him. They looked serious and grave. They stopped just in
front of his desk and said, "Peace to you and the compassion of
God."
AI-Sayyid Ahmad rose and with his customary politeness responded,
"And to you peace and the compassion of God and His
blessings." He. motioned to the chairs and said, "Please sit down."
They graciously declined his invitation. The boy in the center
asked, "Sir, are you Mr. Ahmad Abd al-Jawad?"
The proprietor smiled, although there was a questioning look in
his eyes, and replied, "Yes, sir."
"What do you suppose they want?" he asked himself. "It's not
likely that they came to purchase anything. Their military gait and
serious tone wouldn't be appropriate if they were buying something.
Moreover, it's after seven o'clock. Don't they see that al-Hamzawi is
putting the bags up on the shelves to show that the store is closing?
Are they collecting donations? But Sa'd's been released, and the revolution
has concluded. I'm not fit for anything now except my evening
party. Fellows, you should understand that I haven't bathed my
head and face with cologne, combed my hair and mustache, adjusted
my cloak and caftan just to meet you. What do you want?"
When he looked at the young man who had addressed him, the
face seemed familiar. Had he seen him before? Where? When? He
tried to remember. He was certain this was not the first time he had
seen him. Then the proprietor's face relaxed and he asked with a
smile, "Aren't you the fine young man who came forward to save us
just in time the day people attacked us in the mosque of al-Husayn,
may God be pleased with him?"
The youth said in a subdued voice, "Yes, sir."
"So I was right," he thought. "Fools say that wine weakens the
memory? But why are they looking at me that way? See! These stares
don't look like good news. O God, make it good. I take refuge in
PALACE WALK
God from Satan, who should be pelted with stones. For some reason
I feel depressed. They've come about something relating to..."
"Fahmy?" he asked. "Have you come looking for him?... Perhaps
you • • •
The young man lowered his eyes and said in a trembling voice,
"Our mission is hard, sir, but it's a duty. May our Lord grant you
endurance."
AI-Sayyid Ahmad suddenly leaned forward, supporting himself on
the edge of the desk. He cried out, "Endurance?... For what!...
Fahmy?"
The young man said with obvious sorrow, "We are sad to inform
you of the death of our brother freedom fighter Fahmy Ahmad.... "
Although there was an unmistakable look of belief and dismay in
his eyes, the father rejected the news, shouting, "Fahmy?"
"He fell a martyr in the demonstration today."
The boy on his right said, "A noble patriot and sterling martyr
was conveyed to a world of pious souls."
Their words fell on ears deafened by misery. His lips were sealed
and his eyes gazed blankly and vacantly. They were all silent for a
time. Even Jamii al-Hamzawi was frozen to the spot where he stood
beneath the shelves, looking dazed and staring at his employer with
sorrowful eyes. Finally the young man murmured, "His loss has
deeply saddened us, but we have no choice but to submit to God's
decree with the patient endurance of Believers, of whom you, sir, are
one."
"They are offering you their condolences," al-Sayyid Ahmad realized.
"Doesn't this. young man know that I excel in offering condolences
in circumstances like these? What meaning do they have for
an afflicted heart? None! How could words put out the fire? Not so
fast.... Didn't your heart feel something was dreadfully wrong even
before he spoke? Yes... the specter of death appeared before my
eyes. Now that death is a reality, as you hear, you refuse to believe
it. How can I believe that Fahmy is really dead? How can you believe
that Fahmy, who requested your approval just hours ago, when you
were short with him--Fahmy, who was full of health, good spirits,
hope, and happiness when we left home this morning--is dead?
Dead! I'll never see him again at home or anywhere else on the face
of the earth? How can I have a home without him? How can I be a
father if he's gone? What has become of all the hopes attached to
him? The only hope left is patience.... Patience? Oh.... Do you
Naguib MoAfou[
feel the searing pain? This really is pain. You were mistaken previously
when you occasionally claimed to be in pain. No, before today
you've never known pain. This is pain.... "
"Sir, be strong and turn your concerns over to God."
AI-Sayyid Ahmad looked up at the young man. Then in a sick
voice he said, "I thought the time for killing had passed."
The youth answered angrily, "The demonstration today was
peaceful. The authorities had given permission for it. Top men from
all walks of life participated in it. At first it proceeded safely, until
the middle section reached Ezbekiya Garden. Before we knew what
was happening, bullets fell upon us from behind the v(all, for no
reason at all. No one had confronted the soldiers in any manner. We
had even forbidden any chants in English to avoid provoking them.
The soldiers were suddenly stricken by an insane impulse to kill.
They got their rifles and opened fire. Everyone has.greed to send a
strong protest to the British Residency. It's even been said that Allenby
will announce his regrets for what the soldiers did."
In the same sick tone, the proprietor complained, "But he will not
bring the dead back to life."
('Alas, no."
Al-Sayyid Ahmad, racked by distress, said, "He's never participated
in any of the violent demonstrations. This was the first demonstration
he took part in."
The young men looked knowingly at each other but did not utter
a word. Al-Sayyid Abroad seemed to be growing impatient with the
way they were separating him from Fahmy and the rest of the world.
He moaned and said, "The matter's in God's hands. Where can I find
him now?"
The young man answered, "In the Qasr al-Ayni Hospital." When
he saw that the proprietor was in a hurry to leave, he gestured for
him to wait. "There will be a funeral procession for him and thirteen
of his fellow martyrs at exactly three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
The father cried out in distress, "Won't you allow me to begin his
funeral procession at his home?"
The young man said forcefully, "No, his funeral will be with his
brothers in a public ceremony." Then he entreated the man, "Qasr
al-Ayni is cordoned off by the police. It would be better to wait. We
intend to allow the families of the martyrs to pay their last respects
to them in private before the funeral procession. It would not be right
for Fahmy to have an ordinary funeral like a person who dies at
PALACE WALK
home." In parting he held his hand out to the bereaved father and
said, "Endure patiently. Endurance is from God."
The others shook hands with al-Sayyid Ahmad, repeating their
condolences. Then they all departed. He leaned his head on his hand
and closed his eyes. He heard the voice ofJamil al-Hamzawi offering
his condolences in a sobbing voice, but he seemed distressed by kind
words. He could not bear to stay there. He left his seat and moved
slowly out of the store, walking with heavy steps. He had to get over
his bewilderment. He did not even know how to feel sad. He wanted
to be all alone, but where? The house would turn into an inferno in
a minute or two. His friends would rally round him, leaving him no
opportunity to think. When would he ponder the loss he had undergone?
When would he have a chance to get away from everyone?
That seemed a long way off, but it would no doubt come. It was the
most consolation he could hope for at present. Yes, a time would
come when he would be all alone and could devote himself to his
sorrow with all his soul. Then he would scrutinize Fahmy's life in
light of the past, present, and future, all the stages from childhood to
the prime of his youth, the hopes he had aroused and the memories
he had left behind, giving free rein to tears so he could totally exhaust
them. Truly he had before him ample time that no one would begrudge
him. There was no reason to be concerned about that. Consider
the memory of the quarrel they had had after the Friday prayer
at al-Husayn or that of their conversation that morning, when Fahmy
had appealed for his affection and he had reprimanded him--how
much of his time would they require as he reflected, remembered,
and grieved? How much of his heart would they consume? How
many tears would they stir up? How could he be distressed when the
future held such consolations for him? He raised his head, which was
clouded by thought, and saw the blurred outline of the latticed balconies
of his home. He remembered Amina for the first time and his
feet almost failed him. What could he say to her? How would she
take the news? She was weak and delicate. She wept at the death of
a sparrow. "Do you recall how her tears flowed when the son of alFuli,
the milkman, was killed? What will she do now that Fahmy's
been killed.... Fahmy killed? Is this really the end of your son? O
dear, unhappy son!... Amina... our son was killed. Fahmy was
killed.... What?... Will you forbid them to wail just as you previously
forbade them to trill with joy? Will you wail yourself or hire
professional mourners? She's probably now at the coffee hour with
N'aguib Mfou¢
Yasin and Kamal, wondering what has kept Fahmy. How cruel! I'll
see him at Qasr al-Ayni Hospital, but she won't. I won't allow it.
Out of cruelty or compassion? What's the use, anyway?"
He found himself in front of the door and stretched his hand toward
the knocker. Then he remembered the key in his pocket. He
took it out and opened the door. When he entered, he heard Kamal's
voice singing melodiously:
V/*'/t me once each.year,
For it' wrong to aluon people forever.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Mary Ann Carroll
for being the first reader,
Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis
for her sensitive editing,
Riyad N. Delshad for assistance
with some obscure vocabulary and expressions,
and Sarah and Franya Hutchins
for their patience.
Although others have contributed
to this translation, I am happy
to bear responsibility for it.
--William Maynard Hutchins
PALACE OF DESIRE
VOLUME TWO of the CAIRO TRILOGY Naguib Mahfouz
'A MAGNIFICENT, TOLSTOYAN SAGA... UNMISSABLE'
Cosmopolitan
Palace of Desire is the second volume of the celebrated Cairo Trilogy, in
which the story of AI-Sayid Abroad and his family is continued.
Here we find the ageing patriarch pursuing a sexually alluring lute player -
only to find she has married his eldest son. Meanwhile, the women of the
family test the loosening reins of parental and societal domination
and the idealistic younger son ardently courts a rich, sophisticated
young woman, in an affecting portrayal of unrequited love that is in many
ways a portrait of the young Mahfouz.
Palace of Desire, like Palace 1g/alk, is a rich and teeming chronicle in which
the enigmatic city of Cairo becomes a character itself. Filled with
compelling drama and earthy humour, this is an unforgettable story of the
sometimes violent clash between ideals and realities, dreams and desires,
which again displays Mahfouz's masterful storytelling talent.
'SHAMELESSLY ENTERTAINING'
Guardian
'AN ENGROSSING WORK, WHOSE AUTHOR CAN TAKE HIS
PLACE ALONGSIDE ANY EUROPEAN MASTER YOU CARE TO
NAME'
Sunday Times
'TEEMING WITH LIFE AND CONTENTION... IT PROMISES
RICHES'
Anthony Burgess, [ndetendent
0 55299581 9
BLACK SWAN
SUGAR STREET
VOLUME THREE of the CAIRO TRILOGY
Naguib Mahfouz
"SUGAR STREETIS A MARVELLOUS NOVEL, WITH MANY
MESSAGES, OPEN AND CONCEALED, FOR THOSE WHO WILL
BE INSTRUCTED'
Robert Irwin, The Times Literary Sutllement
Sugar Street is the third and concluding volume of the celebrated Cairo
T*i/ogy, which brings the story ofAl-Sayid Ahmad and his family up to the
middle of the twentieth century.
Ageing and ill, the family patriarch surveys the world from his house's
latticed balcony, as his long-suffering wife once did. While his children face
middle age, it is through his grandsons that we see a modern Egypt
emerging.
'MAHFOUZ'S SEQUENCE TELESCOPES A FAMILY CHRONICLE
INTO AN UNPARALLELED PICTURE OF EGYPT UNDER THE
BRITISH PROTECTORATE'
The Times
'PROUST, TOLSTOY AND BALZAC ARE THE NAMES MOST
FREQUENTLY FLUNG AROUND IN COMPANY WITH THAT OF
MAHFOUZ... I THOUGHT OF GALSWORTHY, READING SUGAR
STREET",
Penelope Lively, Stectator
'MAHFOUZ'S SCOPE IS VAST AND HIS CONCERNS ARE NOT
ONLY STILL EVIDENT TODAY, BUT CRUCIAL'
Scotsmalg
0 552 99582 7
BLACK SWAN
EHIND THE SCENES
AT THE MUSEUM
Kate Atkinson
WINNER OF THE WHITBREAD BOOK OF THE YEAR AWARD
'WITHOUT DOUBT ONE OF THE FINEST NOVELS I HAVE READ
FOR YEARS'
Mary Loudon, The Times
Ruby Lennox was conceived grudgingly by Bunty and born while her father,
George, was in the Dog and Hare in Doncaster telling a woman in an emerald
dress and a D-cup that he wasn't married. Bunty had never wanted to marry
George, but he was all that was left. She really wanted to be Vivien Leigh or
Celia Johnson, swept off to America by a romantic hero. But here she was,
stuck in a fiat above the pet shop in an ancient street beneath York Minster,
with sensible and sardonic Patricia aged five, greedy cross-patch Gillian who
refused to be ignored, and Ruby...
Ruby tells the story of The Family, from the day at the end of the nineteenth
century when a travelling French photographer catches frail beautiful Alice
and her children, like flowers in amber, to the startling, witty, and memorable
events of Ruby's own life.
'WRITTEN WITH AN EXTRAORDINARY PASSION... PACKED
WITH IMAGES OF BEWITCHING POTENCY, THIS IS AN
ASTOUNDING BOOK'
The Times
'WITTY AND ORIGINAL... A REMARKABLE DEBUT NOVEL'
Daily Mirror
'ENCHANTING. IT HOPS WITH SPRIGHTLY OMNISCIENCE FROM
PAST TO FUTURE AND BACK AGAIN'
Sunday Times
'A FIRST NOVEL WRITTEN SO FLUENTLY AND WITTILY THAT I
SAILED THROUGH IT AS THOUGH BLOWN BY AN
EXHILARATING WIND. I LOVED IT'
Margaret Forster
0 55299618 1
BLACK SWAN
B
/
KNOWLEDGE OF ANGELS
Jill Paton Walsh
SHORTLISTED FOR THE BOOKER PRIZE 1994
'AN IRRESISTIBLE BLEND OF INTELLECT AND PASSION...
NOVELS OF IDEAS COME NO BETTER THAN THIS SENSUAL
EXAMPLE'
Mail on Sunday
It is, perhaps, the fifteenth century and the ordered tranquillity of a
Mediterranean island is about to be shattered by the appearance of two
outsiders: one, a castaway, plucked from the sea by fishermen, whose beliefs
represent a challenge to the established order; the other, a child abandoned by
her mother and suckled by wolves, who knows nothing of the precarious
relationship between church and state but whose innocence will become the subject of a dangerous experiment.
But the arrival of the Inquisition on the island creates a darker, more
threatening force which will transform what has been a philosophical game of
chess into a matter of life and death...
'A COMPELLING MEDIAEVAL FABLE, WRITTEN FROM THE
HEART AND MELDED TO A DRIVING NARRATIVE WHICH NEVER
ONCE LOSES ITS TREMENDOUS PACE'
Guardian
'THIS REMARKABLE NOVEL RESEMBLES AN ILLUMINATED
MANUSCRIPT MAPPED WITH ANGELS AND MOUNTAINS AND
SIGNPOSTS, AN ALLEGORY FOR TODAY AND YESTERDAY TOO.
A BEAUTIFUL, UNSETTLING MORAL FICTION ABOUT VIRTUE
AND INTOLERANCE'
Observer
'REMARKABLE... UTTERLY ABSORBING... A RICHLY DETAILED
AND FINELY IMAGINED FICTIONAL NARRATIVE'
Sunday Telegraph
0 552 99780 3
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