Heart of the Night Read online

  I asked Jaafar if he had done so.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did you publish them in a book?”

  “No, my circumstances did not make it possible.”

  “Do you remember their content?” I asked.

  He laughed, and quickly summarized his thoughts: “I presented a concise survey of the history of political and social movements, from feudalism to communism. Then I described my project based on three tenets: a philosophical principle, a social doctrine, and a system of government. The adoption of a philosophical principle is left to the interested person to choose, whether it is materialism, spiritualism, or even Sufism. The social doctrine is communist in its essence. It is based on collective ownership, the abolishment of private property and inheritance, total equality, and the elimination of all forms of exploitation. It is guided by the following motto: ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.’ As for the system of government, it is democratic, based on the multi-party system, the separation of power, and the protection of all sorts of freedom—except free ownership—and human values. One can generally say that my system is the logical heir of Islam, the French Revolution, and the communist revolution.

  “I gave a copy of the manuscript to Saad Kabir and told him that it contained my opinion. He was surprised and couldn’t believe I’d written it.

  “I told him, ‘Your famous characterizations, such as bourgeois, conciliatory, and unifier, won’t deter me. I have the right to formulate a new doctrine if I am not convinced by the existing ones.’

  “He became suspicious and said carefully, ‘On condition that you create a real new doctrine and not concoct one out of existing doctrines.’

  “‘All doctrines are subject to a give-and-take process,’ I said angrily.

  “Saad Kabir read the manuscript in my office in a little over two hours. When he finished, he took a deep breath and muttered, ‘It is no use.’

  “I was waiting eagerly for his opinion. He muttered again, as if talking to himself, ‘It is a mixture of fish, milk, and tamarind.’

  “‘Explain!’ I said.

  “He spoke nervously. ‘Concocted daydreams, imagination, an assemblage of discordant ideas. It is nothing.’

  “‘Is this your final opinion?’ I asked.

  “‘What did you expect?’

  “‘I expected you to be convinced by what I wrote.’

  “‘And then?’

  “‘Then we can form an association, an organization, or a party,’ I explained.

  “He laughed coldly. ‘What a pity!’

  “I said, angry again, ‘You all are devoid of a free will and the capacity to think!’

  “He replied, adopting a very serious tone, ‘You at least know that my colleagues and I are serious; that we risk our lives and believe in the human being.’

  “‘I believe in the human being more than you do,” I said, ‘and I do not believe that a true believer in the human being can accept a dictatorial regime. I, too, am serious, and am willing to risk my life.’

  “‘What are you planning to do?’ he asked.

  “‘I want to form an association or a political party.’

  “‘When he got up to leave, he said sternly, ‘We will come back to this, again and again.’

  “Before I called for the formation of an association, I consulted with my wife. She was extremely disturbed, having read the manuscript carefully. She told me, ‘You are a man of law and you know that the constitution of this country considers communism a crime.’

  “‘Communism is one thing and my doctrine is something else.’

  “‘You are calling for a communist social order, and this is what matters for the law and those who wrote it.’

  “‘I can change the phrasing of the second clause. I find the word socialism acceptable, and though I believe in God, I do not want to impose religion on anyone. Furthermore, I am attached to the democratic system as it is applied in the West. Won’t all that protect me from suspicion?’

  “‘I do not think so, my darling,’ she said. ‘I see you truly as a pure communist in the fundamental matter, which concerns the haves and the have-nots.’

  “‘The problem, Huda, is that you do not believe in me.’

  “‘I believe in democracy,’ she said, ‘and I consider the democratic system missing only the humane protection of the masses in order to reach perfection. I have no doubt that an English citizen, for example, has a better life than a Russian citizen.’

  “‘I do not share that belief,’ I said.

  “She replied, somewhat despondent, ‘Well, we have agreed on everything up till now; I suppose it is time for us to disagree!’

  “Meanwhile, Saad Kabir was trying to convince Huda to adopt Marxism.

  “Huda and I often invited our friends to dinner at our house. I invited Muhammad Shakroun to join us, but he did not appreciate their company and found their discussions boring.

  “You should probably know more about Saad Kabir. He was among the friends who came to my office for discussions. They represented all doctrines, even the feudal system of the past, but Saad Kabir was most concerned about my fate. He was a proselytizing lawyer, well versed in his field, extremely cultured, and greatly appreciated in debates and lectures. He was irascible by nature, tenacious, clinging obdurately to his beliefs. He was one of those single-minded people who never hesitated to destroy his enemy by any means, whether through rhetorical skills or illogical arguments. His destructive tendencies upset those, like myself, who respected the mind and worshiped it.

  “I noticed in Huda’s eyes a certain admiration for him. She easily gave in to his forceful and enthusiastic arguments.

  “One day, Muhammad Shakroun told me that he did not like my friends.

  “‘They are kind,’ I said.

  “‘Maybe,’ he replied, ‘but the man called Saad Kabir is not kind.’

  “‘But he is an excellent man in every sense of the word.’

  “‘Maybe, but he is more clever than necessary.’

  “I laughed and agreed with him, but he went on, saying, ‘Do not open your door to just anybody.’

  “I felt in his words a kind of warning. Curious, I asked him what he meant.

  “He tried to dodge the question, saying, ‘I simply do not trust him.’

  “‘Explain,’ I said vehemently.

  “‘He is the conceited type and is not worthy of your trust.’

  “‘You mean more than what you are saying.’

  “‘Not at all, and I swear by the head of al-Hussein!’

  “After this conversation, I could not go back to my previous trust of Saad Kabir, and started observing what was going on around me, carefully and suspiciously. My dignity did not permit me, however, to change the order of things. Had I done so, I would have upset Huda, a decent lady, and I would have lost her respect. But I continued watching Saad Kabir when he was at our home, consumed by anxiety and vigilance. He would get absorbed in his discussions with Huda, and she with him. I noticed that she liked his rhetorical style. It invigorated her, and she seemed always eager for more. At the end of one of those evenings, I said to her, ‘I won’t be surprised if you suddenly tell me that you are a communist.’

  “She asked, smiling, ‘Were you fooled by my interest in his conversation?’

  “‘And the way you were moved by it,’ I said.

  “‘He is an excellent man,’ she replied. ‘That is why I feel sorry for him.’

  “Huda was in her early fifties at that time, and Saad Kabir was in his thirties. Though I had nothing left in my heart for Huda but a deep friendship, I worried. I wondered what Shakroun had meant, if he had noticed more than I did, and if he hid anything from me. Was Huda going through a midlife crisis? But she had always been a model of wisdom and poise, and continued to be. I could not find any reason to suspect Saad Kabir. Not a glance, a gesture, or a word. Despite all that, my sacred mind was shaken, and I fell victim to mysterious, broo
ding emotions.

  “Then the tragedy hit me like an earthquake, without any warning.”

  Jaafar fell into total silence.

  I repeated, “A tragedy?”

  He laughed, but did not utter a word. I asked again, “A tragedy?

  What did you say?”

  “The tragedy occurred as I was getting ready to form my political party,” he replied.

  “What happened?”

  He sighed, then explained: “I was getting ready to embark on a battle, to defy the left and the right. I was alone in my office with Saad Kabir. Our conversation was heated, a normal thing for him but unusual for me. He said, ‘You think that you are the author of a metaphysical social political doctrine, but any doctrine would require a whole life to formulate. The reader, on the other hand, gleans all the different doctrines during a year or two, and might consider participating in an election that he believes to be an exercise in rational thought, whereas it is merely a process to combine all the contradictory doctrines that people can conceive. This would provide us with as many doctrines as there are literate people in the world.’

  “‘Insolent, rude!’ I shouted.

  “He looked at me in shock. ‘What?’

  “I repeated, ‘Insolent, rude.’

  “‘Have you forgotten that you are talking to your teacher?’ he said angrily.

  “I jumped at him and slapped him, and he slapped me back. We engaged in a frightening fight, and there was no one to separate us. I was stronger than he but he was younger than me, and when I started gasping, I grabbed the letter opener.”

  Jaafar was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, I tried to imagine the scene as he described it: “I can’t forget his face. I mean, after I dug the sharp letter opener into his neck. His face slowly lost its life and fell into the depths of darkness. He stopped fighting back and submitted to the unknown, leaving behind his debates, his bright mind and glory. Everything came to an end.”

  “You killed a man, Jaafar!” I shouted.

  “Yes, Jaafar al-Rawi had become a killer.”

  “What a pity!” I said.

  Jaafar went on describing the crime scene: “I stood there, looking at his body lying between the desk and the leather sofa, in a state of eternal icy dazedness. I felt as if I had unloaded in one move all of life’s burdens and emotions. Then I plunged, suddenly, into the depths of the world of knowledge; and I saw through a crack in its crumbling wall the phantom of the tragedy running away from me, running to a different and opposite universe with which I had no human contact. Then I heard a voice, maybe my own voice or maybe someone else’s, shouting, ‘Oh my blessed mind, why have you abandoned me?’”

  “What a pity,” I said again.

  “From the head of a party to a life sentence.”

  After a short but intense silence, I asked him, “Was there an excuse for the murder?”

  “On the one hand, there is always a justification for killing; but on the other hand, nothing justifies a murder.”

  I rephrased my question. “I mean, did you find anything to confirm your suspicions about your wife and therefore justify the murder?”

  “Believe me, there was nothing at all. My wife’s breakdown over her concern for me confirmed my stupidity. It was as if the tragedy had occurred to ridicule the worshiper of the mind, that was all.”

  “Was there any mention of your suspicions during the trial?” I asked.

  “No, and I categorically refused that approach. The case was presented as a struggle between two communists that led to murder. In prison, I insisted on the status of a political criminal, but they considered me plainly and simply a killer. To this day I consider myself a political criminal. What do you think?”

  “You are probably a semi-political criminal,” I said.

  “But if it were not for politics, the crime would not have occurred.”

  “Maybe. But what was your grandfather’s reaction?” I asked.

  “A few days before the accident, Muhammad Shakroun informed me that my grandfather was very ill, and suggested I visit him together with Huda and my children. I discussed the matter with Huda and she welcomed the idea. We postponed the visit to Friday, but the crime occurred on Thursday evening, and I never received a word from him. I do not even know if he learned of my crime.

  “Though I requested to be treated like a political criminal in prison, there is no difference between the treatment of the political criminal and of the regular criminal. My request made me the subject of ridicule and jokes, and I was punished with lashes for causing commotion. Huda visited me only once.”

  “Why did she stop after that?”

  “She passed away,” he said.

  He continued telling me his story: “I was very sad and I worried about the children. But Muhammad Shakroun told me that the children’s maternal aunt had offered to care for them and had taken them to Minya to live with her. I have no doubt that they forgot me very quickly, as I had forgotten my mother. In a second visit, Shakroun told me that he was going on a tour in North Africa, and that was the last I heard from him. Jaafar al-Rawi died, and so did the world outside the walls of the prison.

  “I promoted my new doctrine in prison, but was faced with ignorance, passivity, and sarcasm. I even extended an invitation to join my party to the prison warden, who was kind to me because of my family background, my profession, and my bad luck.

  “My eyesight weakened in prison, and I contracted many illnesses. I left in the condition you see me in today.”

  8

  Iam in shambles, an old sick man, half blind, with a handful of memories that no one can believe, but I have not lost my clarity of mind or my strong determination, and the seduction of debates is still alive in my heart.

  “I thought that if I found Muhammad Shakroun, I would be able to locate the link that would take me to the heart of matters. But there was no trace of him, and I did not meet anyone who knew him, as if he had not entertained a generation of Egyptians with his voice. At the Institute of Oriental Music I was told that Shakroun lived for some time in Morocco, but that since then no one had heard from him.

  “I went to the Hilmiya Palace and found a huge building in its place, property of an insurance company. I had inherited a large sum of money from my wife, but spent most of it in prison on cigarettes and other matters, and I had hardly any money left. I went to Eshashal-Turguman but found no trace of the old place. It had become a modern suburb with a park and a gas station.

  “I met many of my old colleagues, some retired, others still working in the field of law. I must tell you, though, that no one tried to avoid me. On the contrary, some received me very warmly. There were those who had kept their enthusiasm for their own doctrines, while others had been pulled away by life’s worries and its needs.

  “I wondered where Marwana’s and Huda’s children were! But I decided that no good would come of finding them and that I had better leave them alone.

  “I find pleasure sometimes in imagining their lives and those of their children—my grandchildren. There are certainly among them bandits and judges, and they are possibly more numerous than I think. I might meet them in my wanderings, but I wouldn’t recognize them and they wouldn’t recognize me.

  “Once all those pressing matters were settled, I thought about resuming my struggle for my doctrine and establishing my party. But I faced insurmountable obstacles, among them my advanced age, my extreme frailty, and my appearance, which provoked pity and sometimes disgust. A leader, as you well know, must have a charismatic and appealing personality. Furthermore, the field of politics was filled with lively and influential people. I told myself that I had better write down my theory in a book. If I failed to do so, however—which was a distinct possibility—I would still preach my doctrine wherever I went. It might be picked up by someone more capable than I; someone who would make it work.

  “I was convinced then that all I had left to do was face a forced short rest, before the eternal res
t.”

  Jaafar fell silent for quite a long time, then whispered calmly, “Al-Rawi’s face came back to me from my past memory.”

  As I was about to speak, he continued. “I did not doubt that he had died, but I wondered about his money and his palace. I stood under the walls of the huge palace, as imposing as a mountain, then slipped toward the blind alley, toward the gate. To my surprise it was ajar.”

  Jaafar stopped for a few seconds, then went on, “I pushed the gate and went in. I was surprised by what I saw. I had never expected or imagined it would happen. There was no garden and no salamlik. The flowers and their scent were gone, and so was the chirping of the birds. There was nothing left but a huge wasteland with piles of garbage and a group of beggars.”

  I shouted in my surprise: “What happened? Was it demolished?”

  “There was nothing but waste everywhere, surrounded by the high walls and the imposing front gate. The beggars looked at me with concern and fear, but I stomped my feet on the ground and went to see if any of my grandfather’s companions were still alive. I learned that al-Rawi had died one year after my imprisonment, and that he had spent all his wealth on charitable organizations and the needy, without leaving me or any of my descendants a single penny. As for the palace, it had been destroyed when a bomb fell on it during one of the aerial attacks on Cairo, and the rubble had been cleared out. This is the whole story from beginning to end. I soon realized that I wouldn’t get any peace during the short period of respite that precedes the eternal rest. I also decided to set up house in the ruins of my grandfather’s palace. There I sleep, usually between dawn and forenoon, like any beggar.”

  He laughed a short laugh. I said with pity, “An unhappy old age.”

  “No!” he shouted. “I refuse pity and compassion. Never forget that you are talking to a great man, and a proof of his greatness is his ability to adapt to the most difficult of conditions and situations, and face them with pride and a smile!”