Cairo Modern Read online

  16

  He asked for the office of Mr. Salim al-Ikhshidi, secretary to Qasim Bey Fahmi, but was told, “No, he’s office manager.” They gave him directions. A tall, broad-shouldered office messenger with a luxuriant mustache stood at the door. He asked permission to enter from this man, who disappeared for a moment and then returned to say in a gruff voice, “Enter.” Then he found a room packed with seated people, men and women. Al-Ikhshidi and his office were obscured by a half-circle of lower-ranking employees who were presenting their files. The young man looked at his surroundings and asked himself: When will this mass of humanity clear out? When would he get a chance to put in a word? Al-Ikhshidi’s voice resounded through the room, and its tones rang with authority and power, as he commented, criticized, and chastised. The voices of his subalterns whined with explanation, interpretation, and apology. The subordinates eventually collected their files and left, one after the other, until the director was finished with them. Then he noticed the young man, offered him his hand, and invited him to have a seat. Next he turned to the visitors, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and puffed out the smoke with pleased exhilaration. Delight and pride lit up his face while Mahgub stole some fleeting glances at him. He was smug and happy. Doubtless he had breakfasted on butter, cream, and honey. He looked healthy and contented in his large chair. Mahgub hated him and wondered sarcastically why he had not hung in his large office a picture of his revered mother—Umm Salim—in her black gallabiya soiled with straw. As usual the visitors came with special requests. Some presented pleas to be exempted from school fees, a lady asked for his help in advancing her son to the fifth level, a man asked that a relative be transferred to Cairo after spending twenty years serving in rural areas, and a young man asked permission to see the bey to present a composition about a child’s life to the age of five. He heard all these people respectfully and deferentially refer to Salim as “Your Excellency,” while he responded deliberately, haughtily, and arrogantly. Mahgub waited patiently with pained anxiety till this administrator had time for him. Then the miracle occurred, and the room was empty.

  Al-Ikhshidi turned toward him and said, “This is how I spend my day. Then it resumes at night in the bey’s mansion.”

  Mahgub wondered resentfully: Do you want me to pray to God to relieve you of your post? Then, smiling, he said flatteringly, “The more judicious a person is, the more judgments he’s asked to make.”

  Al-Ikhshidi nodded his large head. He never tired of extolling his own grandeur and of mocking the merit of others. He was known for his sharp tongue and for attacking enemies and friends alike. It was truly said of him that he had constructed his life on the basis of continual labor, self-promotion, and slander of his competitors. His egoism, however, portrayed most of those in contact with him as competitors, and therefore only a few were spared his malice. He paid no attention to what was said of him, and it seemed he unconsciously preferred for people to call him atrocious rather than excellent. If some negative comment about him came to his attention, he would say disdainfully, “Everyone who loves truth is hated.”

  Nodding his large head, he told the young man, “I work nonstop, but has that protected me from people’s slander? Far from it! Some people will never cease repeating that al-Ikhshidi advanced to the fifth level without spending even two years in the sixth.”

  Pretending to be incredulous, Mahgub said, “Was the merit promotion system devised to discount qualifications?”

  “On the face of it I work in a ministry. The fact of the matter is that it’s a dunghill. Now, my dear friend, what do you need?”

  Mahgub swallowed, sat up straight, and then in a hopeful tone said, “Salim Bey, you’re a former neighbor and a former classmate, and our refuge in difficult times. Your Excellency, my father is bedridden, and we’re suffering. I’m in a desperate crisis. My money has run out. So allow me to ask you for some assistance.”

  Examining him with round eyes, Al-Ikhshidi saw he was emaciated. He had no training at all, however, in giving and no background in charity. He was not one of those “weaklings” whose hearts are swayed by visible manifestations of misery. Thus he considered the young man and his wants a ridiculous impediment to his chain of thoughts. His first reaction was to act to eradicate this impediment. But what would be the appropriate thing to do? Should he apologize to the young man? He hated apologizing, especially to the powerless. Then, remembering something, he asked the youth, “Are you good in French and English?”

  Mahgub felt disappointed. He had been expecting more than a pointless question. All the same, he replied, “Yes, I’m good at both.”

  “Excellent. Do you know the magazine The Star? The owner is my friend and classmate. He might welcome you as a favor to me.”

  “Would I translate some pieces?”

  “Yes, articles … humorous pieces. Take my card to him. I’ll speak with him about you by phone. You must excuse me now; I’m going to present my files to the bey. Isn’t this the most honorable and expeditious solution for you?”

  Al-Ikhshidi stood up, and—taking a file in his left hand—held out his right to the youth. Shaking hands, the miserable young man asked, “Does this kind of work pay well?”

  Al-Ikhshidi laughed—Mahgub hated him intensely then—and said, “Perhaps you’ve heard about the wealth of journalists! It will be enough for you if your immediate needs are satisfied.” Al-Ikhshidi preceded him to the door. Mahgub felt extremely apprehensive and was about to shout to request a few piasters, but the door opened before he could, and the office messenger’s tall, burly body appeared. So he quit the room carrying away the card. He left the ministry gloomy and anxious, since his crisis was unresolved. The Star magazine, even if his initiative met with success, was a long-range solution. So what was he to do? How could he get hold of the cash? It was going on three p.m. and the weather was as cold as it had been that morning. He was walking along the street aimlessly, his mind clouded by despondency. The whole world had rejected him. Making a threatening fist, he said resentfully and angrily, in a voice that was almost a sob, “The whole world will pay for all my pains!” He had realized that his only hope was to ask Ali Taha and Ma’mun Radwan. He hated asking them but had no alternative now. The inevitable is inevitable. As he headed for the tram he wondered which would be better. Each of them was a noble young man, but he did not love Ali whereas he did not hate Ma’mun. Moreover, Ma’mun was a religious, God-fearing person who could be trusted to keep a secret, leaving it in the realm of mystery. He would most likely be forbearing if he was late in repaying his debt.

  He went to the hostel and headed for Ma’mun Radwan’s room. The young man welcomed him with delight and asked, “Why did you skip class today?”

  Mahgub replied, “Bad stuff, brother. I’m really in a bind.”

  With his large, black eyes, Ma’mun examined his face and was alarmed by how emaciated and despondent it looked. He asked with concern and compassion, “What’s wrong, Mr. Mahgub?”

  Without beating around the bush, he replied, “Rough times. I’ve lost my last millieme. I don’t have even a millieme to buy the text for Latin.”

  Ma’mun stood up without uttering a word, went to the clothes rack, thrust his hand into the pocket of his jacket, and took out three ten-piaster bills, which he handed to the young man. Incredulous, Mahgub took them. He opened his mouth to thank his friend, but Ma’mun hastily put a finger to his lips, mumbling, “Hush.”

  Mahgub left the hostel, oblivious to everything. He did not even give a fleeting glance to Ihsan’s house. He was both pleased and furious; pleased at obtaining the money and furious that he was indebted to Ma’mun Radwan.

  17

  The day for the Friday rendezvous arrived, and he went to the bus station shortly before the appointed time, wondering whether they would be true to their word. A magnificent automobile pulled up in front of the station right on time, and the beautiful face peered out of the window. His heart pounded and he hastened toward her. A door
was opened for him and he took his place. Only then did he realize that Tahiya had come alone. He was amazed by that, but his amazement did not last long, because an all-encompassing delight overwhelmed him. Even so he asked with mock disapproval, “Where’s Fadil Bey?”

  The girl ordered the chauffeur to drive on. Then she turned to Mahgub and said in a critical tone, “We set out together, but on the way he saw ‘some people’ and renounced the trip, leaving me to make his apologies to you.”

  Mahgub looked down to hide his delight. He asked politely, “How are your excellent parents?”

  “Praise God … they thank you for this lovely excursion.”

  “It’s nothing, really.”

  In an expectant voice she said, “We’ll see amazing things, isn’t that so?”

  Although he was going there for the first time, he assured her, “Absolutely.”

  Then they were silent. The girl was looking out the window, and he began to peer at her stealthily. This was the first time he had ever been alone with a female who really deserved to be described as feminine. And where were they? In a magnificent automobile that would “turn people green with envy”—he preferred that expression to saying, “turn heads.” His nostrils were intoxicated by a sweet fragrance—instead of the smell of sweat encased in dirt. He could have been a man gasping for air who is brought into a room pumped full of oxygen. He had not an iota of preparation for the creation of pure, celestial images. Thus his desire was channeled into one representation: that of throwing himself upon her. He felt his lust beginning to pulse through his blood. Looking outside, he wondered what had detained Fadil. Had he seen a pretty girl and chased after her? Or, had Tahiya herself contrived to get rid of him? His sexual conceit beguiled him. So he told himself that he and she were of one blood and that, as they say, “Blood creates sympathy.” Nothing was impossible. He told himself: If intuition can be trusted, you’ll see delightful things to your heart’s content. The chauffeur? He doesn’t count.

  He couldn’t imagine that one and the same person could be both rich and chaste. “No doubt these drivers are trained to turn a blind eye. Yes, yes—why else would she have come alone?” An exceptionally beautiful maxim states, “When a man is alone with a woman, Satan is also present.” Where was Satan so he could bow and kiss his feet? He had long followed the devil as his disciple; wouldn’t the devil reward him affectionately for his loyalty? He moved his eyes back inside and felt moved to draw her into conversation. So he asked, “Are you at the university?”

  She shook her head no and said with a smile, “Banat al-Ashraf College.”

  He said delightedly, “Marvelous … marvelous.”

  Tahiya asked him, “What do you plan to do once you’ve earned your degree?”

  Her question caught him off guard. His contemporaries spoke of the future with sorrow and despair. Recent graduates hunched behind desks in ministries, where they used their diplomas to fan brows made feverish by the humiliation of government service at the eighth level. With typical audacity, however, he freed himself from his bewilderment and replied with confident certainty, even though he knew he was lying, “I’ll have to choose one of two paths: either entering diplomatic service or continuing on to a Ph.D. and teaching at the university.”

  “Marvelous,” she commented, smiling.

  Why did she use the same word he had? Was this she-devil mocking him or did she know nothing about such matters? Wishing to sound her out, he asked, “Which would you prefer?”

  “Me? This is your concern.”

  With shrewd cunning, he explained, “It concerns you too, since we’re related.”

  Blushing, she said, “Diplomacy is nicer.”

  He pictured Hamdis Bey going to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to recommend his appointment. Then he said, “That’s what I think. How beautiful it would be to spend one’s whole life stationed in Brussels, Paris, and Vienna.”

  She giggled and asked, “Or in Damascus, Ankara, and Addis Ababa?”

  He laughed along with her but added cleverly, “These are not capitals to which a relative of Hamdis Bey would be posted.”

  They both smiled. He told himself contentedly that a discerning person grasps indirect allusions; and that sufficed for him at the moment. As for the future, his heart told him that this girl would never disappear from his life without a trace. Who could say? He did not lack boldness; indeed, perhaps he was too bold for his own good. He surrendered to the stream of his thoughts until he saw that the automobile was climbing the twisting road to the Pyramids Plateau. They left the car at the foot of the Great Pyramid.

  He said, “The excavations are some distance beyond the Sphinx.”

  They set off on a daunting path where their feet began to sink into the sand to be extracted only with some effort. It was late afternoon and the weather was cold even though the sky was clear and the sun shone down unveiled. By the light of day his clothes did not look elegant or attractive. He felt nervous and told himself sarcastically: Perhaps she’s wondering why his Excellency the Ambassador isn’t wearing a jacket. After walking for twenty minutes, they caught sight of the excavations, which were surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Then Mahgub stammered, “Here we are.”

  The young man went up to the watchman, whom he dispatched with a note to the superintendent. The guard soon returned and admitted them. Then the inspector, who was a young man in his twenties, came. He was a friend of Mahgub’s and welcomed them warmly. He explained apologetically, “You’ll see the areas where visitors are allowed. These are where digging has finished, but I can’t accompany you because I’m really busy right now, and I don’t think you need a guide.” Mahgub nodded his head in agreement. “Fine. Here’s the Temple of the Sun. It’s part of the ancient temple complex known as the Temple of the Sphinx. Adjoining it is part of the rear section of the tomb of Prince Sennefer.”

  Mahgub told himself: God has ordained, for a reason He alone knows, that I be alone with her today. If all of God’s wisdom is on a par with this, then I’m a believer! He escorted his precious treasure to the Temple of the Sun. They descended some recently constructed steps and found themselves in a granite-floored chamber with a row of columns on each side. There was no ceiling and nothing to astonish or excite a person’s amazement. The girl cast a disinterested glance around her, and Mahgub was no less disappointed. Determined to extol the importance of this excursion, however, he said, “Look at these columns and how they have withstood the ages!”

  She smiled—almost sneering—and replied, “What difference would it have made if they had been obliterated?”

  Pointing to the carvings on the columns, he said, “If we could read the hieroglyphics, we would learn astonishing things.”

  “Really!”

  “Certainly. Don’t you know pharaonic history?”

  She shook her head no. Thus the first part of the visit came to an end. As they approached the tomb behind the temple, Tahiya asked, “Aren’t there other ruins besides this tomb?”

  Sensing the boredom that prompted this inquiry, Mahgub felt nonplussed and answered, “There are many ruins, but we aren’t allowed to visit the others.”

  Descending some steps, they found themselves in a long, narrow room the walls of which were decorated with carvings and frescoes. Their heads almost touched the ceiling. They cast a look around. Then the young man fixated on the frescoes and said in a faint voice, “Let’s look at the pictures. See how brilliant the colors are.”

  They began near the entrance with the wall where the beneficiary of the tomb was portrayed with his wife on his left and their children between them. They were surrounded by servants and retainers. In the following panel they saw a picture of an expansive field that was being cultivated by oxen pulling plows. Standing here and there were naked peasants. Tahiya spent hardly any time at all on this image and moved on to the third panel. Mahgub realized that the pictures of naked people embarrassed her. As he examined these images with bulging eyes, a malicious smile sprea
d across his lips. His heart beat faster, and he sensed even more strongly their isolation. He did not leave the picture of the field and did not turn his eyes away from the representations of naked people. Thus his soul was filled with this extraordinary reality: that they were alone together in front of naked people. He gazed so assiduously that he imagined the figures were becoming three-dimensional before his eyes and starting to throb with life as blood flowed through their veins, their bodies were washed with an incandescent reddish hue, and fleeting glances flashed in their eyes. Then their necks craned toward … the fleeing girl, whose cheeks were crimson from embarrassment. His heart pounded violently, and his limbs were inflamed by his strong emotion. He tried in vain to control himself. He remembered that she had come alone and recalled their conversation in the automobile, her affability, their isolation, and their presence in this tomb, which enveloped them with a centuries-old savagery. He imagined that the fruit was ready to pick, and his inner turmoil bubbled up until he became a savage beast deficient in both mind and volition. He swallowed, making a weird sound. His eyes were fixed on the naked figures, even though he no longer saw anything. He asked, “Haven’t you looked at this field that’s full of …”

  She retorted tersely in a way that suggested boredom, “There’s nothing worth seeing.”

  He turned his head and almost whispered, “How easily bored you are, Miss.”

  He moved closer to her till he was beside her. Then he began to study along with her a picture of a servant kneading bread. He leaned over a little as if to inspect a detail of the picture, brushing against her shoulder and right hand. Then straightening again, he looked into her eyes and said in a quavering voice, “Don’t you like anything?”