Respected Sir, Wedding Song, the Search Page 7

  “Welcome!”

  “Thank you! My name is Onsiyya Ramadan.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance! You seem to be very young?”

  “No, I’m eighteen!”

  “Wonderful…wonderful! And what qualifications do you have?”

  “The General Certificate of Education in science.”

  “Splendid! Why didn’t you carry on with your studies?” He regretted that question, remembering the first day of his service at the office of His Excellency the Director General.

  The girl answered shyly, “Certain circumstances compelled me to stop.”

  He cursed circumstances and sought relief in the fact that the two of them shared the same dreadful predicament.

  “You reminded me of myself. But let me tell you this: I got my degree while working. Closed doors will open before those who try hard,” he said affably.

  Her eyes clouded over with a wistful look and she said, “But we live in a harsh and unfair society.”

  He found that the “revolutionary” ideas which he had no knowledge of and deliberately sought to ignore were threatening again to assault him. He said with determination, “It’s better to rely on oneself than to attack society. God addresses His commandments to us as individuals and brings us to account also as individuals. And to cleave a path through rocky ground is better than begging charity from society. It seems you’re interested in politics and what they call sociological thinking?”

  “I believe in it.”

  “This means you don’t believe in yourself. As for me, I only believe in my own willpower and the unknown wisdom of God!”

  She smiled and did not utter a word. He smiled too and said, “I will give you the incoming mail to look after. It’s the best job for a new employee.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I will expect you to prove yourself always worthy of my confidence.”

  “I hope I’ll never give you reason to be disappointed.”

  “If you meet with any annoyance from your colleagues, do not hesitate to tell me!”

  “I hope I won’t need to.”

  He handed her over to one of the clerks to initiate her in her job.

  “Incoming mail,” he said tersely.

  He felt that Archives had made a gratifying leap toward the luminous life and that from now on it would not lack something to move the heart and excite the senses. The clouds of melancholy memories lifted a little, and instead his thoughts turned back to Sayyida, to Saniyya, to Asila the headmistress, and to Qadriyya, and he told himself that the world of women was endlessly variable and sweet and painful. He asked himself in puzzlement, “Which is the means and which the end: the woman or the position?”

  And he also said to himself, “Many men live without position, but who lives without a woman?”

  At his age a man thinks twice. He gets tired of the company of books and grumbles about work. He finds deprivation and austerity difficult to bear and is conscious of the past pursuing him without mercy. At his age a man’s awareness of his isolation and estrangement grows more intense. So does the anxiety of waiting for uncertain glory. The previous day Hamza al-Suwayfi had said to him, laughing, “Look! There’s a gray hair on your head, master of financial statutes!”

  He started as if he was caught red-handed.

  “Your eyes may have deceived you, sir.”

  “Let the mirror be the judge between us. Have a good look at home.”

  “It’s come too early,” he muttered in defeat.

  “Or too late!” the Director of Administration said, laughing. “I knew gray hair when I was ten years younger than you.”

  He gave another long laugh and then went on: “Yesterday you were the subject of a conversation I had with some colleagues. We wondered how you lived. They said no one ever met you on the street or saw you at a café or a party, and they wondered where you spent your time. ‘What does he live for without a family?’ they said. And ‘He’s not interested in any of the things that interest most people; what does he really care for in this life?’ ”

  Othman smiled weakly and said, “I’m sorry to have been a source of trouble to you.”

  “You’re an able and honorable man, but you’re mysterious. What is it you care about in this world?”

  His heart raced as the questioning closed in upon him, and he said, “There’s no mystery, Mr. Suwayfi. I’m a man whose interest is in carrying out his duty and who finds his heart’s content in worshipping God.”

  “Well said! I hope I haven’t upset you. To be at peace with oneself is what really matters.”

  But where was this kind of peace? Where?

  Here was gray hair advancing on him. Life’s splendors, like its trivialities, drew to an end. How much time was left for him?

  Twenty-One

  One day while Othman was doing some routine work with Hamza al-Suwayfi, the latter remarked in the course of a conversation, “Happiness is man’s goal in life.”

  “If that were so,” Othman replied with concealed contempt, “God wouldn’t have banished our first ancestor from Paradise.”

  “So what do you think the purpose of life is?”

  “The sacred path,” he answered proudly.

  “And what’s the sacred path?”

  “It’s the path of glory. Or the realization of the divine on earth.”

  “Do you really aspire to dominate the world?” Hamza asked in surprise.

  “Not exactly that. But there’s an element of divinity in every situation.”

  The man gave him a strange look which made him regret his words. “He thinks I’m mad,” he said to himself.

  A rumor spread around that His Excellency Bahjat Noor was going to be transferred to another ministry. When he heard this, his heart nearly jumped out of his breast. He had done the impossible to gain the great man’s confidence. How long would it take him to gain that of his unknown successor? But the rumor proved false. One day Bahjat Noor handed him a huge bundle of papers as he said, “This is a translation of a book on Khedive Isma‘il. It took me half a year to do it!”

  Othman looked at the papers with interest.

  “I’d like you to look over the style,” the man continued. “Your style really has no equal.”

  He received the commission with total happiness and addressed himself to it zealously, energetically, and with meticulous care. Within one month he had returned the manuscript to His Excellency in perfect style, thus rendering the sort of service he had always yearned for. His Excellency was now his debtor, and at every meeting he was now greeted with a smile that even the most favored were not honored with.

  Despite all this, his soul was still scourged by apprehension. He saw time running past him until it disappeared into the horizon, leaving him behind, all alone in the wilderness clasping his sacred ambition. His anxiety drove him to visit a woman who read fortunes from coffee cups, half Egyptian, half European, in al-Tawfiqiyya. She stared into the cup while he watched her, half excited and half ashamed. He told himself he should not have given in to superstition.

  “Your health is below par,” she said to him. His physical health was good beyond question. But his mental health was not. Perhaps she was right after all…

  “You will get plenty of money but only by dint of much trouble,” the woman went on.

  He was not after money, albeit he held on tight to every piastre he earned. Perhaps she meant salary increases that would come with promotions ordained in the world of the unknown.

  “An enemy of yours will go on a journey from which he will not return.”

  Enemies were legion. They hid behind charming smiles and sugarcoated speeches. In his way there was a Deputy Director in the third grade, another in the second, and a Director of Administration in the first. They were all friends and enemies at the same time, as life with its pure intentions and its cruel demands dictated.

  “I see two marriages in your life.”

  He had not even succeeded in fin
ding one, but such was the punishment of those whose misgivings led them into superstition. On his way home he remembered Onsiyya Ramadan. She was growing healthier in appearance and better-looking: a good job was quick to show itself on the faces of the poor. He was a kind chief to her. A tender and decent human relationship, as yet difficult to name, bound them together. At any rate, he no longer was able to imagine Archives without the fragrance of her presence there.

  When he had returned to his room, Omm Husni came up to him and said with an air of concern which made him smile, “Madame Asila is at my place. She…”

  “The headmistress?”

  “Yes. She wants to ask your help with some of her affairs.”

  He realized at once that she had come to snare him with her charms. His natural expectancy drove him toward adventure. He shook hands with Asila for the first time. She was wearing a blue dress which did justice to her breasts and forearms and emphasized the attractions of her figure. There she was, offering herself to him, no matter what true or false stories she had to tell. She excited him as Saniyya and Qadriyya had done. They were of the same type: voluptuous and exciting but not fit for marriage.

  Omm Husni said, “I’ll go and make you coffee.”

  Always the same tactics! An old woman whose sole concern was to see people lawfully wedded. Here they were, sitting on the same sofa with nothing between them but a cushion. He tilted his head to straighten his mustache, meanwhile casting a glance at her well-rounded leg firmly planted in a masculine-style low-heeled shoe.

  “I’m honored, madame!”

  “The honor is mine.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap and said with a firmness which displayed her ability to face up to the situation, “May I ask you a question?”

  “Madame?”

  “I own a piece of land which has been expropriated by the government. I’m sure you understand these matters?”

  “Of course.”

  “The road they’re going to build covers most of it but leaves bits which cannot be put to any use.”

  “I believe this is taken into consideration when the valuation is made.”

  “But the procedures are complicated, as you know.”

  “You may depend on me.”

  By the same measure as he sensed the strength of her personality he despaired of seducing her. She was prepared to marry him and in fact she came for nothing else. But for her to acquiesce to an illicit relationship with him looked impossible. Omm Husni came back and they started to drink coffee in total silence. Perhaps she was the most suitable wife on several counts, but she was not the one he wanted. Out of the blue came the image of Onsiyya Ramadan placing itself between them and effacing the woman completely. Since the days at the ancient fountain, his heart had not moved as it did for that young girl. His strained nerves relaxed and his mind was set at ease as he received from his imagination a fresh breeze reawakening his noblest feelings. When the woman had gone, he found Omm Husni looking at him anxiously for reassurance on the success of her purpose in life, on which she spared no effort and which had become part of her faith. The old woman had come to worship marriage and children and the festivities associated with them, and she praised God for the miracle of love which He had created. When his silence continued, she said hopefully, “Maybe you’ve changed your mind?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Didn’t you see how beautiful she is?”

  He remained silent, adamant in his rejection of the hand she stretched out to him in kindness.

  In a voice of disappointment Omm Husni began: “As the proverb says…”

  He left the room before he could hear the proverb. What a pity! Unless a valuable marriage came to his rescue, his pains were likely to be wasted and his hopes destroyed in midcourse. His life had become the object of endless questions and criticisms. People wondered why he didn’t marry and have children and make friends. They also wondered how he could live entirely in his private world and ignore the national events taking place around him which excited people even to the point of giving up their lives. And what were the causes which preoccupied them and possessed their hearts, hovering above the noise of their conversations and hindering their work? They talked endlessly about children, diseases, food, the system of government, class conflict, political parties; they repeated proverbs and clever sayings and they cracked jokes. They did not live a true life: they ran away from their sacred duty. They recoiled from taking part in the fearful race against time and glory and death, and in the fulfillment of God’s word, which was withheld from the unworthy.

  Twenty-Two

  Onsiyya Ramadan came to submit her monthly report on the incoming mail. It was the morning of an autumn day and the cool weather breathed into the recesses of the spirit a feeling of sweet wistfulness. His eyes turned now to the paper he was examining, now to her fingers spread out on the edge of the desk. He thought he saw something move in one of her hands. Something which moved and came nearer, delicately inching its way as if bearing a secret message. It was a small package, which she neatly slipped under the blotter after making sure he had seen it.

  “What’s this?” he asked in a low voice which instinctively responded to the air of caution evident in her gesture from the start. He lifted the blotter a little to reveal a silver-colored case half the size of an open palm.

  “What’s this?” he asked again.

  “A small present,” she whispered, blushing.

  “A present?” he asked, though he did remember.

  “It’s your birthday!”

  A surge of ecstatic joy overwhelmed him. Today was indeed his birthday or, to be precise, coincided with the date of his birth. But it was just another day. He might remember it a few days before it came or a few days after it had passed or even on the actual day, but this never made any difference except perhaps in that it served to intensify his apprehension of the future. He never celebrated the occasion. That tradition was unknown to him and to the alley he had been brought up in. But here was Onsiyya announcing new traditions. New too was her innocent maneuver to show affection and her marvelous power of opening up the gates of mercy.

  “As a matter of fact, I never bother to remember it.”

  “That’s strange!”

  “But you shouldn’t have taken the trouble!”

  “It’s only a very simple thing.”

  “I really don’t know how to thank you.”

  “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

  “What a lovely person you are! But how did you know the date of my birth?” he asked, then laughed and went on: “Ah, I forgot that…You’ve dug out my service file and now you know my age!”

  “It’s the age of reason and maturity.”

  He put out his hand and shook hers. He pressed her hand, smooth as silk, and all this time sweet thoughts poured over him. He would buy her an even better present on her birthday, which he would learn from her service file too. In spite of his radiant happiness he wished she could have chosen a way to express her feelings which had nothing to do with money; for the spending of money hurt him and upset the balance of his life. But he did not dwell on this for long. He was slipping into an abyss, flying toward the unknown, his heart filled with delight and longing. When he pressed her hand, she accepted it with a conscious smile, which gave him encouragement as well as pleasure.

  And after this, what? Was this in harmony with his one and only path? He was confronting something greater than a delicate and transient moment perfumed with enchantments. He was confronting the unknown: Destiny itself. He was knocking on a door behind which time was stopped in its tracks or even made to go backward. “Come back,” a call resounded, “or thou perishest!” But no ear listened, no heart responded.

  On the following day she stood in front of him transmitting looks full of submissiveness and sweetness. His head was on fire, his throat scorched. His fingers were drawn toward hers and touched them where they rested on the files spread out between them. He looked
warily around, while he mumbled some meaningless instructions. He bent forward and kissed her lips, then sat back again in his chair, shivering, burning, intoxicated with life and the fear of the unknown.

  Twenty-Three

  They met early one Friday afternoon. Their assignation grew out of an irresistible urge to surrender, coupled with a hope that he would be able to escape in the end. He felt it a fall from grace but it was seeped in happiness. He had no knowledge of places where lovers met. She suggested al-Azbakiyya Garden. He objected on the grounds that it was unprotected and open to view from all directions. But the Zoo was sufficiently far away and deserted, lying outside the built-up area and safe from the eyes of busybodies. To reach it the tram had to pass through open fields and wastelands. They walked side by side enjoying a “real” life in the few hours before closing time. He had not been to the Zoo since visiting it on a school outing. He had no idea what was customary when taking a girl out: what may be said and what may not, what may be done and what may not. They walked together happily and quietly; yet there was that uneasy feeling nagging at him and telling him that the meeting was something irregular and wrong, that he should not have given way to the impulse. To ward off his feelings of confusion and frustration he expressed his admiration of the trees, the bridges, the grotto, the streams, the ponds, and the different kinds of animals. But he remained convinced that he had not yet said a single word to the point and that he was trying to escape when it was already too late. She walked beside him, her eyes melting with a dreamy and triumphant look, her head raised and her breast thrown proudly forward. Her air suggested to him a tide race of demands within. And in her breathing he felt that she took in the most beautiful mysteries of life. Their eyes met, and in her glowing look he read the purest innocence, sweet cunning too, and the rush of secret desires.