Yes, my memoirs would make a wonderful book—if they were ever written.
I have paid a nostalgic visit to the Atheneus, Pastoroudis’, and the Antoniadis and have sat for some time in the lobbies of the Cecil and the Windsor, the places where pashas and foreign politicians used to meet in the old days, the best places to pick up news. I saw no one I knew, only a few foreigners, Westerners and Orientals, and made my way home with two silent prayers: may God help me back to the fold of His faith…and may I die on my feet!
—
A lovely portrait, throbbing with youth and life: a young woman, her right knee on a chair, her left foot resting lightly on the floor, her wrists poised on the back of the chair, bending forward facing the camera and smiling with a proud sense of her own beauty, the extravagant décolletage of her old-fashioned dress showing a graceful neck and marble-white bosom.
Mariana sits in her black coat and navy-blue scarf, waiting to leave for her appointment with the doctor.
“You said you lost your money because of the Revolution?”
She raises her penciled eyebrows. “Haven’t you heard of the stock-market crash? She can see the questioning look in my eyes. “That’s when I lost all the money I’d made during the Second World War. And believe me, it was made out of courage. I stayed on in Alexandria, when everyone else had run off to Cairo and the country. I wasn’t afraid of the German air raids. I painted the windowpanes blue and drew the curtains and let them dance by candlelight. You never saw anything like the generosity of His Britannic Majesty’s officers!”
After she leaves I sit on my own, staring into the eyes of her first husband, who stares from his gilt frame back at me. I wonder who killed you, and how? How many of my generation did you kill before you came to your end? The generation that outdid all others in the extent of its sacrifice. Those were the days. So many fallen.
—
This foreign singing never stops. It is the worst trial of my solitary existence. Returning from her doctor’s, Mariana has had a hot bath. Now she sits in the hall wrapped in a white bathrobe, her dyed hair done up and covered all over with dozens of white metal curlers. She turns the sound of the radio down to a whisper in order to start her own broadcast.
“Monsieur Amer, you must have plenty of money.”
“Do you have any project in hand?” I ask cautiously.
“Not really, but at your age, and mine too—though there is such a big difference—our worst enemies are poverty and ill health.”
“I’ve always had enough for my needs and I hope to die with an easy mind.” I remain on my guard.
“I don’t remember that you were ever a spendthrift.”
I laugh. “I hope my savings may outlive me.”
She waves her hand carelessly. “The doctor was very encouraging today. I promised him I’d throw off all my cares.”
“That’s good.”
“So we must have some fun on New Year’s Eve.”
“Yes. If our hearts can take it.”
“Oh, those wonderful parties!” She wags her head, beaming with recollected pleasure. “These old memories stir up the embers,” she says wistfully.
“You were loved by many great men.”
“I was truly in love only once.” She points to the Captain’s portrait. “He was killed by one of those students. Imagine my slaving for them now! This used to be the pension for quality. I had a cook working for me, his assistant, a waiter, a laundress, and two other servants. Now it’s a charwoman, once a week.”
“Many of the ‘quality’ would envy you now.”
“Don’t make fun of me, Monsieur Amer.”
I say hesitantly, “They would. If they knew.”
Her face grows grave and I laugh to cheer her up.
The Beneficent
Hath made known the Koran.
He hath created man.
He hath taught him utterance.
The sun and the moon are made punctual.
The stars and the trees adore
And the shy He hath uplifted; and He hath set the measure…
Sunk deep in the big chair, my feet resting on a cushion, I am reading the Sura of the Beneficent, dear to my heart since my days at al-Azhar. Outside there is a heavy downpour, the rain drumming loudly on the iron stairs in my air shaft.
Everyone that is thereon will pass away;
There remaineth but the countenance of thy Lord of Might and Glory.
I hear voices in the hall. Is it a guest or a new lodger? Mariana’s tones are too warm for a stranger—it must be an old friend. I hear laughter too, a hollow male voice. Who can it be?
It is early in the afternoon and it is still raining hard, the clouds decanting enough darkness into the room to make it seem like night. I reach to turn on a lamp, but as I press the switch the shutters gleam with lightning and I hear rolling thunder.
O company of jinn and men, if ye have power to penetrate all regions of the heavens and the earth, then penetrate them! Ye will never penetrate them save with Our sanction.
He is thickset, with pudgy cheeks, a double chin, and blue eyes, in spite of his dark skin. Unmistakably an aristocrat, a silent, proud man. His hands move with calculated precision when he speaks. Madame introduces him in the evening as Tolba Bey Marzuq: “He was Undersecretary of State for the Ministry of Mortmain Endowments and a great landowner.”
I have no need of further introduction. I had known him well enough in my profession, from those years of political and party conflicts. He was one of the King’s henchmen and naturally an enemy of the Wafd. I recall that his property had been put under sequestration a year ago, with all his resources confiscated, leaving only the usual allowance. Mariana is in her best mood. She speaks repeatedly of their old friendship. Her warmth is explained when she calls him her “old flame.”
“I read a great deal, years ago, of what you used to write,” he remarks. I laugh pointedly and so does he. “Yours was a good example of a fine pen serving a bad cause.” He laughs again, but I will not let myself be drawn into an argument.
“Tolba Bey is an old graduate of the Jesuit schools,” Madame says smugly. “We shall listen together to the French songs on the radio.” She adds, opening her palms wide in welcome, “He’s come to stay.”
“That’s nice.”
“He had a thousand feddans. Money was nothing to him,” she says nostalgically. “A mere plaything.”
“No more playing now.” He is obviously piqued.
“Where is your daughter, Tolba Bey?”
“In Kuwait. Her husband’s in business.”
I’d heard that Tolba Bey had been under suspicion for some attempt to smuggle his money out of the country, but his explanation is simple. “I had to pay for a piece of momentary folly.”
“Was there an investigation?”
“They wanted my money,” he says contemptuously, “that’s all.”
Mariana scrutinized him thoughtfully. “You’ve changed a great deal, Tolba Bey.”
“I had a stroke,” he says, smiling with the little mouth that is buried in his fat cheeks. “Almost knocked me off. But I’m all right now. I can even drink whiskey in moderation.”
—
He dipped the bun in his tea, eating slowly, for he was obviously not used to his new set of teeth. We were alone at breakfast. A few days had brought us nearer to one another. The sense of companionship had got the better of the old political differences as well as the deeply rooted aversion of two opposed temperaments, though occasionally the buried differences would drift up to the surface, reawakening an ugly antagonism.
“Do you know what really caused all those misfortunes of ours?”
“What misfortunes?” I asked, taken by surprise.
“You old fox! You know perfectly well what I mean!” He raised his gray eyebrows. “They’ve abolished your party’s name and following, just as they’ve confiscated our money.”
“You’ve forgotten that I left the Wafd—and all party politi
cs—after February Fourth.”
“No matter. They have stricken the pride of all our generation.”
I had no inclination to argue. “All right. And so?”
“One man is responsible for this,” he said deliberately, with a deep note of loathing. “This chain tightening around our necks. And strangely enough, hardly anyone mentions him.”
“Who’s that?”
“Saad Zaghloul.”
It was so preposterous that I laughed in his face.
“But he is!” he retorted sharply. “He started all these troubles. This class business. His impudence, his arguing the toss with the King and playing up to the masses was only the beginning. It was an evil seed he sowed. And now like a cancer it’ll finish us, one and all.”
—
There were only a few visitors at the Palma. Tolba Marzuq sat staring at the sluggish Nile water running in the Mahmoudiya Canal. I stretched out my legs and sat back in my chair, drinking in the pristine rays of the sun. We had left the windy seafront for this quiet haven at the far end of the city. It was a pleasant spot among the dense foliage of flowers and trees, warm and sunny on fine days.
For all his aggressive bad temper, I could not help pitying him.
To have to start a bitter new life after sixty! He envied his daughter the bliss of exile, and he had strange dreams. He had no patience whatever with any social theory that could justify his personal misfortune as a historical necessity: any attempt against his property was a breach of the laws of God and Nature.
“You know, I almost decided to leave the pension when I learned that you were there.”
“But why?”
“I chose the Miramar in the hope that apart from that foreign woman I’d have the place to myself.”
Why had he changed his mind, then?
“It seemed to me that I’d never heard of anyone over eighty playing Judas.”
That amused me very much. Was there any reason to fear government agents?
“None really. But I sometimes need to find consolation in just talking. And I can’t live in the country.” He went on with rising anger. “They’ve taken my house. And in Cairo the atmosphere is a constant humiliation. So I thought of my old mistress. I said to myself, ‘She’s lost her husband in one revolution—and her money in the other. We’ll be a fit match for each other.’ ”
A little later, he congratulated me on my good health, in spite of my age, and tried to persuade me to go with him to a cinema or an indoor café. Suddenly he asked, “Why has God stopped using His powers?” And when I did not understand: “Why? Floods, catastrophic storms…”
“Do you think the Flood could possibly have killed more people than the Hiroshima bomb?”
“Cut out the Communist propaganda, you hypocrite! The Americans should have taken control of the whole world when they had the secret of the atom bomb all to themselves. Their pussyfooting was a terrible mistake.”
“And you cut out your nonsense. And tell me something: are you back on the old terms with Mariana?”
“You must be mad,” he snorted. “I’m too old. Broken by age and politics. I’d need a miracle for that sort of thing. And as for her, she’s a woman only in the abstract. But what about you? Have you forgotten all your old escapades? The scandal sheets of the thirties were full of them; your chasing every skirt—or rather melaya—in Sharia Muhammad Ali.”
I laughed, and made no comment.
“Have you returned to the Faith?” he asked.
“What about you? Sometimes I think you must find it hard to believe in anything.”
“How can I deny God,” he asked angrily, “when I am deep in His hell?”
—
“People like you were made for hell! Get out! God will never bless any of your work! Get out of this sanctified house, as Iblis was turned out of God’s grace!”
—
The clock in the hall struck midnight. The wind whistled in the air shaft. I sat sunk in my warm armchair, too lazy to go to bed, thinking in my loneliness, “What good is remorse after eighty?” Abruptly, the door opened and Tolba Marzuq stood there without knocking.
“I beg your pardon. I saw the light. Thought you were still awake.”
I looked at him in surprise. It was obvious that he was drunk.
“Do you know how much I used to spend every month just on medicine,” he asked, “on vitamins, hormones, perfume, creams—and so forth?” He jerked his head sideways at every item.
I waited for him to go on, until he closed his eyes, as though exhausted by the effort, then went out and shut the door.
The marquee was full of people; the surrounding square was like Judgment Day. Fireworks burst in the air, crackling light turning night into day, to declare the Prophet’s birth. The Rolls-Royce drew up slowly and stopped before the marquee. The crowd, fellow members of the Dimirdashiyya, rushed forward to receive Tolba Marzuq, the Undersecretary of State, as he stepped out—followers of the Way, who had contrived somehow to reconcile love for the Prophet with love for His British Excellency, the Resident. His Other Excellency, the owner of the Rolls-Royce, saw me in the crowd and deliverately turned his back. And that night, Tolba, they said that you’d turned up just as you’ve turned up tonight—drunk. And then the Master of Song was called to the middle of the tent to begin the evening with “O Ultimate Heaven.” He sang on and on into the small hours until he finally gave us “Would that mine eyes might see you every day,” and ravished us all.
A wonderful memory; when it was exactly I can’t remember, but it must have been before the death of my own great master, or I would not have enjoyed myself as I did.
—
I was sitting by myself in the pension when the bell rang. I opened the judas as Madame always did and met a pair of eyes that belonged to a pretty face, a suntanned face, framed in the black scarf of a fellaha, with features full of character and an expectant look that went instantly to the heart.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Zohra,” she said simply, as if she were somehow sure I’d know the name.
“And what can I do for you, Zohra?” I asked, smiling.
“I want Madame Mariana.”
I opened the door and she came in, carrying a little bundle. She looked around inquiringly.
“Where is Madame?”
“She’ll be here soon. Sit down.”
She sat on the edge of a chair with her bundle on her knees. I went back to my seat. A strong graceful figure, a very charming young face. I tried to draw her into conversation.
“Your name is Zohra?”
“Yes, Zohra Salama.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Zayadiyya, Beheira.”
“You have an appointment with Madame?”
“No. I just came to see her.”
“She knows you, of course?”
“Oh yes.”
I regarded her. She was attractive. I hadn’t felt so good for ages.
“You’ve lived here long?”
“I’ve never lived in Alexandria, but I used to come here often with my father before he died.”
“How did you come to know Madame?”
“Father used to sell her cheese and butter and chickens, and once in a while I’d come with him.”
“I see. You’ve taken up your father’s business?”
“No.” She turned her gaze away toward the screen. I could see she did not want to say any more. Respecting her privacy, I refrained from questioning her further, liking her the more for her reserve and admiring her in silence.
I kissed her thin, leathery hand.
“With your blessings, I am now a man you can well be proud of. Come with me to Cairo,” I said.
“God prosper you tenfold”—she looked at me tenderly—“but I can’t leave my home. It’s my whole life.” A weary old house, its walls flaking, beaten by a wind that left salt on its stones and the smell of fish in heaps on the shore at Anfushi.
“But you’re all
alone here.”
“The Creator of day and night is always with me.”
The bell rang and Zohra went and opened the door. “Zohra!” Mariana cried. “What a surprise!” The girl kissed her hand, her face beaming at the warm welcome. “It is good to see you. God rest your father’s soul. You’re married?”
“No!”
“Impossible!” Laughing, Mariana turned to me as she took Zohra inside. “Her father was a truly good man, Monsieur Amer.”
I felt a surge of paternal tenderness toward the girl.
—
“Now I can relax,” Madame informed Tolba and me that evening. “Zohra will help me.”
I was seized by mixed feelings of pleasure and anxiety. “Has she come to work as a maid?”
“Yes. And why not? She’ll be better off here anyway.”
“But…”
“But what? She used to rent half a feddan and work it herself. What do you think of that?”
“Good. But why did she leave her village?”
Mariana gave me a long look before saying, “She ran away.”
“Ran away?”
“Did they take her for a feudalist as well?” said Tolba, chuckling.
“Her grandfather wanted to marry her to an old man, who probably needed her as a nurse. You can guess the rest.”
“But it’s extremely serious for her,” I said gravely. “The village won’t forgive her.”
“She has no one but her grandfather and a married elder sister.”
“What if they find out that she’s here?”