This idea appalled him, but he was content with his new acquaintances. Perhaps such people were closer to him than the elite who were touring foreign realms. One thing did upset him, however: the expense of this jolly, entertaining life, which obliged him to pay precisely as great attention to his clothing as women did and to purchase expensive brands and select beautiful colors, taking every precaution that a critical eye would not find him in any outfit more than once. Among these young men he had befriended, he found no one who discussed the Arab identity or debated socialism or Auguste Comte’s ideas. Many were university graduates, but they came from provincial schools and had not a word to say about the Orman Gardens or the student hostel in Giza. He found that he was growing fond of smoking and of watching the gaming tables.
But how could he compete in this life with his tiny salary? Yes, Qasim Bey paid all the bills for his apartment and his spouse, but that left all his own expenses, which grew day after day and became more diversified by the hour. After reflecting about this for a long time, he told himself: People like me rise quickly in government; I can’t fall behind!
Society life agreed with Ihsan. She was attracted by its diversions and merriment as well as by the opportunities it afforded to show off, boast, and elicit admiration. She was interested in novelties, and a spirit of curiosity and enthusiasm became an established feature of her existence, saving her from having to brood about her life—past, present, and future—and from surrendering to reflection.
She delighted in the success and affection she met. Qasim Bey Fahmi was so madly in love with her that this became his dominant passion. He pursued her affections without regard to rank, family, or children. He spent so much money on her that she was the ornament of every gathering thanks to her beauty and attire. This was a life! On the other hand, to sit at home and wait for either of her two men—that was more than she could bear. Moreover, she felt the emptiness and ennui of a young woman whose heart has been deprived of love. She did not love the bey; his amazing charm no longer dominated her. Chances are that his charm evaporated when she discerned his treachery. She may well have harbored some rancor and resentment toward him. She was, however, very attentive toward him, lest her “sacrifice should have been in vain.” Since she was a young woman of a practical bent, she deposited her past on the road to forgetfulness and turned her back on it, ignoring the occasional impact it made on her heart. The past and its handsome symbol—Ali Taha—were two milestones that would never return. She focused her attention on her husband, since he was her life partner as well as her current and future companion and since life had demanded of him—as of her—a hideous sacrifice. He too—like her—was focused on a single goal. In addition to all this, he was a young man who could love her and provide her with a happy married life. She encouraged his attempts to promote their mutual happiness, sharing a drink with him, exchanging kisses, and hoping that their playacting would mature into a genuine life. Had Ihsan’s nature merely been carnal she would have achieved all the happiness she craved. Her heart, however, still yearned for affection and love that she didn’t find in the pleasure and luxury her life afforded her. For this reason she continued to feel empty and bored. The more this feeling plagued her, the more ardently she embarked on her life of merriment and opulence, till she surpassed even her husband’s aspirations.
She normally left home every morning once her husband went to work. She felt such an aversion for the apartment that she could not abide to stay there alone. Her favorite destinations were major stores, where she cruised past their displays, made her way down their crowded aisles, and perhaps purchased something she needed, ignoring the young men who ventured to flirt with her. What need did she have for a new man when she had two at home? Besides, her heart kept telling her that she would eventually adjust to her husband, fall in love with him, and emerge from all her anxiety. When ennui did chance to get the better of her and she felt disgusted, she might forget discretion and remember her life’s shortcomings (her parents, her fall, and her present life). Then a rebellious surge would sweep through her and her soul would tell her to pursue pleasure to the limit. But she would not succumb. She burned no bridges in such circumstances, differing in this respect from Mahgub. She puttered about each morning like a man out of work. Perhaps she would catch a tram or bus for a return trip to an outlying suburb. One day she learned that a friend of hers was moving soon to Rome where her husband would serve with the legation. This news had an amazing effect on her. She felt like touring all the countries of the world. Such an active life would be a fitting way for a worried person to forget his woes and to pull down a thick curtain over life’s banality. She told Mahgub, once she had shared this news, “How delightful it would be to travel to Rome!”
He asked her with astonishment, “Do you really want to travel?”
“Yes, why not?”
With a smile on his lips, he inquired, “What about the bey?”
“Perhaps he’ll extend this favor to me later on.”
He grasped what she meant by “later on.” Shrugging his shoulders he said, “If his passion ever flags, he’ll do nothing at all.”
Their eyes met in a moment of shared realization. He wished to exploit this propitious opportunity to the full and commented, “At present he yields to your every desire. So don’t let this lovely opportunity escape you. Such a happy break only comes once in a lifetime. Forget this sudden desire to travel, for it’s a fantasy. Remember that if you lose his love one day, life will become a dreary, glum affair. If we don’t make the best of our current circumstances, in the future we’ll be forced to leave this neighborhood for an impoverished one. Then refined society will surely close its doors in our faces and we’ll become the target of witty laughter. So we need to plan carefully for the long term.”
Reflecting briefly on what he had said, he realized that he had spoken with the easy nonchalance of a pimp. He was delighted by this, counting it a manifest victory for his philosophy and willpower. Ihsan thought for a long time about what he had said and was soon convinced of the wisdom and farsightedness of his comments.
37
August arrived and he drew the first payment of his government salary, which was beyond anything he had even dreamed of during his days of starvation. It truly was amazing that he was not delighted by it. He was, however, beset by cravings as his desires multiplied and his life became an insatiable, importunate fire. The payment reminded him of his parents who were waiting eagerly for their cut. His father’s indemnity payment had no doubt run out. Perhaps he was now selling household furniture as he himself had done last February. His father would definitely be unable to pay the rent for his dwelling. Perhaps his parents now lacked shelter or food. What could he do?
He had surely been wise when he decided to conceal his appointment from his parents. He had taken precautions about the matter, asking al-Ikhshidi not to say anything about it in al-Qanatir, to prevent anyone from learning about it until the appropriate moment, but when might that be? His salary did not suffice for the expenses of this fancy living. He realized that it was inadequate to pay for the necessary show. If he sacrificed two or three pounds to his parents, his budget would be compromised, he would be disgraced, and his hopes would be shattered. How could he cope with these difficulties? Anger gripped him. He always grew angry when anxious or perplexed—as if he believed deep down that there was nothing worth being anxious or perplexed about. In spite of himself, however, he remembered his parents as they appeared in his mind’s eye. He saw his father in his sickbed—but this image didn’t trouble him much—and his mother with her weak eyes, dreadful silence, and profound belief in him and his future. He tried to flee from her and to banish her from his mind, but to no avail. So he resolved to vanquish vehemently and rudely the emotion these images caused him. Love for his parents was not his main reason for thinking about them. Instead it was his feeling of responsibility toward them. He had grasped this fact from the outset, and this was one reason for hi
s increased anger. Did his soul still retain such fantastic notions? What did filial duty mean? Wasn’t this a silly custom associated with the social construct of the family? Yes, indeed! He would jettison this idea the same way he had previously rid himself of other related notions. He would care only for himself, his glory, and his pleasure. He wondered why they were still alive. What use were they? What meaning did their lives have? Why didn’t they die, enjoy eternal peace, and leave other people in peace too? Filial piety turned into an evil once it limited a son’s happiness. Indeed, everything that interfered with an individual’s happiness was evil. That was self-evident. He believed this profoundly, but what was he to do? Should he sever every tie with al-Qanatir and allow his parents to fend for themselves? How could he marshal the funds they needed? The truth was that he couldn’t spend anything on them. It was equally apparent that he would be unable to forget them.
He continued to feel worried and pensive till he left the ministry. He had reached no decision, even if his feeling of selfishness had not triumphed. At Qasr al-Aini Street he ran into Mr. Ahmad Badir, who was coming out of the newspaper’s headquarters. They shook hands warmly and Mahgub was immediately overwhelmed by the fear he felt whenever he remembered this terrifying friend. They walked along, side-by-side, chatting the way they once had on the road to the university and in the Orman Gardens. The young journalist asked him how he was and about his job and Qasim Bey. He also commented on the difficulties of his life as a journalist. Then Mahgub, as if wanting to flatter him, said, “Journalism is a deadly serious art. Compared to it, government positions are fun and games.”
Ahamd Badir replied delightedly, “You’re so right, dear friend. That’s why it astonished me that a young man not unlike us should forsake his government position and leave a respectable career to struggle in the field of journalism.”
“Really?” Mahgub stammered as an inquisitive expression appeared on his face.
“Yes. I’m referring to our friend Ali Taha.”
His protruding eyes became anxious. He frowned but cloaked his concern with astonishment as he exclaimed, “Ali Taha!”
Ahmad Badir replied, “He’s a daring young idealist and quickly became frustrated with the university library. He has agreed with some of our classmates to publish a weekly magazine advocating social reform.”
“What about his master’s degree?”
Ahmad Badir replied, “He told me, ‘Let’s leave research to researchers and focus our attention on something grander. Let’s devote all our effort to transforming Egypt from a nation of slaves to a nation of free men.’ ”
Mahgub Abd al-Da’im’s face was expressionless for a time as he reflected. Then he said, “The fact is that Mr. Ali Taha has a practical bent rather than a talent for abstract thought.”
Eying him critically, the journalist said, “And that’s to his credit! Both temperaments, although different, are lofty ones. The truth is that our friend is a sincere and zealous young man. He’s renounced a comfortable life to advocate his ideals, even though this will mean hardship and risk for him. The principles our friend believes in are not ones that provide a journalist much cover. Fools may contest them and bigots may attack them. Perhaps it will be worse than that. What should someone advocating belief in science, society, and socialism expect?”
Mahgub did not respond. Instead he asked, “Has the magazine appeared yet?”
“The first issue will come out early this month.”
After some hesitation, Mahgub inquired, “Where did he get the money for a project like this?”
“His father gave him a hundred pounds.”
Mahgub asked a bit sarcastically, “Does his wealthy father believe in socialism?”
Ahmad Badir laughed and replied, “Perhaps he considers the magazine an investment. He’s done his part to help out, and now its fate is up to his son.”
Mahgub shook his head and said in a somewhat disparaging tone, “In the hostel Ali Taha told us about his principles time and again, and conversation like that is a pleasant way of spending an evening, but for a man to quit his job and make a career of discussing his principles—an act that could lead him to prison dungeons—is conduct of which the least one can say is that it’s insanity. Our friend isn’t crazy; so how could he have done this? Look at our friend Ma’mun Radwan and how he kept talking about Islam. Then see how he’s traveling off to Paris to prepare for a grand career as a professor. There’s a wise young man.”
Ahmad Badir retorted in a tone that revealed his astonishment, “Ma’mun Radwan is also a sincere young man. I assure you that he will finish his studies with distinction, as always, and will doubtless become a Muslim imam.”
“I have my doubts.”
Badir shrugged his shoulders but did not contest his friend’s claim because they were drawing near to Ismailiya Square, where they would need to part. He simply observed, “Mr. Ma’mun got married yesterday, and the newlyweds will travel abroad at the end of this month.”
Here the first lines of these diverging lives were being drawn on the wide page of the world. No one knew how they would extend in the near and distant future or what varieties of luck and fate awaited the respective parties. All he knew was that any of these lives, except for his, could be publicized by a narrator like Ahmad Badir. For his life story to be made public would constitute a scandal. He could care less about this, but it meant he had to beware of untoward consequences—like anyone who lived surrounded by idiots and fools. He could not afford to feel overconfident or to dismiss too lightly the catastrophe that could befall him. It was amazing that although he and Ali Taha were exact opposites, it was entirely possible that society would throw both of them into a dungeon, making no distinction between the former who worshiped the status quo and the latter who rejected it. When they reached the square, they heard newspaper vendors hawking their wares and touting a meeting of the ruling party. Remembering something, Mr. Badir said, as he shook hands, “That reminds me. The prime minister has lost the palace’s confidence.”
Mahgub was disturbed, because he recalled that Qasim Bey Fahmi was a prominent figure in the current alliance. He asked, “How about the English?”
The young man grimaced and said, “The High Commissioner’s affections have shifted.” The two young men parted, and Mahgub headed for Sulaiman Pasha Street, frowning and depressed. This new concern, however, rescued him from the anxiety that had overwhelmed him since he received his salary. Faced by this looming danger, he no longer hesitated to decide about his parents. They were the first victims of the political crisis.
38
He brought the news to his wife. They conversed at the table and then on the balcony. They both wondered whether Qasim Fahmi would keep his post or fall with the government. The bey was one of those members of the current regime known for infighting. Thus there was no hope he could stay on should the cabinet resign. Mahgub commented, “If the bey is pensioned off, I’ll definitely be transferred to some obscure position—unless I’m banished to the most rural district—and my long-range hopes will become impossible—if I’m not fired outright.”
Had he struggled this hard only to meet such a sad fate? Was this the reward for his audacity, spirit of adventure, and contempt for everything? Filled with sorrow and grief he began to gaze at his wife with eyes that saw nothing. Ihsan was no less sad and glum than he. She also brooded about the future, imagining what she might expect. She was not much concerned about a deflation of long-term dreams but was oppressed by the jolt to her current security. Would she actually lose this luxurious, comfortable life? Would the spring that provided water for her thirsty family run dry? Would she find herself some day in one of those rural towns as a dingy home’s mistress whose life revolved around caring for it and tending to its master? These notions were more like nightmares. She did not know how she could face them on the morrow if they became real. It was clear, however, that this information was premature, for there was no echo of it in the newspapers, which th
ey began to read carefully. Many of their friends declared that the time had not yet come. The days of August passed quietly, one after the other, till their feeling of confidence returned. Indeed Mahgub remembered his parents and wondered what he should do about them. This time with resolute determination he wrote his father a letter in which he expressed his sorrow at being unable to assist him. He stated that he was still looking for work and promised relief soon. He told himself, to clear his conscience, that the man could wait another month or two till he could assist him under more favorable circumstances. But his peace of mind did not last. The news that Ahmad Badir had announced resurfaced at the beginning of the next month. So many rumors were flying that the air was full of them. The horizons continued to presage impending disaster. The couple returned to their reflections as various fears gripped them.
Mahgub met with his boss Salim al-Ikhshidi in his office one day to ask what was happening. He found the man as calm and collected as ever. Mahgub was not unduly swayed by this calm and composure, because he knew for a fact that al-Ikhshidi would not relinquish these even in a crisis. When the man’s round eyes looked up at him inquisitively, the young man, who was still standing, asked, “What are the facts behind these rumors that are on every tongue?”
In a voice that had lost not an iota of its authority, al-Ikhshidi asked, “What rumors?”
“That the government will fall. What’s behind them?”
“Whatever is,” al-Ikhshidi replied with a smile.
“Is it really possible for this alliance to end?”
Swept up by a mischievous desire to torment him, al-Ikhshidi replied, “Everything is transitory.”