Often we find ourselves getting bored with the whole thing, at which point someone will suggest changing the topic before we all go absolutely mad. All of us enthusiastically support the idea and start on another subject, but discussion is usually uninspired and starts to flag. It’s not too long before it’s on its last legs, at which point we go back to our enduring topic. We’re flogging it to death, and it’s doing exactly the same thing to us, but there’s no letup and no end in sight.
“War, that’s the only way.”
“No, the fedayeen, they’re the way. And we must concentrate on defense.”
“The only feasible solution is one imposed by the Great Powers as a group.”
“Any negotiation implies surrender.”
“But there has to be negotiation. All nations negotiate with each other. Even America, China, Russia, Pakistan, and India do just that!”
“In this instance, the idea of a ‘peace settlement’ means that Israel will gain complete control of the region and swallow it up in one simple gulp.”
“But how come we’re so afraid of a settlement? Did the English and French swallow us up?”
“If the future reveals Israel to be a state with good intentions, then we can live with it. If, on the other hand, it turns out to be exactly the opposite, then we’ll have to get rid of it, just as we did the Crusaders many, many years ago.”
“The future belongs to us. Just consider our numbers and our wealth.”
“It’s a question of culture and science.”
“Okay then, let’s go to war. That’s the only solution.…”
“Russia isn’t providing us with the weapons we need.”
“No peace, no war—a stalemate. That’s all that’s left.”
“For us, that means a process of nonstop attrition.”
“No, as far as we’re concerned the real struggle will take place on the cultural plane. For us peace is more risky than war.”
“We should disband the army and start building ourselves up again from scratch.”
“We should announce our neutrality and demand that other nations respect it.”
“But what about the fedayeen? You’re all ignoring the one effective force in the entire situation!”
“We’ve been defeated, and now we have to pay the price. We should leave the rest of it for the future.”
“The Arabs’ worst enemy is themselves.”
“Their rulers, you mean.”
“The entire government system, more like it.”
“Everything depends on the Arabs being able to work as a unified entity.”
“On the fifth of June 1967 at least half the Arabs won.”
“Start on the inside, that’s what we have to do.”
“Fine! Religion then. Religion’s everything.”
“No! Communism’s the answer.”
“No! Democracy is what we need.”
“Responsibility should be taken away from the Arabs altogether.”
“Freedom … freedom!”
“Socialism.”
“Let’s call it democratic socialism.”
“Let’s start off with war. We’ll have time for reforms later.”
“No, the reforms have to come first, then solutions can be worked out some time in the future.”
“No, the two must go hand in hand.”
And so on and so on, ad infinitum.
One evening a stranger came into the café, leaning on the arm of a young man. He took a seat by the entrance.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he instructed the young man in an imperious tone. “You go and get the medicine. Get a move on!”
He stayed seated where he was while the young man went away. He was of medium height, with a large, elongated face, wide, bushy eyebrows, and a pronounced forehead. His eyes were wide and sunken in their sockets. He looked very pale, as though he were either sick or convalescing.
Immediately Isma‘il was whispering in my ear. “See that man over there by the entrance?” he asked. “Take a good long look at him.”
The newcomer had, needless to say, already attracted my attention. “What about him?” I asked.
“That’s Khalid Safwan!” Isma‘il replied in a trembling voice.
I was stunned. “Khalid Safwan?” I muttered back.
“The very same and in person.”
“Has he been released then?”
“He’s served his three-year sentence, but all his money’s been sequestered.”
My amazement and curiosity both got the better of me, and I started taking sneaking looks in his direction. I felt like cutting him up into pieces so I could finally discover which part of his personality was either missing or present in superabundance.
From one person to another the news gradually made its way around the café. A profound silence descended on the entire place. Everyone was staring at him. For a while he managed to ignore us all, but it did not take long for him to realize that everyone was staring at him. Once he became aware of us, it was as if he were waking up from a long sleep. Slowly and cautiously he began to look around and stare at us with those sunken eyes of his. He certainly recognized some of the faces in the café very well, Isma‘il and Zaynab, for instance. He was particularly interested in Qurunfula. He stretched his legs out, and his lips formed themselves into something which might well have been a smile. Yes indeed, there it was—a smile. I had been afraid that he would panic, but no; he showed absolutely no sign of fear whatsoever. Instead what we all heard was a small voice say “Hello!”
He stared at the faces he knew so well. “Perhaps the two broken fragments will come together again,” he said. He closed his eyes for a moment. “My, my,” he went on as though talking to himself, “the world’s certainly changed. I know this café, and now here we all are, sitting together in a single place accompanied by the direst of memories.”
It was Qurunfula who responded, even though we had not heard a word out of her for ages. “Yes indeed,” she said, “the direst of memories.”
“These days,” he told her, “you don’t own exclusive rights to sorrow.” His voice changed as he went on, “We’re all of us simultaneously criminals and victims.”
“No,” she replied, “the criminal’s one kind of person, and the victim’s entirely different.”
“We’re all of us both criminals and victims,” he repeated. “Anyone who can’t understand that is incapable of understanding anything.”
At this point the young man came back and handed him the bag of medicines. He pointed to one of the medicines on the prescription. “This one’s not available on the market.”
Khalid stood up. “Terrific!” he said. “The disease exists, but the medicine for it isn’t available.” He was about to leave. “You may all be wondering,” he said looking at us all, “what’s been happening to this particular man. What’s his story? Well, you’ll find the answer in these prosaic words:
Innocence in the village,
Nationalism in the city,
Revolution in the darkness,
A chair radiating limitless power,
A magic eye revealing the truth,
A living member dying,
An unseen microbe pulsating with life.”
And, with a final “Good-bye,” he was gone.
Behind him he left a scene of total confusion. Some people assumed he had been babbling, others that he was actually poking fun at us all, still others that he had been trying to defend himself. He had said that the start had been all innocence, and tyrannical forces had corrupted him. But what was the reference to the “magic eye,” “a living member dying,” and “an unseen microbe pulsating with life”?
A few months later we were all astonished when he showed up again, just like the first time. Why had he come back, we asked ourselves? Why didn’t he find somewhere else to wait for his medicine? Did he really want to make his peace with us? Or was there some hidden force pushing him in our direction?
“May I wish
you all a very good evening?” he said as he sat down. He looked round. “When God wills that my health improves,” he said, “I intend to join your group here.”
Munir Ahmad, one of the younger generation who had only joined us recently, asked him why he hadn’t explained his little ‘prose poem’ to us.
“It’s self-evident,” he replied. “There’s no need for explanation. In any case, I hate having to go over all that stuff again!”
“But, Khalid Bey,” chimed in Qurunfula, “I have to tell you that your presence here is very upsetting to all of us.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “There’s nothing like suffering to bring people together.”
After a moment’s silence, he went on, “I promise you I’ll join your little community at the earliest opportunity.” He gave a little laugh. “What are you all talking about these days?”
We all thought it best to say nothing.
“I’m well aware of what people are saying,” he said. “It’s being repeated everywhere. So allow me to clarify for you all the factors in the equation.” He adjusted his position on the chair and then continued.
“In our country there are the religious types. Their interest is in seeing religion dominate every aspect of life—philosophy, politics, morality, and economics. They are refusing to surrender or negotiate with the enemy. For them a peaceful solution is only agreeable if it achieves exactly the same result as outright victory. They’re calling for a struggle, but what’s that supposed to mean? There they all are for you to see, dreaming of prodigious feats of valor performed by the fedayeen or of miracles descending from heaven. They may be willing to accept weapons from the Russians, but all the while they’re actually cursing the Russians and insisting that there be no strings attached. Maybe they would prefer an honorable, peaceful solution implemented through American intervention since that would put a final end to our relationship with Communist Russia.
“And then there are the Rightists of a particular stripe,” he continued. “They want an alliance with America and a severance of all ties with Russia. They would be quite happy with a peaceful solution in spite of all the painful and humiliating concessions we would inevitably have to make. Their dream is to get rid of our current regime and return to a traditional form of democracy and liberal economic policy.
“Next we have the Communists—and the Socialists are essentially a subdivision of the same group. They’re interested in just one thing: ideology—strengthening our ties with Russia. They believe that the national interest and progress are best served through ideology, even though the process may involve a very long period of waiting. In consequence, they favor whichever solution anchors the move toward Communism and Russia, whether it’s peace, or war, or the current situation which they’re calling ‘no peace, no war.’ ”
Remarkable though it may seem, his popularity improved after he had left. Many people valued the survey he had just given and admired his rich store of secret information. Some people even went further and defended the man himself, claiming that he was not the one who was responsible for the crimes he had committed; either that, or else he was not the one primarily responsible.
It was Qurunfula who finally felt compelled to react. “Go on then!” she said angrily. “Shift the blame from one person to the next. It’ll finish up with Gum‘a, the bootblack!”
However, once Khalid Safwan did decide to join the café community, he found a ready welcome.
In just three months we forgot all about the person he had been. He used to appear on the arm of his helper at the same time every evening. He would be accorded the same kind of welcome as everyone else; it was almost as though there was absolutely nothing unusual about him. However, he felt somewhat isolated, so he was the one who opened the conversation.
“Are you all still talking?” he inquired, thus intruding on our general disinterest.
“As usual,” was Zayn al-‘Abidin’s reply.
“Earlier I told you about what other groups are thinking these days,” he said, continuing his intrusion. “But I haven’t told you what I think myself.”
“About the war, you mean?” asked Munir Ahmad.
“That seems to be the point that has everyone baffled,” he responded in a rush. “To me it seems perfectly simple. We were defeated. We were totally unprepared for war. That’s the problem we have to solve, and quickly, even if it involves paying the price. We should be spending every single penny we have making ourselves more advanced culturally. But I really wanted to talk about our way of life in general.”
By now he had everyone’s attention.
“In the minutes I have left here,” he continued, “I’m going to give you all a frank summary of my experiences. I’ve emerged from the defeat, or let’s say from my past life, strongly believing in a set of principles from which I will never deviate as long as I am alive. So what are those principles?
“Firstly, a total disavowal of autocracy and dictatorship. Secondly, a disavowal of any resort to force or violence. Thirdly, we have to rely on the principles of freedom, public opinion, and respect for our fellow human beings as values needed to foster and advance progress. With them at our disposal it can be achieved. Fourthly, we must learn to accept from Western civilization the value of science and the scientific method, and without any argument. Nothing else should be automatically accepted without a full discussion of our current realities. With that in mind, we should be prepared to get rid of all the fetters that tie us down, whether ancient or modern.
“So there is the philosophy of Khalid Safwan,” he said with a yawn. “I’ve learned its principles from within the deepest recesses of hell. I’m proclaiming it here today in Karnak Café, a place to which we have all been driven by a combination of ostracism and crime.”
“Maybe things will turn out better for you and your generation,” I said, leaning toward Munir Ahmad.
“There’s a huge mound of dirt in our path,” he said, “and it’s up to us to clear it away.”
“Truth to tell,” I said sincerely, “your generation—you and your contemporaries—are an unexpected dividend. Out of this all-encompassing darkness a bright light is shining forth, so bright that you might imagine it had been created by magic.”
“You don’t know what we’ve been through.”
“But we’re partners.”
He gave me a doubtful stare.
“Tell me,” I asked him, “what are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Which political label best fits you?”
“Damn all such labels!” he replied angrily.
“From your conversation I gather that you respect religion.”
“That’s true.”
“And also that you respect leftist opinions. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you exactly?”
“I want to be myself, no more, no less.”
“Is it a kind of craving for cultural rootedness?” I asked after a pause for thought.
“Could be.”
“Does that imply a return to the heritage of the past?”
“Certainly not!”
“So where’s this ‘rootedness’ to be found?”
“Here!” he replied pointing to his heart.
Once again I had to pause for thought. “This idea needs further discussion,” I said.
“I’m sure it needs a great deal of discussion,” he responded in all innocence.
I let the others know how much I admired this young man’s vision, to such an extent that one day Zayn al-‘Abidin lost his patience.
“Listen,” he said. “One day, in two or three years’ time, that boy’s going to find himself as a civil servant with a miserable salary. That’ll leave him with just two choices, no more: corruption or emigration.”
That infuriated Qurunfula. “When are you ever going to make a bad mistake,” she asked, “and actually say something decent? Just for once!”
“O lovely source of all
bounty,” he said with a smile of resignation, “the truth is always a bitter pill.”
“But there is a third choice,” she insisted stubbornly.
“And what might that be, my lady?” he asked humbly.
“Whatever our good Lord chooses!”
I was delighted that she had chosen to react that way. In her case I regarded it as a good sign; perhaps she was now ready to start her life again. However, a new and potentially fascinating idea struck me all of a sudden: could it be, I wondered, that she was beginning to fancy the young man? Was he going to take Hilmi Hamada’s place? I’ll confess to not being entirely ignorant of the way that some women of her age can behave, how they can feel a passion for adolescent youths and allow folly and adventure to lead them to extremes. I found myself wishing dearly that, if any of the ideas circulating inside my mind were actually to come to pass, the love affair might follow a level path. I hoped that there would be no selfishness on the one side, and no exploitation on the other. The love might once again discover purity and innocence.
Yes indeed, purity and innocence.
Translator’s Afterword
Dedicated to the memory of Naguib Mahfouz, great Egyptian, intellectual, and littérateur, humble, warmhearted, and ever-witty individual. Allah yarhamuh.
Readers familiar with Naguib Mahfouz’s writings will already be aware of the fact that his works handsomely reward those who are prepared to pay the most careful attention to the nuances of the text. In the case of Karnak Café, the English translation of the novel originally entitled al-Karnak, this is particularly so, but, in making that suggestion, I am thinking of one very particular instance: the way in which the novel ends. I am not here referring to the much-investigated narratological topic of the strategies employed by novel writers in order to achieve closure, but to the fact that the printed text ends with a reference to the fact that it was completed in December 1971.
A rapid survey of the printed editions of Mahfouz’s other novels is sufficient to demonstrate that the author rarely indicates the date of completion in this fashion.