“He smiled and said, ‘Why not? It is the soul’s intimate friend.’
“‘Have you heard the famous singers, Grandfather?’
“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In my friends’ homes, during the celebration of happy occasions.’
“His financial support for Shakroun’s music lessons was one example of how he took care of the needy in our district.”
I said impulsively, “Your grandfather topped all that by willing his real estate to charity.”
“No,” Jaafar said loudly, “that is not charity. Nothing good comes out of a charitable act based on evil.”
“I apologize for the interruption,” I said.
“It is more important to apologize for your opinion.”
I did. He got over his ire, then continued.
“Muhammad Shakroun became Sheikh Taher al-Bunduqi’s student. Our friendship brought him luck and I was the gate to his success. I was very happy for him, and I exaggerated my feeling of happiness when talking with my grandfather. He was suspicious of me, which made him ask, ‘Is your happiness mixed with jealousy?’
“I denied any such feeling strongly.
“Dissatisfied, he said, ‘Jealousy is a vice, and at your age you can be excused for your feelings, but there is no excuse for lying. Don’t ever lie, Jaafar, always be truthful. Do not upset your grandfather, he likes purity. God gave you a bright mind the way He gave your friend a beautiful voice, so enjoy the gift you have been given and do not ruffle your serenity with what you lack. Had you been gifted at singing, I would not have minded you becoming a singer. A singer can be a godly human being. God’s mercy makes it possible for anyone to be godly, even the garbage collector. As for you, Jaafar, you must get ready to enter al-Azhar.’
“I said, with all sincerity, ‘My dearest wish, Grandfather, is to be successful in my religious life.’
“I can’t deny that I felt slightly jealous of Shakroun, and it bothered me that my grandfather was able to penetrate my inner self with his great ability to read what was in my heart. In any case, I was jealous. Here was Shakroun excelling with a gift that did not require special diligence, while I was enduring conflicting feelings in my tortured heart. My dreams, however, revolved around religion and religious life, and I had a vague feeling that a certain mission was waiting for me in this sacred domain. I was eagerly looking forward to it, without losing sight of the huge inheritance that awaited me, the Marg farm, numerous buildings, and huge amounts of money. I was not concerned about work, but I dreamed of the mission, of sitting on my grandfather’s bench and welcoming the men of the world and the men of religion, to discuss important topics with them, and relish the company of singers.”
I interrupted him again. “I remember,” I said, “the limping singer, as I remember you wearing the gibba and the quftan.”
He said, boasting, “Then you saw how handsome God created me!”
“You were truly handsome.”
“I was handsome,” he said, “with a good reputation, and I had noble hopes. I enrolled in al-Azhar during my adolescence, filled with an enlightening power. I felt like a celestial prince and I found myself in an authentic environment, enduring poverty and sorrow, and deprived of true humanity, except through strict effort, sustained diligence, and the relentless acquisition of knowledge. I met a large number of peers and befriended many of them. Their folksy ways and their superstitions reminded me of Margush, of my mother’s hand and my true tragic origin. I loved them despite everything, and invited them to my house for dinner every Friday evening. A select group among them used to eat iftar and suhur with me during the month of Ramadan. We spent the time between iftar and suhur studying and engaging in discussions. All that placed me in a unique position rarely experienced by a student. My grandfather noticed how I relished this role, and he was quick to warn me, ‘Beware of conceit! Fill your heart with the love of those noble poor and always remember the blessings that God bestowed on you.’
“My excellent performance in my studies won me my grandfather’s favor. The sheikh teaching theology praised me to my grandfather, and so did the professors of jurisprudence, syntax, and logic. All this delighted my grandfather, who told me that I would make an excellent sheikh, but added this recommendation to his compliment: ‘What is more important than all this is for you to proceed firmly on the path of purity.’
“I told my grandfather about my future plans. ‘I want to dedicate my life to religion, but I do not know exactly how yet. I have no inclination toward preaching or teaching.’
“‘It does not matter at all,’ he said. ‘What counts for me are your pure will, your faith, and your love of religion. You will find out that every book is a book about religion and every location is a place of worship, whether in Egypt or in Europe. God will help you in your search for wisdom, to make you a provider of wisdom in words or in action. This is the godly life.’
“I was greatly motivated by his words and was pushing ahead with a heart filled with faith and piety, guided by my grandfather’s example, his rich, beautiful life that I shared with him in his palace, meeting his friends and listening to his discussions and his songs and music. But I also experienced dark hours that sneaked up on me and changed the quality of my life. Clouds of black memories swept over me, reminding me of the rejection my father had endured and my mother’s tragedy, my mother whose life remained mysterious and unknown to me. Whenever this happened, my anger against my grandfather would boil up and I would subject him to a severe judgment in my imagination. He would then appear like a devil disguised as an angel, a mere bourgeois enjoying the beautiful things in life, pretending to be a saint.
“The only person with whom I could share my feelings was Muhammad Shakroun. He was beginning to make a name for himself in a field crowded with established singers. He loved my grandfather and was grateful for his help, referring to him as ‘a noble man, descendant of a noble family, unmatched among God’s creatures.’ Upon hearing those words I would ask him, ‘What do you think of his attitude toward my parents?’ His response came always in the form of a long tirade: ‘The relationship of a father with his son is mysterious despite its superficial clarity. Sometimes it overflows with affection and sometimes it hardens as a result of cruelty. My limp was caused by my father in a moment of anger. The true conduct of a man can only be assessed in light of his relationship with others.’
“I was not convinced by his theory, and told him, ‘The character of a man, any man, is whole and cannot be divided.’
“Though I was assailed by those dark moments, they were passing moments and not fixed opinions. I would return quickly to the serenity of my soul and the clarity of my vision. The true crisis I endured at this time was a sexual one, that of an adolescent longing for holiness but enduring a continual struggle with his strong natural instincts. I often remembered the wooden box and the girl, now totally unknown to me. I was extremely surprised by my grandfather, who discussed all kinds of ideas I had but was totally oblivious to the true battle raging inside me.
“There were three women in the house, in addition to old Bahga. They were in their fifties, and plain, but they possessed a remnant of charm that could attract a repressed adolescent. I even found the decently dressed women I saw on the street very provocative. I experienced continuous conflict between my conscience and my instincts, but was finally able to overcome temptation with a strong will worthy of admiration. It was as if my longing for God had overtaken everything else and defeated Satan in all his dwellings.
“Bahga was in fact concerned by my glances at her companions. From her position as my surrogate mother, she shared her concern with me, imploring, ‘Do not disgrace yourself. Your grandfather considers every person in this house an extension of himself and views an infringement on their honors an infringement on his. You have so far enjoyed his approval, and you have certainly found that to be a true blessing, for which you should be grateful. There is another side to your grandfather, however, which you are well positioned
to know.’
“Alarmed, I said, ‘My father!’
“‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You are a true believer and your prayers are sincere. Why don’t you think seriously about getting married? Your grandfather is capable of marrying you to a girl who would fulfill all your dreams and then some.’
“Her words came as a total surprise. ‘I had not thought about that and I don’t think this is the right time for it,’ I said. ‘I also reject the idea of marriage as a substitute for the fear of sin.’
“‘I do not understand your thinking,’ she said, ‘but if you need help, I am ready to lend a hand.’
“I told Muhammad Shakroun, who was aware of my struggle and my dilemma, about that conversation. He had often wondered about my attitude, and had told me time and again, ‘Come with me to the houses of the awalim. The gatherings in their homes provide wonderful opportunities for interaction. All you have to do is change your religious clothes in my house before you go there.’
“I laughed and refused all solutions with pride and dignity. I was happy to endure my pain and overcome it, saying to myself, ‘Blessings be upon me. I defeat Satan at least once a day. I am truly worthy of my chaste future.’
“I turned my attention to other matters, and asked Bahga for the first time about my grandmother: ‘When did she die?’
“‘May her soul rest in peace,’ she said, ‘she died almost twenty years ago.’
“‘Did my father’s tragedy have anything to do with her death?’
“‘Only God decides a person’s death.’
“‘Why didn’t my grandfather remarry after her death?’ I asked.
“‘That’s his business.’
“I wondered about my grandfather’s sexual life, but shivered at the strangeness of the idea. I said to myself that, as usual, he would read my thoughts in my eyes and a new tragedy would occur. I thought that part of me was pursuing my grandfather with an inclination for revenge. This meant that my love for him was not whole, but was tainted by my inability to completely forget my father’s tragedy. I persisted with my questions to Bahga, until she admitted that my mother had been the daughter of a peddler who frequently visited the house. I asked if she was a woman of ill repute, which she denied, saying, ‘Your grandfather does not acknowledge anonymous people!’
“I was resentful, and objected: ‘But all people, with very few exceptions, are anonymous. He dreams of a world filled with “divine beings,” as he says, but isn’t he aware of the cruelty of his dream?’
“I decided to fast during the three months of Rajab, Shaaban, and Ramadan every year. My life was one of endeavor, diligence, and purity, followed closely and attentively by my grandfather. He would often say to me, ‘God’s will is great.’”
5
I was walking with Muhammad Shakroun at the edge of al-Darrasa when we encountered a herd of sheep led by two women. When we stepped aside to let them pass, I was able to see the women up close, most probably a mother and a daughter, very much alike. The daughter wore a long belted black dress, was draped in a black shawl, and had on a loose burqa that revealed her eyes. She was barefoot and held a spindle.”
Jaafar fell silent for a long time.
“What happened?” I asked.
He turned toward me and said, “I, too, wonder what happened.”
“What do you mean?”
He went on: “To sum it up, I looked at the girl’s eyes and was struck by a state of total madness. But let’s leave this for the time being and discuss it later. I will tell you now what happened. I felt I had died and that a new person was born through me. You will even agree with me that it was a new person in the full meaning of the word, a person with no connection to the one who had just died, a drunkard whose heart overflowed with passion and who had an extraordinary capacity for defiance and struggle. I heard Muhammad Shakroun say, ‘When will you resume walking?’ He then examined me closely and smiling, said, ‘It must be the shepherdess!’
“‘It’s fate,’ I replied.
“‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
“‘We must find out where she lives.’
“‘Fine,’ said Shakroun, ‘but remember that you are wearing a turban.’
“A force of another kind guided me. We walked behind the herd, crossing al-Nahhasin district, then al-Husseiniya, and then I saw al-Abbasiya and al-Wayliya. I did not feel any fatigue and I had no pity for my friend’s limp, but walked extremely fast, like a crazy, intoxicated man. The springs of adventure overwhelmed my heart, though Muhammad Shakroun uttered a litany of complaints.
“‘May God forgive you,’ he said.
“‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked.
“‘The girl is aware that you are following her.’
“‘These are gypsies; they’re worse than devils,’ I said.
“‘Tell me, I beg you, what exactly do you want?’ asked Shakroun.
“We finally saw the herd enter the campground of Eshash al-Turguman, as the sun’s rays were withdrawing from that eerie open space and disappearing at the horizon. The rays were bidding good-bye to the metal-roofed huts and their wild inhabitants, with their nomadic life so different from that of city dwellers. Muhammad Shakroun stopped and grabbed my arm.
“‘Not a single step farther,’ he said. ‘There is no place for a stranger here.’ He added, ‘You have bloodied our feet.’
“I was floating in a distant sphere, the world of emotions, as I said to Shakroun, ‘She bid me good-bye with a fiery look before disappearing.’
“‘Congratulations!’
“He begged me to hire a carriage for the return trip.
“Shakroun did not leave me that evening, staying till midnight and watching me in disbelief. ‘What happened to you?’
“I said in distress, ‘You see with your own eyes.’
“‘I don’t understand.’
“‘I am crazy about the girl,’ I said.
“‘So fast?’
“‘It happened.’
“‘But she is a shepherdess and belongs to an evil group of people!’ he exclaimed.
“‘It is destiny and there is no escaping it,’ I replied.
“He went on, wondering, ‘How can she be seduced? Would she be inclined to that? How can we arrange matters without causing a scandal? What can you do if none of that is possible?’
“I insisted, saying, ‘No matter what, I must have her.’
“From that day on I spent sunsets at the edge of al-Darrasa, with my friend or alone, sitting on a rock and surrounded by grazing sheep and goats, with the book of logic open on my lap. I caught glimpses of her as she sat close to her mother, weaving. The place was practically empty, frequented only by vagrants returning to the Muqattam neighborhood. When the sun set, the herd and its herders went on their daily return journey, leaving me with a gloomy and empty heart. I would leave and go to the mosque for the evening prayer, and then attend my lesson on the subject of logic.
“One day I hid a glass in my caftan pocket, and as they reached the place where I sat, I walked to the mother and gave her the glass, asking for some milk. Marwana, as I heard her mother call her, jumped immediately to her feet, went to a goat, and milked it. She handed me the glass full of foaming milk. I took it and thanked her, saying, ‘May your hands be safe, Marwana.’ She smiled with her eyes. Her mother looked at me suspiciously as I drank the milk and said, ‘To your health.’ When I thanked her, she replied in a tone that carried a specific message, ‘You sheikhs are God’s people.’ I said, grateful, ‘Thanks be to God.’
“I was delighted to have established this contact and struck up a conversation with them. I was overcome with a tremendous feeling of happiness that lasted until the moment of separation.
“Shakroun, who was investigating possible solutions, reached the following conclusion: ‘I inquired enough to know that this group commits every kind of evil except the one that you are drooling about.’
“I said scornfully, ‘A giant will come out o
f the lamp one day and you will not recognize him no matter how strongly you claim to have been his friend.’
“Shakroun was not aware of the revolutionary nature of my words. He didn’t know that I had become the king of kings and could do whatever I wanted. I was intoxicated with an outpouring of red madness.
“The glass of milk established a silken but fatal link between Marwana and me. When I again asked for milk, I accidentally touched her fingertips as I took the glass from her and said, ‘You are generous, Marwana!’
“She gathered her veil around her head and glanced at me mischievously. I said to her very softly, ‘Your eyes are so beautiful!’ As she was turning away, I added, ‘I come here for you only.’
“The mother stopped weaving and stood up. Taking a pebble from the ground, she threw it far away, in the direction of the mountain. As I watched her, surprised, she explained, ‘It is a good way to scare away reptiles and insects.’
“I said, distrustfully, ‘God is the best protector.’ She replied forcefully, ‘It is incumbent upon us to fight evil with the language it understands.’”
Jaafar laughed and said to me, “Believe everything I am telling you without hesitation. Do not be fooled by my present appearance. Whoever sees me now thinks that I was born in a dumpster and my only actions have been those connected to vomiting. Tell me, what do you think of love?”
I was taken aback by the difficult nature of the question and said, “Love is what it is. I believe everything people say about it.”
“Do you also believe that it is a miracle maker and produces wonders?” he asked.
“I do. I am not a greenhorn, but tell me about your love, Jaafar. How was it? A barefoot shepherdess is bound to make one’s blood boil!”
Jaafar confirmed my words. “That is how it was: a call for blood, a loud call that led to action, to madness and destruction. It invaded one’s life through doors and windows and led to crimes and suicide.”