join them soon. Poets should enjoy the sunset.”

He noticed her cheeks redden, and smiled.

“But…but I'm not a poet!”

“But you write poetry.”

“How do I know it's poetry?”

“I'll judge after looking at it.”

“No,” she said, timid and apprehensive.

“There's no secret between us. I'm proud of you.”

“It's just silly scribblings.”

“I'll love even your silly scribblings.”

She lowered her eyes submissively, her long curving eyelashes nearly brushing her cheeks.

“Buthayna,” he said with sudden concern, “tell me why you turned to poetry.”

“I don't know.”

“You do so well in science. What prompted you to turn to poetry?”

Frowning, she made an effort to remember. “The school readings. I enjoyed them very much, Papa.”

“So do many people.”

“I was more strongly affected, I think.”

“Have you read any other poetry?”

“I've read some collections.”

“Collections?”

She laughed. “I borrowed them from your library.”

“Really?”

“And I know that you're a poet, too.”

The remark pained him but he dissimulated gaiety. “No, no, I'm not a poet. It was a childhood pastime.”

“You certainly were a poet. Anyway, I was strongly tempted by poetry.”

You suggest the theater, my friend, but I'm a poet. I find myself caught in a whirlpool from which there's no escape except through poetry, for poetry is the very aim of my existence. Without it, what would we do with the love which surrounds us like air, the secret feelings which burn us like fire, the universe which oppresses us without mercy? Don't be supercilious about poetry, my friend.

“Tell me more.”

She continued, regaining her usual courage. “It's as though I'm searching for tunes in the air.”

“A nice sentiment, Buthayna, and poetry is fine as long as it doesn't spoil life….”

“What do you mean, Papa?”

“I mean your studies and your future. But it is time to look at your poems.”

She brought him a silver-colored notebook. With love and anxiety he opened the pages, but as he began to read, the year 1935 intervened tauntingly, that year of agony, secret schemes, wild hopes, and dreams of Utopia spurred by Othman's declaration that he had found the ideal solution. It was evident that his little girl, the bud which had not yet flowered, was in love. Who is this glorious being, whose breath is the clouds, whose mirror is the sun, and for whom the tree branches sway in yearning? Why should we be upset when our children travel the path we once took? What would his father think if he could hear him talking to his granddaughter about love?

“This is really poetry.”

Her eyes shone with joy as she exclaimed, “Really?”

“Lovely poetry.”

“You're only trying to encourage me, Papa.”

“No, it's the truth.” Then he asked her, smiling, “But who is he?”

The spark of enthusiasm died down in her eyes and she asked, rather disappointed, “Who?”

“Who is it you're addressing in these lyrics?” Then he said more forcefully, “Come, there are no secrets between us.”

She answered enigmatically, “No one.”

“It seems I'm no longer the father confidant.”

“I mean it's not a human being.”

“One of the angels?”

“Nor one of the angels.”

“What is it, then—a dream—a symbol?”

In evident confusion, she replied, “Perhaps it is the final purpose of all things.”

He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and arms and, making a valiant effort to remove any trace of jest or sarcasm from his tone, said seriously, “Then you are enamored of the secret of existence.”

She said nervously, “That's quite possible, Papa.”

We're fools to think of ourselves as stranger than others. “And what brought all this about?”

“I don't know…It's difficult to say, but your poems first pointed the way.”

Omar laughed mechanically, saying, “A family conspiracy! Your mother knew what you were up to all along and showed you that stuff which you call poetry.”

“But it's wonderful poetry, and so inspired.”

He laughed loudly, attracting the attention of the organ grinder below him on the Corniche who was filling the air with his jarring tones.

“At last I've found an admirer! But it wasn't poetry, just a feverish delusion. Fortunately I got over it in time.”

“While it makes me ecstatic!”

“So poetry is your beloved.”

“As it is yours.”

It was, but is no longer, and my heart feels the deprivation. Between the stars lie emptiness and darkness and millions of light-years.

“What is your advice, Papa?”

“All I can say is, do as you wish.”

She asked gaily, “When will you take up poetry again?”

“For God's sake, let me get back to the office first!”

“I'm surprised that you could give it up so easily.”

He said, smiling diffidently, “It was simply a frivolous…”

“But your collection of poems, Papa.”

“I once thought I'd continue.”

“I'm asking what made you stop.”

He smiled sarcastically, but then a sudden desire to be frank prompted him to confess, “No one listened to my songs.”

The silence hurt you, but Mustapha urged, “Perseverance and patience,” and Othman said, “Write for the Revolution and you'll have thousands of listeners.”

You were beset by privation and oppressed by the silence. Poetry could not sustain you. One day Mustapha announced happily that the Tali'a troupe had accepted his play. The silence became more oppressive. Samson fell asleep before he could destroy the temple.

Buthayna asked, “Do there have to be listeners, Papa?”

He reached over and stroked a lock of her black hair. “Why rescue the secret of existence from silence, only to be greeted by silence?” Then he added gently, “Don't you want people to listen to your poems?”

“Of course, but I'll keep on anyway.”

“Fine, you're braver than your father, that's all.”

“You can return to poetry if you want.”

“The talent has died completely.”

“I don't believe it. In my mind you will always be a poet.”

What has poetry to do with this hulking body, with the preoccupation with legal cases, the construction of apartment buildings, and gluttony to the point of illness? Even Mustapha slumped on the couch one day as if he were declining visibly into old age.

“What wasted effort,” he said.

You replied with concern, “But the Tali'a troupe welcomes your plays, and they're excellent works.”

He gestured with his hand in deprecation. “I have to reconsider my life as you have.”

“You've always counseled perseverance and patience.”

He laughed harshly. “You can't ignore the public.”

“You'd like to start out again as a lawyer?”

“Law died even before art. In fact, the concept of art changed without our realizing it. The era of art has ended, and the art of our age is simply diversion, the only art possible in an age of science. Science has taken over all fields except the circus.”

“Really, we're all going to pieces, one after the other.”

“Say rather that we've grown up, and regard your success in life as an exemplary case. I think that amusement is a splendid objective for the world-weary people of the twentieth century. What we consider real art is only the light coming from a star which died millions of years ago. So we'd better grow up and pay the clowns the respect they deserve.”

“It seems to me that philosophy has destroyed art.”

“Rather science has destroyed both philosophy and art. So let's amuse ourselves without reserve, with the innocence of children and the intelligence of men—light stories and raucous laughter and nonsensical pictures—and let's renounce delusions of grandeur, and the exalted throne of science, and be content with popular acclaim and the material rewards.”

That both pleased me and saddened me. I suffered from conflicting emotions and recollected in dismay the one still in prison.

“Dear Baldy” applies the balsam of consolation to your
failure with surprising skill. In the future he'll strive on a lower level for the force you once had. While you, who once searched for the secret of existence, have turned into a wealthy lawyer sinking in gluttony.

“If science is what you imagine, what are we but intruders on the periphery of life?”

“We're successful men with a secret burden of sorrow; it's unwise to open the wounds.”

“We belong, in fact, to a bygone age.”

“For God's sake, don't open the wounds.”

“Scientists are strong through their allegiance to the truth, but our strength derives from money which loses its legality day by day.”

“So I say that death represents the one true hope in human life.”

Omar looked gently at his daughter's green eyes and said, “Buthayna, is it unreasonable to ask you not to give up your scientific studies?”

“No, I won't, but poetry will still be the most beautiful thing in my life.”

“Let it be. I won't dispute that. But you can be a poet and at the same time an engineer, for example.”

“You seem to be preoccupied with my future!”

“Of course! I don't want you to wake up one day to find yourself in the Stone Age while everyone around you is in the age of science.”

“But poetry—”

He interrupted. “I won't contradict you, dear. My friend Mustapha finds poetry, religion, and philosophy in science, but I won't argue that position. I'm pleased and proud of you.”

The large red disk of the sun was sinking, its force and vitality absorbed by the unknown. The eye could gaze easily
at it now, as at the water. Rosy dunes of clouds pressed around it.

Do you really want to know my secret, Mustapha? In the agony of failure, I sought power, that evil which we'd wanted to abolish. But you already know this secret.

           

I
n the fading glow of the sun, she looked sedate, even elegant. In spite of her extraordinary rotundity, the exasperating evidence of indulgence, she retained a winsome beauty. Her serious green eyes still had their charm, but they were now the eyes of a stranger. She was the wife of another man, the man of yesterday who hadn't known listlessness or fatigue, who had forgotten himself. How was she related to this man, the invalid without an illness, who avoided starches and liquor and who scrutinized the humid air for warnings of undefined peril? The two sisters are ahead; Jamila walks along the stone wall of the Corniche while Buthayna, on the street below, leads her by the hand. They are on the road between Glim and Sidi Bishr, where the crowds are a bit thinner. Buthayna attracted many glances and many murmured comments. Although indistinguishable, their meaning was clear enough. Omar smiled to himself. In a few years you'll be a grandfather, and life will go on, but where to? He watched the last of
the sunset in the clear, pallid sky until only a sliver remained on the horizon.

He remarked, “The ancients used to ask where the sun disappeared to. We no longer question.”

Zeinab looked at the sun for a moment, then said, “How marvelous to have ended the question!”

Rational answers strangle you to provocation. Sensible behavior annoys you unreasonably. How grand it would be if the sea turned violent, drove away those who loitered on the shore, incited the pedestrians on the Corniche to commit unimaginable follies, sent the casino flying above the clouds, and shattered the familiar images forever. So the heart throbs in the brain and the reptiles dance with the birds.

The two girls stopped in front of the San Stefano cinema, then resumed walking. Suddenly Zeinab put her arm through his and whispered imploringly, “Omar, what's wrong?”

He glanced with a smile at those around him. “So much flirtation!”

“That's nothing new….What's wrong?”

He said, intent on ignoring her question, “There's a lot Buthayna doesn't know. I was thinking of that when I—”

She interrupted him impatiently. “I know what I'm doing. She's an unusually sensitive girl, but you're escaping.”

Your soul longs for escape, the magic key at the bottom of a well.

“I'm escaping?”

“You know what I mean, so confess.”

“To which crime?”

“That you're no longer yourself.”

How we need a violent storm to wash away this cloying humidity.

“Only in body are you among us. Sometimes I'm so sad I could die.”

“But as you can see, I'm following the regime rigorously.”

“I'm wondering what's behind this change. Your behavior makes me question it again.”

“But we diagnosed the condition thoroughly.”

“Yes, but is there anything in particular which disturbs you?”

“Nothing.”

“I must believe you.”

“But apparently you don't, completely.”

“I thought maybe something in your office or at the court had disturbed you. You're sensitive, but able to hide your feelings well.”

“I went to the doctor only because I couldn't find a tangible cause.”

“You haven't told me how it all started.”

“I talked to you so often about that.”

“Only about the results, but how precisely did it start?”

A reckless impulse drives you to confess. “It's difficult to establish when or how the change began, but I remember meeting with one of the litigants of Soliman Pasha's estate. The man said, ‘I'm grateful, Counselor. You've grasped the details of the situation superbly. Your fame is well deserved. I have great hopes of winning the case.'

“I replied, ‘So do I.'

“He laughed contentedly and I felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of anger. ‘Suppose you win the case today and possess the land only to have it confiscated tomorrow by the government?' He answered disparagingly, ‘All that
matters is that we win the case. Don't we live our lives knowing that our fate rests with God?' I had to admit the validity of his argument, but my head began to spin and everything seemed to disappear.”

She glanced at him with surprise, and said, “That was the reason?”

“No, I don't know an exact reason, but I was undergoing a subtle, persistent change; thus I was agitated unreasonably by the man's words, words repeated by millions of others every day without any effect.”

“Of course you can only think about death as men of wisdom do.”

“I wonder how wise men regard death.”

“Well, fortunately, that's known.” She looked at him inquiringly. “And after that you hated work.”

“No…no, I can't say that. It may have been earlier, or later.”

“I'm so depressed that I can hardly discuss it with you.”

“Are you so concerned about the work?”

“I care only about you.”

A case is postponed, another, then a third. You spend the day glued to your chair, legs stretched under the desk, chain smoking and staring vacantly at the ceiling.

“I'm tired of walking,” she said.

“But generally you walk twice this distance.”

She lowered her eyes. “It's my turn to confess. I may be pregnant.”

His stomach sank and he yearned more sharply for the magic key of escape. “But,” he murmured.

She said calmly, “Dear, God's will is stronger than any of our designs.” Then she added, pressing his arm, “And you've not been blessed with your crown prince!”

As they walked back home, a coquettish smile played in
her eyes. He said to himself that a bit of liquor would dissipate the languor so he could feign the role of lover, as he feigned marriage and health.

He woke up early, after a few hours of sleep, to the thudding of the waves in the dark, silent morning. Zeinab was sound asleep, satiated, her lips parted in a soft, steady snore and her hair disheveled. And you despair. It's as though you were doomed to thwart yourself. I don't love her anymore. After long years of love, shared life, and loyal memories, not a grain of love remains. Pray that it's just a symptom of the disease which will disappear with recovery, but now I don't love her. This is the most bitter disillusionment. You hear her snoring and feel no sympathy or tenderness. You look at her and only wonder what brought you together, who imposed this damned parody.

“Mustapha, there's the girl.”

“The one leaving the church?”

“That's the one. She's wearing black in mourning for her uncle. How pretty she is.”

“But her religion.”

“I no longer care about those obstacles.”

I told her how pleased I was that she'd condescended to meet me. In the public garden, Omar al-Hamzawi, the lawyer, had introduced himself, while she responded with a barely audible murmur, “Kamelia Fouad.” Dearest, our love is stronger than all else. Nothing can stand in our way. She answered with a sigh, “I don't know.”

Mustapha laughed at all the commotion, saying, “I've known you forever, and you've always sought trouble. A tempest at your house, a more violent one at hers. I'm spinning between the two.”

Then what a marvelous attitude he'd had later when,
raising his glass of whiskey, he'd said, “Congratulations to both of you. The past is buried, but she's sacrificed much more than you. Beliefs are apt to tyrannize even those who've deserted them. To your health, Zeinab. To yours, Omar.”
^*

He took you aside and, completely drunk, began to expostulate. “Don't forget the bad times ahead, but never forget love. Remember that she has no other family in the world now. She's been cut from the tree, and has no one but you.”

I married a woman of great vitality and charm, a model student of the nuns, refined to the letter. She seemed to be a born businesswoman, with an unflagging zeal for work and a shrewd eye for investment. In her era, you rose from nothing to great eminence and wealth, and in the warmth of her love, you found consolation for wasted effort, for failure, and for poetry.

Still sleeping, she rolled over on her face. Her nightgown slid up, exposing the naked lower half of her body. He slipped from the bed and went out to the balcony, shutting the door behind him. Enveloped by the murky air, he watched the waves racing madly toward the shore and the spray flying against the cabanas. Flocks of clouds had spread across the pale dome of the sky, fogging up the early-morning weather. No feet yet walked the ground. Your spirit was unreceptive and the air did not refresh you. How long will you wait for deliverance? If only he could ask Mustapha about the meaning of the contradictions.
He's a great resource of ideas, even if he only sells popcorn and pumpkin seeds now. Does Zeinab have a role only after work? One of the waves rose to an extraordinary height, shattered in tons of foam, then spread out defeated, giving up the ghost.

Dear God, Zeinab and work are the same. This malady which turns me from work is what turns me from Zeinab, for she is the hidden force, she is its symbol. She is wealth, success, and finally illness. And because I'm sick of these things, I'm disgusted with myself, or rather because I'm disgusted with myself, all else sickens me. But who does Zeinab have apart from me? Last night was a bitter experience. Love shrank and withered, and all that remained was a quickening of the pulse, a rise in blood pressure, and stomach contractions chasing each other in a horrible loneliness; the loneliness of the wave absorbed by the sand, which never returns to the sea. She sings songs of love, while I'm mute; she's the pursuer while I'm the fugitive; she loves while I hate; she's pregnant while I'm sterile; she's sensitive, perspicacious while I'm stupid. She said you're unusually quiet. I said it's simply that my voice is unheard. I said, “Suppose you win the property settlement today and tomorrow the government confiscates the land?” to which he replied, “Don't we live our lives knowing that our fate rests with God?” Even in alienation, the wave rises insanely, shatters in foam, then gives up the ghost. The grave of sleep swallows you, but still you don't rest, your brain still chases phantoms. You even consider seeing the doctor again, admitting that you've changed unaccountably. What do I want, what am I after? Knowledge has no importance, neither have the legal affairs of my clients, the addition of a few hundred pounds to my account, the blessings of a happy home, and the reading of
the daily headlines. So why not take a trip in space? Ride the light waves, for their speed is fixed, the only fixed thing in the constantly changing, insanely reeling universe.

The first spacemen have arrived, selling microbes, selling lies.