They talked for a long time. When preparing to leave, Fuad leaned toward Kamal and whispered, "I'm new in Cairo. You naturally know of an establishment - or probably several… one that's very private, naturally…."
Smiling, Kamal replied, "A teacher, like a public prosecutor, must always take care to be discreet."
"Excellent. We'll get together soon. I'm busy arranging the new apartment now, but we'll have to spend some evenings together."
"Agreed."
They left the room together, and Kamal accompanied his friend all the way to the street. Passing by the first floor on his return, he met his mother, who stood waiting for him at the door. She inquired anxiously, "Didn't he say anything to you?"
He understood what she meant, and that tormented him terribly. But he pretended not to understand and asked in turn, "About what?"
"Na'ima?"
He answered resentfully, "Absolutely not."
"Amazing!"
They exchanged a long look. Then Amina continued: "But al-Hamzawi spoke to your father about it."
Concealing his fury as best he could, Kamal said, "Perhapshe spoke without having consulted his son."
Amina retorted angrily, "What a silly idea. Doesn't he know how lucky he would be to get her? Your father should have reminded him who he is."
"Fuad's not to blame. Perhaps his father, with all the best intentions, spoke rashly, without thinking it over."
"But he must have told his son. Did Fuad refuse… that boy who was transformed into a distinguished civil servant by our money?"
"There's no need to talk about that."
"Son, this is unimaginable. Doesn't he know that accepting him into our family does us no honor?"
"Then don't be upset if it doesn't happen."
"I'm not upset about it. But I'm angered by the insult."
"There has been no insult. It's just a misunderstanding."
He returned to his room, sad and embarrassed, telling himself, "Na'ima's a beautiful rose. Yet, since I'm a man whose only remaining merit is love of truth, I must ask whether she is really a good match for a public prosecutor. Although he comes from a modest background, he will be able to find a spouse who is better educated, from a more distinguished family, wealthier, and prettier too. His good-natured father was too hasty. But he's not to blame. Still, Fuad's remarks to me were impudent. He certainly is impertinent. He's bright, honest, competent, insolent, and conceited, although it's not his fault. It's the result of the factors dividing, men from each other. They infect us with all these maladies."
AL-FIKR MAGAZINE occupied the ground floor of number 21 Abd al-Aziz Street. The barred window in the office of its proprietor, Mr. Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti, overlooked the tenebrous Barakat Alley, and therefore the light inside was left on both night and day. Whenever Kamal approached the magazine'sheadquarters, the gloomy premises and shabby furniture reminded him of the status of thought in his land and of his own position in his society. Mr. Abd al-Aziz greeted him with an affectionate smile of welcome. This was hardly surprising, for they had known each other since 1930, when Kamal had begun sending the magazine his essays on philosophy. During the past six years his collaboration with the editor had been mutually supportive, if unremunerated. In fact, the magazine paid none of its writers for their efforts, which were undertaken solely for the advancement of philosophy and culture.
Abd al-Aziz welcomed all volunteer contributors, even specialists in Islamic philosophy, which was his own field. After receiving an Islamic education at al-Azhar university, he had traveled to France, where he spent four years doing research and auditing lectures without obtaining a degree. His real estate holdings, which provided him with a monthly income of fifty pounds, spared him from having to earn a living. He had founded al-Fikr magazine in 1923 and had kept publishing it, even though the profits were not commensurate with the labor he poured into it.
Kamal had scarcely taken a seat when a man his own age entered. Wearing a gray linen suit, he was tall and thin, although less so than Kamal, and had a long profile, taut cheeks, and wide lips. His delicate nose and pointed chin lent a special character to his full face. Smiling, he came forward with light steps and stretched out his hand to Mr. Abd al-Aziz, who shook it and presented the visitor to Kamal: "Mr. Riyad Qaldas, a translator in the Ministry of Education. He has recently joined the group writing for al-Fikr, infusing fresh blood into our scholarly journal with his monthly summaries of plays from world literature and his short stories."
Then he introduced Kamal: "Mr. Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad. Perhaps you've read his essays?"
The two men shook hands, and Riyad said admiringly, "I've read them for years. They are essays of value, in every sense of the word."
Kamal thanked him cautiously for this praise. Then they sat down on neighboring chairs in front of the desk of Mr. Abd al-Aziz, who remarked, "Mr. Riyad, don't wait for him to return your compliment and say that he has read your valuable stories. He never reads stories."
Riyad laughed engagingly and revealed gleaming regular teeth with a gap between the middle incisors. "Don't you like literature?" he asked. "Every philosopher has a special theory of beauty arrived at only after an exhaustive examination of various arts literature included, naturally."
Rather uneasily, Kamal ventured, "I don't hate literature. For a long time, I've used it for relaxation, enjoying both poetry and prose. But I have little free time."
"That must mean you've read what short stories you could, since modern literature consists almost entirely of short stories and plays."
Kamal replied, "Over the years I've read a great number, although I…"
Smiling in a knowing way, Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti interrupted: "It's up to you, Mr. Riyad, to convince him of the truth of your new ideas. For the moment it will suffice if you realize that he's a philosopher whose energies are concentrated on thought". Then, turning toward Kamal, he asked, "Do you have your essay for this month?"
Kamal brought out an envelope of medium size and silently placed tt in front of the editor, who took it. After extracting the article and examining it he said, "On Bergson? … Fine!"
Kamal explained, "The idea is to give an overview of the role his philosophy has played in the history of modern thought. Perhaps later I'll follow up on it with some detailed studies."
Riyad Qaldas was listening to the discussion with interest. Gazing at Kamal in an endearing way, he asked, "I've read your articles for years, starting with the ones you did on the Greek philosophers. They have been varied and occasionally contradictory, since they have presented rival schools of philosophy. I realize that you're a historian of ideas. Yet all the same I've tried in vain to discover your own intellectual position and the school of philosophy with which you're affiliated."
Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti observed, "We're relative newcomers to the field of philosophical studies. So we must commence with general presentations. Perhaps in time Professor Kamal will develop a new philosophy. Possibly, Mr. Riyad, you'll become one of the adherents of Kamalism."
They all laughed. Kamal removed his spectacles and began to clean the lenses. He was capable of losing himself rapidly in a conversation, especially if he liked the person and if the atmosphere was relaxed and pleasant.
Kamal said, "I'm a tourist in a museum where nothing belongs to me. I'm merely a historian. I don't know where I stand."
With increasing interest Riyad Qaldas replied, "In other words, you're at a crossroads. I stood there for a long time before finding my way. But I wager there's a story behind your current posture. Usually it's the end of one stage and the beginning of another. Haven't you believed strongly in various different causes before reaching this point?"
The melody of this conversation revived the memory of an o]d song that was rooted in Kamal'sheart. This young man and this conversation…. The previous barren years had been completely devoid of spiritual friendship. Kamal had grown accustomed to addressing himself whenever he needed someone to talk to. It had been a long time since anyone had been able to awaken a spiritual response like this in him… not Isma'il Latif, not Fuad al-Ham-zawi, not any one of the dozens of teachers. Had the time come for the place vacated by Husayn Shaddad's departure to be filled?
He put his glasses on again. Smiling, he said, "Of course there's a story. Like most people, I began with religious belief, which was followed by belief in truth…."
"I remember that you discussed materialist philosophy with suspicious zeal."
"My enthusiasm was sincere, but later I was troubled by skeptical doubts."
"Perhaps rationalism was the answer."
"I quickly felt skeptical about that too. Systems of philosophy are beautiful and tranquil castles but unfit to live in."
Abd al-Aziz smiled and said, "These are the words of one of their denizens."
Kamal shrugged his shoulders to dismiss that remark, but Riyad continued questioning him: "There's science. Perhaps it could save you from your doubts."
"Science is a closed world to those of us who know only its most obvious findings. Besides, I've learned that there are distinguished scientists who question whether scientific truth matches our actual world. Some find the laws of probability perplexing. Others are averse to asserting that there is any absolute truth. So I became even more tormented by doubt."
Riyad Qaldas smiled but made no comment. Then Kamal continued: "I've even plunged into modern spiritualism and its attempts to contact the other world. That made my head revolve in a frightening emptiness, and it's still spinning. What is truth? What are values? What is anything? Occasionally when I do the right thing I feel the prickings of conscience that I normally experience on doing something wrong."
Abd al-Aziz laughed out loud and said, "Religion has taken its revenge on you. You fled it to pursue higher truths only to return empty-handed."
Apparently more from politeness than conviction, Riyad Qaldas commented, "This skeptical stance is rather delightful. You observe and ponder everything with total freedom, acting like a tourist."
Addressing Kamal, Abd al-Aziz said, "You're a bachelor in both your thought and your life."
Kamal noted this chance phrase with interest. Was his single status a consequence of his philosophy or vice versa? Or were both a product of some third factor?
Rdyad Qaldas said, "Being single's a temporary condition. Perhaps doubt is too."
Abd al-Aziz replied, "But it seemshe's averse to ever getting married."
Amazed, Riyad asked, "What's incompatible about love and doubt? What's to prevent a lover from getting married? A persistent refusal to marry cannot be justified by doubt, which admits no persistence in anything."
Without believing it himself, Kamal asked, "Doesn't love require a certain amount of faith?"
Riyad Qaldas answered laughingly, "Of course not. Love is like an earthquake, rocking mosque, church, and brothel equally."
"An earthquake?" Kamal asked himself. "What an appropriate comparison! An earthquake destroys everything and then drowns the world in deathly silence."
"What about you, Mr. Qaldas?" Kamal inquired. "You have praised doubt. Are you a skeptic?"
Abd al-Aziz laughed and said, "He's doubt incarnate."
They roared with laughter. Then Riyad, as though to introduce himself, commented, "I was a skeptic for a long time before renouncing it. I no longer have any doubts concerning religion, because I've abandoned it. But I believe in science and art. I always shall, God willing."
Abd al-Aziz asked sarcastically, "The God you don't believe in?"
Smiling, Riyad Qaldas answered, "Religion is a human artifact. We know nothing about God. Who can really say he doesn't believe in God? Or that he does? The prophets are the only true Believers. That's because they see and hear Him or converse with messengers bringing His revelations."
Kamal inquired, "Yet you believe in science and art?"
"Yes."
"There's some basis for belief in science. But art? I'd rather believe in spiritualism than in the short story, for example."
Riyad stared at him critically but said calmly, "Science is the language of the intellect. Art is the language of the entire human personality."
"What a poetic statement!"
Riyad received Kamal's sarcasm with an indulgent smile and replied, "Science brings people together with the light of its ideas. Art brings them together with lofty human emotions. Both help mankind develop and prod us toward a better future."
"What conceit!" Kamal exclaimed to himself. "He writes a two-page short story every month and imagines that he'shelping mankind progress. But I'm as nauseating as he is, for I summarize a chapter from Hoffdmg's History of Modern Philosophy and then deep inside claim to be the equal of Fuad Jamil al-Hamzawi, public prosecutor for al-Darb al-Ahmar. But how would life be bearable otherw: se? Are we insane, wise, or merely alive? To hell with everything!"
"What do you say about scientists who do not share your enthusiasm for science?"
"We should not interpret the modesty of science as weakness or despair. Science provides mankind with its magic, light, guidance, and miracles. It's the religion of the future."
"And the short story?"
For the first time it became clear that Riyad was offended, even though he attempted not to let it show. Kamal corrected himself almost apologetically, "I mean art in general."
Riyad Qaldas asked emphatically, "Can you live in absolute isolation? People need confidential advice, consolation, joy, guidance, light, and journeys to all regions of the inhabited world and of the soul. That's what art is."
At this juncture Mr. Abd al-Aziz said, "I have an idea. Let's get together with some of our colleagues once a month to talk about intellectual concerns. Then we can publish our discussion under the title 'Debate of the Month.'"
Looking at Kamal affectionately, Riyad Qaldas said, "Our debate will continue. Or that's what I hope. Shall we consider ourselves friends?"
Kamal replied with sincere enthusiasm, "Most certainly! We must meet as often as possible."
Pervaded by happiness because of this new friendship, Kamal sensed that an exalted side of hisheart had been awakened after a profound slumber. He was more convinced than ever of the important role friendship played in his life. It was vital and indispensable for him. Without it, he was like a thirsty man perishing in the desert.
THE NEW friends parted at al-Ataba, and Kamal returned by the Muski. Although it was nearly 8 p.m., the air he breathed in was hot enough to be stifling. He slowed down on reaching al-Gawhari Alley, which he entered. Then he stepped into the third house on the right, climbing the stairs to the second floor. After he rang the bell, a little window in the door opened, revealing the face of a woman over sixty. She welcomed him with a smile, which showed off her gold teeth, and admitted him.
"Welcome to my lover's son!" she exclaimed. "Welcome to my brother's son!"
He followed her to a sitting room surrounded by bedrooms. The two sofas were placed opposite each other. Between them were a small carpet gleaming with gold and silver thread, a table, and a water pipe. The fragrance of incense permeated the room.
The woman was plump, but old enough to be fragile, and her head was wrapped in a spangled kerchief. Although decorated by kohl, her eyes had a heavy look indicative of drug abuse. The wrinkles of her face revealed traces of her former beauty and of an enduring wantonness. Sitting down cross-legged on the sofa near the water pipe, she gestured for him to sit beside her.
Obeying her, he smiled and asked, "How is Mrs. Jalila?"
She protested, "Call me 'Aunt.'"
"How are you, Auntie?"
"Superb, son of Abd al-Jawad". Then she shouted in a harsh voice, "Girl! Nazla!"
In a few minutes the maid brought two full glasses, which she placed on the table. Jalila directed: "Drink!… How often I said that to your father in those sweet bygone days___"
As Kamal picked up a glasshe remarked jovially, "It's really sad that I arrived too late…."
She gave him a punch that made the gold bracelets covering her arm jangle. "Shame on you! Would you have wished to ravage what your father adored?" Then she added, "But what are you compared to your father? He had already married a second time when I met him. He married young, as was the custom then. But that did not prevent him from keeping me company for a period that was the sweetest of my life. Then he left me for Zubayda, may God take her by the hand. And there were dozens of other women besides us, may God be indulgent with him. But you're still a bachelor, and even so you only visit my house once a week, Thursday evenings. Shame on you! What ever happened to virility?"
The father he heard about from her was not the one he knew personally. This was not even the father Yasin had described to him. Jalila's lover had been a passionate and impetuous man with a heart untroubled by qualms. What was Kamal compared to that man? Even when he visited this brothel each Thursday, only alcohol could release him from his worries long enough for him to enjoy "love" here. Without its intoxication, he would have felt the brothel's atmosphere to be devastatingly grim. That first night, when fate had led him to this house, had been unforgettable. He had seen this woman for the first time, and she had invited him to sit with her until a girl was ready. When he had revealed his full name during the course of the conversation, she had cried out, "Are you the son of al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad whose store is in al-Nmhasin?"
"Yes. Do you know my father?"
"A thousand welcomes to you!"
"Do you know my father?"
"I know him far better than you do. We were lovers, and I performed at your sister's wedding. In my time, I was as famous a singer as Umm Kalthoum in your gray days. Ask anyone about me."
"It's an honor to meet you, ma'am."
"Pick any of my girls you like. Benevolent folks like us don't bill each otier."
So his first girl in this house had been a gift from his father. That evening Jalila had looked at his face for so long he had felt embarrassed. Only fear of being rude had kept her from expressing her astonishment, for what resemblance was there between this boy's bizarre head and amazing nose and his father's exquisite and ruddy face? During a lengthy conversation with her he had learned about his father's secret history, peculiarities, amazing deeds, romantic adventures, and hidden qualities.
"I'm so bewildered," Kamal reflected. "I've always wavered between instinct's searing flame and mysticism's cool breeze."
He replied, "Don't exaggerate, Auntie. I'm a teacher, and teachers like to be discreet. Don't forget that during the vacation I visit you several times a week. Wasn't I here the day before yesterday? I visit you whenever…"
"Whenever I'm tormented by anxiety," he confessed to himself. "Anxiety drives me to you far more often than lust."
"Whenever what, my dear?"
"Whenever I don't have to work."
"Say anything but that. Down with this age of yours. Our coins were made of gold. Yours are nickel and copper. We had live entertainment. You have the radio. Our men were descended from Adam's loins. Yours come from Eve's womb. What do you have to say about that, you teacher of girls?"
She took a drag on the water pipe and then sang: Teacher of girls, show them how To play instruments and sing.
Kamal laughed, leaned toward her, and kissed her cheek, half affectionately and half flirtatiously.
She cried out, "Your mustache pricks. God help Atiya!"
"She loves pricks."
"By the way, yesterday we had the honor of a visit from a prominent police officer. I'm not bragging. All our clients are distinguished gentlemen. Or do you consider your visitshere to be charitable contributions?"
"Madam Jalila, your very name means 'glorious,' and you certainly are that."
"I love it when you're drunk. Intoxication liberates you from your schoolmasterly earnestness and makes you a little more like your father. But tell me. Don't you love Atiya? … She loves you!"
How could these hearts, hardened by the coarseness of life, love anyone? Yet what experience did he have of hearts generous with love or eager for it? The daughter of the snack shop owner had been in love with him, but he had ignored her. He had loved Aida, but she had spurned him. In his living dictionary, the only meaning for love was pain… an astonishing pain that set the soul on fire. By the light of its raging flames amazing secrets of life became visible, but it left behind only rubble.
He commented ironically, "May you find health and love too!"
"She's only been in this line of work since her divorce."
"Praise God! He alone is praised for hateful things."
"Praise to Him in all circumstances."
He smiled sardonically. Grasping what his smile implied, she protested, "Do you begrudge me my enthusiasm for praising God? That's enough from you, son of Abd al-Jawad. Listen, I don't have a son or a daughter. I'm fed up with the world. Forgiveness is from God."
It was interesting that the woman's conversation was so frequently interspersed with this melody celebrating asceticism. Kamal glanced at her stealthily as he drained his glass. For him, alcohol's magic effect began with the first drink. He found himself recalling a bygone age when drinking had brought him a heavenly bliss. How many of his joys had vanished…. At first lust had been both a rebellion and a victory for him. Then it had eventually been transformed into a whore's philosophy. Time and habituation had extinguished its delirium. It was also frequently marred by the agony of a man wavering between heaven and earth - before doubt had reduced heaven to earth's level.
The doorbell rang, and Atiya entered. Her body was full, supple, and fair. Her shoes and her laughter both resounded noisily. She kissed the madam's hand. Casting a smiling glance at the two empty glasses, she teased Kamal, "You've been unfaithful to me!"
She leaned down to the madam's ear and whispered to her. Then, giving Kamal a laughing look, she vanished into the bedroom on the madam's right. Jalila punched Kamal and told him, "Go along, light of my eye."
Picking up his fez, he headed for the bedroom. Nazla immediately caught up with him, carrying a tray with a bottle, two glasses, and sortie appetizers. Atiya instructed her, "Bring us two pounds of kebab from al-Ajati's restaurant. I'm hungry!"
He took off his jacket and made himself comfortable by stretching out his legs. As He sat watching her, she removed her shoes and dress. Then at the mirror she straightened her chemise and combed her hair. He loved her body, which was so full, supple, and fail'. What did Ai'da's body look like? Frequently when he remembered her, it seemed that she had no body. Even when he recalled her grace, slenderness, and brown skin, these physical characteristics took their place in his spirit as pure ideas. As for the customary kind of memories concerned with bodily attributes like breasts, legs, or buttocks, he could not remember his senses ever having paid attention to them. Today, if a beautiful woman whose only attractions were a graceful slenderness and a swarthy complexion was presented for his admiration he would not even offer twenty piasters for her. So how had his love for A'ida been possible? Why was his memory of her so firmly protected by veneration and adoration, even though he scorned all her qualities?
"It's hot. Darn it."
"Once the alcohol gets into our systems, we won't care if the weather's hot or cold."
"Stop eating me with your eyes. Take off your glasses!"
"A divorced woman with children," he brooded. "She masks gloomy melancholy with boisterous behavior. These greedy nights carelessly swallow her femininity and her humanity. Her every breath blends together fake passion and loathing. It's the worst form of bondage. Thus, alcohol provides an escape from suffering as well as from thought."
She plopped down beside him and prepared to pour their drinks, reaching her soft hand out to the bottle, which was sold in this establishment for twice what it was worth. Everything here was expensive except women, except for human beings. Without alcohol to distract one from humanity's disdainful glare, reunions like this would be impossible. But life is full of prostitutes of various types. Some are cabinet ministers and others authors.
As his second drink went to work inside him the harbingers of forgetfulness and delight arrived. "I've craved this woman for a long time, even without being conscious of it. Lust is a tyrannical master. Love is something entirely different. When liberated from lust, it appears in the most amazing garb. If one day I'm permitted to find love and lust united in a single human being, a desirable stability will be achieved. I still see life as a set of mismatched parts. I'm searching for a marriage that will affect both the private and public aspects of my life. I don't know which is more basic, but I'm certain that I'm miserable, despite having created a life that assures me both intellectual pleasures and bodily delights. A train, too, rolls forcefully down the tracks without having any idea of where it has been or where it is going. Lust is a tyrannical beauty readily felled by disgust. The heart cries out as it vainly searches in agonizing despair for eternal bliss. Complaints are endless. Life is a vast swindle. To be able to accept this deception gracefully, we must assume that life contains some secret wisdom. We're like an actor who, while conscious of the deceit implicit in his role onstage, worships his craft."
He downed his third drink in a single gulp, sending Atiya into gales of laughter. She loved to get drunk, even though it had a bad effect on her. If he did not stop her in time, she would become rowdy, twitch, weep, and throw up. The liquor had gone to hishead, and he quivered with excitement. He gazed at her with a beaming face. She was simply a woman now, not a problem. Problems no longer seemed to exist. Existence itself- the most troublesome issue in life - had stopped being a problem.
"Just drink some more and lose yourself in her kisses," he thought.
"You're so charming," he told her, "when you laugh for no reason at all."
"If I seem to laugh for no reason, I hope you'll understand that some reasons are too important to be mentioned."
WRAPPED UP in his overcoat, Abd al-Muni'm returned home to Sugar Street, bracing himself against the bitter winter cold. Although it was only six, darkness had fallen. When he reached the entry to the staircase, the door of the first-floor apartment opened and out slipped the lithe figure that had been waiting for him. Hisheart pounded and his fiery eyes watched her advance as he climbed the stairs with light steps, taking care not to make any sound. He was torn between his desire, which tempted him to yield, and his will, which urged him to take control of a nervous system apparently bent on betraying and destroying him. He remembered, only then, that she had made a date with him for this evening and that he could have come home earlier or later, thus avoiding the encounter. He had forgotten all about it. How forgetful he was! There was no time for deliberation and reflection. He would have to wait until he was alone in his room, until a moment that would mark triumphant victory or miserable defeat.
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