The boy noticed that his brother's voice was so hoarse it was hard
for him to speak. He replied, "I was in Uncle Hamdan's shop. I heard
the shots and everything."
Fahmy told him quickly and hastily, "Go home and don't tell anyone
you met me.... Do you hear?"
The boy asked him in bewilderment, "Aren't you coming home
with me?"
He replied in the same tone, "Of course not... not now.... I'll
return at my usual time. Don't forget, you didn't run into me at all."
He pushed him away, leaving him no opportunity for discussion.
The boy galloped off until he reached Khan Ja'far Alley. There he
saw a man standing in the middle of the road. He was pointing to
the ground and addressing several others. Looking in the direction
he was pointing, Kamal saw red splotches in the dust. He heard the'
man say, as though delivering a funeral oration, "This innocent blood
screams out to us to continue the struggle. It was God's will that
blood should be shed in the sacred precincts of al-Husayn, the Prince
of Martyrs, to link our present trials to our past. God is on our side."
Kamal was terrified. He turned his eyes away from the bloody
ground and ran off like a madman.
In the early morning darkness, Amina was groping her way to the
door of the room cautiously and deliberately to avoid waking her
husband when she heard a strange commotion coming from the street
that sounded like the droning of bees. At this, her usual time to arise,
she normally heard only the clatter of garbage carts, a cough from
someone heading for work early, and the shouts of a man who liked
to break the pervasive silence after he returned from the dawn prayer
by crying out from time to time, "Proclaim Him one." She had never
heard this strange commotion before. She was at a loss to explain it
and curious to learn its source. She walked softly to the window in
the sitting room that overlooked the street. She raised the cover of
the peephole and poked her head out. She found it was dark with a
glimmer of light at the horizon, but that was not enough for her to
be able to see what was happening below her. The commotion grew
louder and more mysterious at the same time. She could hear human
voices of unknown origin. As her eyes became slightly more accustomed
to the darkness, she looked around. Below the historic cistern
building on Palace Walk and near it at the intersection of al-Nahhasin
with Qirmiz Alley she could make out indistinct human figures, as
well as things shaped like small pyramids and other objects like short
trees. She stepped back anxiously and went downstairs to the room
Fahmy shared with Kamal. Then she hesitated. Should she wake him
up to solve this puzzle for her or postpone it until he woke by himself?.
She could not bring herself to disturb Fahmy and decided to
wait until the normal time for him to awaken at sunrise, which was
not far off.
She performed her prayers and then went back to the window,
driven by her curiosity. She peered out. Rays from the rising sun
were beginning to adorn the gown of night. The light of morning
was streaming off the peaks of the minarets and the domes. She was
able to see the road much more clearly. Her eyes examined the shapes
that had alarmed her when it was dark. She could see what they really
were. A moan of terror escaped her, and she stepped back to rush to
Fahmy's room. She woke him without any hesitation.
3 to
Naguib Mahfou
The young man shuddered and sat up in bed. He asked in alarm,
"What's wrong, Mother?"
Trying to catch her breath, she replied, "The English are filling the
street below our house."
The young man jumped out of bed to run to the window. Looking
down, he saw a small encampment on Palace Walk under the cistern
building at a vantage point for the streets that branched offthere. It consisted
of a number of tents, three trucks, and several groups of soldiers.
Adjacent to the tents, rifles had been stacked up in groups of four. In
each bunch the muzzles leaned in against each other and the butts were
separated, forming a pyramid. The sentries stood like statues in front of
the tents. The other soldiers were scattered about, speaking
to each other in a foreign language and laughing. The young man
looked toward al-Nahhasin and saw a second encampment at the intersection
of al-Nahhasin with the Goldsmiths Bazaar. There was a third
encampment in the other direction at the corner of Palace Walk and al
Khurunfush.
His first impulse was to think that these soldiers had come to arrest
him, but he soon decided that was silly. He attributed the idea to his
rude awakening, from which he had not quite recovered, and to his
sense of being followed that had not left him since the revolution had
broken out. Then the truth gradually became clear to him. The district
that had frustrated the occupying forces with its continual demonstrations
had been occupied by troops. He went on looking
through the blind, examining the soldiers, tents, and wagons while
his heart pounded with terror, sorrow, and anger. When he turned
away from the window he was pale and muttered to his mother, "It's
the English, just as you said. They've come to intimidate people and
to stop the demonstrations at their source."
He began to pace the room back and forth, while he commented
to himself resentfully, "Incredible... preposterous."
Then he heard his mother say, "I'll wake your father to tell him
about it." The woman made that statement as though it were the
only alternative left. She implied that al-Sayyid Abroad, who solved
all the problems of her life, was equally capable of finding a solution
for this one and of guiding them to safety.
Her son told her sadly, "Leave him alone until he wakes up at the
normal time."
Terrified, the woman asked, "What are we going to do, son, with
them stationed outside the entrance of our house?"
PALACE WALK 37!
Fahmy shook his head anxiously and repeated her question: "What
are we going to do?" Then in a more confident tone he continued:
"There's no reason o be afraid. They're only n to fhen the
demonstrators."
Swallowing because her mouth felt d, she remarked, "I'm afraid
they'! attack peaceful citizens in their homes."
He thought for a little while about what she had said. Then he
muured, "Of coupe not... If their goal had been to attack the
houses, they wouldn't have waited there quietly this long." He was
not totally sure about his statement but thought it was the best thing
to say.
His mother came back with yet another question: "How long will
they stay here with us?"
He replied with a blank stare, "Who knows?... They%e pitched
tents, so they're not leaving soon."
He noticed that she was addressing questions to him as though he
were a milita commander. He looked at her affeionately and did
not let her see the ironic smile that had foxed on his pale lips. He
thought for a moment about teasing her, but the situation was distressing
enough to deter him. He became serious once more. Similarly,
when Yasin recounted one of their father's exploits to him, the we nature of the anecdote would make him want to laugh, but the
anety that afflied him whenever he learned something about the
hidden side of his father's charaer would restrain him.
They heard footsteps huing toward them. Then Yasin, followed
immediately by Zaynab, stoed into the room. His eyes looked
swollen and his hair was disheveled. He shouted, "Have you seen
the English?"
Zaynab cried out, "I'm the one who heard them. So I looked out
the window and saw them. Then I woke up Mr. Yasin."
Yasin continued: "I knocked on Father's door until he woke up,
so I could tell him. When he saw them himself he ordered that no
one should leave the house and that the bolt on the door should not
be opened. But what are they doing?... What n we do?... Isn't
there a government in this count to prote us?"
Fahmy told him, "I don't think theyl interfere with anyone except
the demonstrator."
"But how long are we going to remain captives in our houses?...
These houses are full of women and children. How can they set up
entrapments here?"
Naguib Mahfou
Fahmy muttered uneasily, "Nothing's happening to us that isn't
happening to everyone else. Let's be patient and wait."
Zaynab protested nervously, "All we hear or see anymore is SOmething
frightening or sad. God damn the bastards."
At that point, Kamal opened his eyes. He looked with astonishment
at all the people unexpectedly assembled in his room. He sat
up in bed and looked inquisitively at his mother, who went to him
and patted his large head with her cold hand. Then in a whisper she
recited the opening prayer of the Qur'an, while her thoughts wandered
off.
The boy asked, "Why are you all here?"
His mother wanted to break the news to him in the nicest way,
and so she said gently, "You won't be going to school today."
He asked with delight, "Because of the demonstrations?"
Fahmy replied a bit sharply, "The English are blocking the road."
Kamal felt he had discovered the secret that had brought them all
together. He looked at their faces with dismay. Then he ran to the
window and looked for a long time through the blind. When he
returned, he remarked uneasily, "The rifles are in groups of four."
He looked at Fahmy as though pleading for help. He stammered
fearfully, "Will they kill us?"
"They won't kill anyone. They've come to pursue the demonstrators."
There
was a short period of silence. Then the boy commented, as
though to himself, "What handsome faces they have!"
Fahmy asked him sarcastically, "Do you really like their looks?"
Kamal replied innocently, "A lot. I imagined they'd look like devils."
Fahmy
said bitterly, "Who knows?.., perhaps if you saw some
devils you'd think they were handsome."
The bolt on the door was not pulled back that day. None of the
windows overlooking the street was opened, not even to freshen the
air or let in sunlight. For the first time ever, al-Sayyid Ahmad conducted
a conversation at the breakfast table. He said, in a voice that
implied he knew what he was talking about, that the English were
going to take strong measures to stop the demonstrations and that it
was for this reason they had occupied the areas where most of the
demonstrations had taken place. He said he had decided they would
stay home all day until matters became clearer.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad was able to speak with confidence and preserve
PALACE WALK
his customary awesome appearance. Thus he prevented anyone from
discerning the anxiety that had afflicted him since he had hopped out
of bed in response to Yasin's knocks.
It was also the first time that Fahmy had dared question one of his
father's ideas. He remarked politely, "But, Father, the school may
think I'm one of the strikers if I stay home."
AI-Sayyid Ahmad naturally knew nothing of his son's participation
in the demonstrations. He replied, "Necessity has its own laws. Your
brother as a civil servant is in more jeopardy than you are, but you
both have a clear excuse."
Fahmy was not courageous enough to ask his father a second time.
He was afraid of angering him and found his father's order forbidding
him to leave the house an excuse that eased his conscience for not
going into the streets occupied by soldiers thirsty for the blood of
students.
The breakfast group broke up. A1-Sayyid Ahmad retired to his
room. The mother and Zaynab were soon busy with their daily
chores. Since it was a sunny day with warm spring breezes, one of
the last of March, the three brothers went up on the roof, where they
sat under the arbor of hyacinth beans and jasmine. Kamal got interested
in the chickens and settled down by their coop. He scattered
grain for them and then chased them, delighted with their squawking.
He picked up the eggs he found.
His brothers began to discuss the thrilling news that was spreading
by word of mouth. A revolution was raging in all areas of the Nile
Valley from the extreme north to the extreme south. Fahmy recounted
what he knew about the railroads and telegraph and telephone
lines being cut, the outbreak of demonstrations in different
provinces, the battles between the English and the revolutionaries,
the massacres, the martyrs, the nationalist funerals with processions
with tens of coffins at a time, and the capital city with its students,
workers, and attorneys on strike, where transportation was limited to
carts. He remarked heatedly, "Is this really a revolution? Let them
kill as many as their savagery dictates. Death only invigorates us."
Yasin, shaking his head in wonder, observed, ','I wouldn't have
thought our people had this kind of fighting spirit."
Fahmy seemed to have forgotten how close he had been to despair
shortly before the outbreak of the revolution, when it took him by
surprise with its convulsions and dazzled him with its light. He now
asserted, "The nation's filled with a spirit of eternal struggle flaming
3 74
Naguib Mahfoug
throughout its body stretched from Aswan to the Mediterranean Sea.
The English only stirred it up. It's blazing away now and will never
die out."
There was a smile on Yasin's lips when he observed, "Even the
women have organized a demonstration."
Fahmy then recited verses from the poem by the Egyptian author
Hafiz Ibrahim about the ladies' demonstration:
Beautiful women marched in protest.
1r went to observe thdr rally.
l found them proudly
Brandishing the blackness of eir garments.
They looked like stars,
Gleaming in a pitch-black night.
They took to the streets;
Sa'd's home was their target.
Yasin was touched. He laughed and said, "I'm the one who should
have memorized that."
Fahmy happened to think of something and asked sadly, "Do you
suppose news of our revolution has reached Sa'd in exile? Has the
grand old man learned that his sacrifice has not been in vain? Or do
you think he's overcome by despair in his exile?"
They stayed on the roof until shortly before noon. The two older
brothers entertained themselves by observing the small British encampment.
They saw that some of the soldiers had set up a field
kitchen and were preparing food. Soldiers were scattered between the
intersections of Qirmiz Alley and al-Nahhasin with Palace Walk in
an area otherwise deserted. From time to time many would fall into
line at a signal from a bugle. Then they would get their rifles and
climb into one of the vehicles, which would carry them off toward
Bayt al-Qadi. This suggested that demonstrations were underway in
nearby neighborhoods. Fahmy watched them line up with a pounding
heart and flaming imagination.
When the two older brothers finally went downstairs to the study
they left Kamal alone on the roof to amuse himself as he saw fit.
Fahmy got his books to review what he had missed during the past
days. Yasin selected Abu Tammam's medieval coilection'of Arabic
poetry, called al-Hamasa, and Jurji Zaydan's historical romance The
Maiden of Ifarbala and went out to the sitting room. He was counting
on these books to help pass the time, which accumulated as plentifully
behind the walls of his prison as water behind a dam. Although
novels, including detective stories, had the greatest hold over his affections,
he was also fond of poetry. He did not like to exert himself
too much when he learned a poem. He was content to understand
the parts that were easy to grasp and to enjoy the music of the difficult
sections. He rarely referred to the margin of the page packed
with glosses. He might memorize a verse and recite it, even though
he understood very little of its meaning. He might ascribe a meaning
to it that bore almost no relationship to the real one Or not even try
to attribute a meaning to it. Nevertheless, certain images and expressions
settled in his mind. He considered them a treasure to brag about
and exploit determinedly when appropriate and even more often
when not. If he had a letter to write, he prepared for the assignment
as though he were a novelist and crammed it full of any resounding
expressions he could recall, inserting whatever remnants of the poetic
heritage of the Arabs God allowed him to remember. Yasin was
3 76
Naguib Mahfou
known among his acquaintances as eloquent, not because he really
was but because the other men fell short of his attempts and were
stunned by his unusual accumulation of knowledge.
Until that time, he had never experienced such a long period Of
enforced idleness, deprived of all forms of activity and amusement
for hour after hour. If he had possessed the patience for reading, that
might have helped, but he was only accustomed to read when he was
with other people and then only during the short periods preceding
his departure for his evening's entertainment. Even on those occa
sions,
he saw nothing wrong with interrupting his reading to join in
the coffee hour conversations or to read a little and then summon
Kamal to narrate to him what he had read. He enjoyed the boy's
passionate response to sto.rytelling, typical of children of that age.
Consequently, neither the poetry nor the novel was able to brighten
his solitude on such a day. He read some verses and then a few
chapters of The Maiden of Karbala. He choked on his boredom, drop
after drop, while he cursed the English from the depths of his heart.
He passed the time until lunch in a bad mood, feeling vexed and
disgrantled.
The mother served them soup and roast chicken with rice, but
there were no vegetables because of the blockade around the house.
She ended the meal with cheese, olives, and whey, substituting mo
lasses
for the sweet. The only person with a decent appetite was
Kamal. A1-Sayyid Ahmad and the two older brothers were not much
inclined to eat, since they had spent the day without any work or
activity. This nourishment did assist them to escape from their bore
dom
by helping to put them to sleep, especially the father and
Yasin, who were able to fall asleep whenever and however they
wanted.
Yasin got up from his nap shortly before sunset and went down
stairs
to attend the coffee hour. The session was short, since the
mother was not able to leave al-Sayyid Ahmad alone for long. She
had to withdraw to return to his room. Yasin, Zaynab, Fahmy, and
Kamal remained behind to chat with each other listlessly. Then
Fahmy excused himself to go to the study.. He asked Kamal to join
him, leaving the couple alone.
Yasin wondered to himself, "What can I do from now till mid
night?"
The question had troubled him for a long time, but today he
felt depressed and humiliated, forcibly and tyrannically separated
from the flow of time which was plunging ahead outside the house
PALACE WALK
with its many pleasures. He was like a branch that turns into firewood
when cut from the tree.
Had it not been for the military blockade, he would have been in
his beloved seat at the coffeehouse of Ahmad Abduh, sipping green
tea and chatting with his acquaintances among its patrons. He would
have been enjoying himself in its historic atmosphere. He was captivated
by its antiquity, and his imagination was stirred by its subterranean
chambers buried in the debris of history. Ahmad Abduh's
coffeehouse was the one he loved best. He would not forsake it,
unless scorched by some desire, for as they say: "Desire's a fire." It
was desire that had attracted him in the past to the Egyptian Club,
which was close to the woman who sold down palm fruit. Desire
had also been responsible for tempting him to move to al-Sayyid Ali's
coffeehouse in al-Ghuriya, situated across the street from the home
of the lute player Zanuba. He would exchange coffeehouses according
to the object of his desire. He would even exchange the patrons who
had offered him their friendship. Beyond satisfying the desire itself,
the coffeehouse and his friends there were meaningless. Where were
the Egyptian Club and those friends? They had gone out of his life.
If he ran into one of them, Yasin might pretend not to know him
and avoid him. It was now the turn of Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse
and its regulars. God only knew what coffeehouses and friends the
future had in store for him.
In any case, he did not spend too much of his evening at Ahmad
Abduh's. He would soon slip over to Costaki's grocery store, or,
more exactly, to his secret bar to get a bottle of red wine, or "the
usual," as he liked to call it. Where was "the usual" on this gloomy
night? At the memory of Costaki's hat, a shudder of desire passed
through his body. Then a look of great weariness showed in his eyes.
He seemed as fidgety as a prisoner. Staying home appeared to him
to be prolonged suffering. The sharpness of the pain intensified when
he entertained the images of bliss and memories of intoxication associated
with the bar and the bottle. These dreams tormented him
and doubled his anguish. They encouraged his ardent longing for
wine's music of the mind and the games it played with his head. Those made him warm and happy, overflowing with delight and joy.
Before that evening he had never realized how incapable he was of
patiently abstaining from alcohol for even a single day. He was not
sad to discover how weak he was and how addicted. He did not
blame himself for the overindulgence that had ended up making him
Naguib Mahfou
miserable for such a trivial reason. He was as far as one could be
from blaming himself or being annoyed. The only cause for his pain
that he could remember was the blockade the English had set up
around his house. He was consumed by thirst when the intoxicating
watering hole was near at hand.
He glanced at Zaynab. He-found her examining his face with a
look that seemed to say resentfully, "Why are you so inattentive?
Why are you so glum? Doesn't my presence cheer you up at all?"
Yasin felt her resentment in the fleeting moment their eyes met, but
he did not respond to her sorrowful criticism. To the contrary, it
annoyed and riled him. Yes, he disliked nothing so much as being
forced to spend a whole evening with her, deprived of desire, pleasure,
and the intoxication on which he relied to endure married life.
He began to look at her stealthily and wonder in amazement, "Isn't
she the same woman?... Isn't she the one who captured my heart
on our wedding night?... Isn't she the one who drove me wild with
passion for nights and weeks on end?... Why doesn't she stir me at
all? What's come over her? Why am I so restless, disgruntled, and
bored, finding nothing in her beauty or culture to tempt me to postpone
getting drunk?"
As usual, he was inclined to find her deficient in areas where
women like Zanuba excelled. They were clever at providing him special
services, but Zaynab was the first woman who had attempted to
live with him in a permanent relationship. He had not spent much
time with the lute player or the down fruit vendor. His attachment
to them had not been great enough to prevent him from moving on
when he felt like it. Many years later he would recall these anxious
moments and his reflections on them. Then he would realize things
from his own experience and from life in general that had not occurred
to him at the time.
He was awakened from his thoughts by her question: "I guess
you're not happy about staying home?"
He was not in a condition to deal with criticism. Her sarcastic
question affected him like a careless blow to a sore. He shot back
with painful candor: "Of course not."
Although she had tried to avoid quarreling with him from the beginning,
his tone hurt her badly. She replied sharply, "There's no
harm in that. Isn't it amazing how you can't bear to miss your carousing
for even one night?"
He said angrily, "Mention one thing that would make staying
home bearable."
PALACE WALK
She became enraged and said in a voice that showed she was on
the verge of tears, "I'll leave. Perhaps then you'll like it better."
She turned her back on him to flee. He followed her with a stony
glare. "How stupid she is! She doesn't know that only divine decree
keeps her in my house."
Although the quarrel had relieved a little of his anger, he would
have preferred for it not to have happened, if only because it served
to increase his depressing boredom. If he had wanted to, he could
have appeased her, but the listlessness of his mind had overwhelmed
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