Cairo Modern (5 page)

He turned toward Mahgub without altering his expression, which he rarely modified, for he was not surprised or
startled and looked neither glad nor sad. Whenever he wished to express his anger, which he frequently did, he would speak in a rude tone of voice. Turning toward Mahgub, he said with calm composure, “How are you, Mahgub?”

“Thanks to you and praise to God! But, sir, what brings you to the railway station?”

Al-Ikhshidi replied in his composed voice, “I’m traveling to our hometown, al-Qanatir, to visit my father. But what brings you? It’s not time for your vacation.”

Mahgub said with obvious sorrow, “I’m heading to al-Qanatir as well to tend to my sick father.”

“Abd al-Da’im Effendi’s ill? May God restore his health! Give him my greetings.”

Then they walked side by side to the platform for al-Qanatir. Not having heard any news of al-Ikhshidi for some time, Mahgub asked, “Sir, are you still Qasim Bey Fahmi’s secretary?”

Al-Ikhshidi, whose eyes showed the hint of a smile, replied, “I’ve now been nominated to become his office manager. The memo is with personnel.”

Mahgub responded with unalloyed delight, “Congratulations, congratulations, sir!”

Raising his eyebrows arrogantly, the other man added tersely, “Level five.”

Mahgub exclaimed, “Congratulations, congratulations! Next it will be level four!”

Al-Ikhshidi said philosophically, “Our country has been plundered and looted. Its affairs are in the hands of weak fools. No matter how high we advance, it will always be less than we deserve.”

Mahgub endorsed this statement, remarking, “That’s true, sir.”

Then al-Ikhshidi excused himself and headed toward the
first-class carriage. The young man watched till he disappeared. So he made his way to third class, his distress and his dreams both visible in his expression. He took a seat in the coach, his mind reflecting busily, al-Ikhshidi never far from his thoughts. Two years before, al-Ikhshidi had been a final-year student just as he, Mahgub, was now. Perhaps he too had lost his belief in principles, only without broadcasting that fact or making a fuss about it. Perhaps there was no fundamental difference between the two of them. Intellectually and morally—or amorally—they were the same. Their temperaments, however, were quite different. Salim al-Ikhshidi weighed his words carefully, and Mahgub had never heard him disparage any principle or ethical maxim. Mahgub, on the other hand, despite his caution, made fun of everything. Something that Mahgub remembered and would not forget was that his acquaintance was known toward the end of his university years as an important student leader, a hero of the boycott committees, and a distributor of pamphlets opposing the new constitution. He also remembered that al-Ikhshidi was once invited to meet the minister. Many predictions were made about the meeting, and many people expected that some injustice or outrage would occur. Instead, the young man did an abrupt about-face and withdrew entirely from politics, terminating his previously boundless activities. From that time on he was seen only in lecture halls. If anyone asked him the secret behind this transformation, he would reply as coolly as ever, “The real arena for student activism is learning!” When he received his degree, he was appointed to government service—ahead of the top students—to serve as Qasim Bey Fahmi’s secretary, sponsored by the minister himself. Moreover, he started at the sixth level, which at that time seemed a mythical paradise. Now he was a candidate for the fifth level, less than two years after his first
appointment—long after the minister who had recruited him had resigned. This fact showed that he had earned the trust of Qasim Bey himself and would continue to advance. What a role model! He certainly was a man who deserved admiration and envy. The glory of his post and his prosperity clearly set him apart. So what if Ma’mun Radwan and Ali Taha despised him? Tuzz.

The train barreled along, and cold air penetrated the interior, even though the windows were shut tight. He only became conscious of the chill, however, when he reached the end of this series of reflections. So he buttoned his jacket and sat up straight. He quickly recalled his father’s illness and realized that he had been exploring dreams while ignoring the abyss before him. His gloom returned. He looked about sorrowfully and dejectedly till the train stopped at al-Qanatir. Then he collected his parcel and disembarked. As he quit the station for the street, he cast a comprehensive look at the town and cried out, “Qanatir, our city, may you distribute good fortune equitably among all your citizens!”

I
n just a few minutes he found himself in front of the small house where he had been born—a one-story structure with a yard enclosed by wooden stakes in front. The look of the place suggested not merely simplicity but squalor.

The house was on the opposite side of the street from the train station. Its flat roof offered a view of the fields beyond the tracks. The house was plunged into darkness, except for a gleam of light emanating from a gap at his father’s window. His heart would not stop pounding, and fear and hope clashed inside him. He crossed the front yard to the door and knocked gently. Then he heard the clop of wooden clogs. Recognizing the step, he opened the door, where the apparition stood. He drew nearer, saying, “Good evening, Mother.”

He heard a voice sigh, “You!” Then she took his hand between hers and asked in the same exhausted voice, “How are you, son? My heart told me it was you.”

The hall was so dark that he could not make out her features. Closing the door, he asked anxiously, “Mother, what happened? How’s my father?”

The woman replied in a mournful voice, “May our Lord take him by the hand.”

He placed the parcel containing his gallabiya on a table and entered his father’s room with wary steps. His eyes examined the man, who was stretched out on the bed. Then he approached him. The man’s head was tilted toward the
wall. Mahgub mumbled faintly, “Good evening, Father. How are you?”

His father gave no indication that he had heard or understood anything. So his mother leaned over and said, “Mahgub’s greeting you.”

The man slowly moved his head round and opened his eyelids. Then he extended his left hand, which Mahgub took between both of his and kissed. The man looked very ill, and his eyes were clouded, as though oozing a foul liquid. His mouth was contorted too.

Mahgub asked, “Father, how are you? All power flows from God.”

The man rested his eyes on him and, speaking in a voice that came in spurts and sounded almost like a death rattle, replied, “Noon today was the first time I spoke again.”

Mahgub felt alarmed and asked his mother, “Was he unable to speak for a time?”

The exhausted woman said, “Yes, son. He was at work last Tuesday afternoon as usual. He suddenly fell down and lost the ability to speak. They carried him here and called the doctor. He came, cupped him, and gave him an injection. He continues to visit him every morning. His ability to speak returned only before noon today.”

“What did the doctor say?”

The look in her eyes was anxious, and her lips moved without making any sound. Then his father said, “He said it is paralysis … partial … paralysis.”

The young man was alarmed by this hideous word, even though he was totally ignorant of its medical implications. Wishing to allay his fears, his mother observed, “But he stressed this morning that the danger has passed.”

In his staccato, slurred speech, the father continued, “I … understand … what was said.… I’ll never be the same.”

Biting his lip, Mahgub asked his mother, “Did this happen without any warning?”

“No, son. Your father was in the best of health—as we’ve always known him—but then his right leg began to feel heavy and he had a headache Monday night.”

Everyone was silent. Then the invalid closed his eyes and stopped moving, as if he had fallen into a sound slumber. The young man turned his head toward his mother and realized at once that she had not slept a wink since Tuesday evening. Her eyes were red, lackluster, and encircled by blue halos, and her skin was pale. He was overcome by sorrow and grief. His parents seemed creatures as miserable as he was. He sat down on a chair near the bed, bowed his head, and reflected: This family’s destiny depends on the life of a ruined man. What’s beneath those sealed eyelids: life or death? Success or homelessness? Why didn’t this stroke wait a year? He recalled silent, majestic Rashad Pasha Street: the mansions on either side of it, the pashas and beys transported back and forth to it in automobiles, and the women who could be glimpsed from behind curtains or between the shrubbery. How did his wretched parents compare to all those people? And this dilapidated house! He began to tell himself that if he were the heir to one of those mansions and his father—the pasha—was on the brink of death, he would be waiting impatiently for his demise. He sighed from a wounded heart where rage flared. Then he asked himself, his head still bowed: I wonder how this tragedy will end?

He looked stealthily at his mother, who was seated by his feet with her head bowed. He saw that she was enveloped by the black clothing she had sworn she would always wear in memory of his two sisters, who had died of typhoid. Her face was withered, and she looked older than her age, which was a
little over fifty. She had succumbed to the burdens of a life spent by the flame of the cook-stove and heat of the oven—kneading dough, baking, washing, and sweeping. Her fingers were worn to the bone and the veins stood out on the back of her hands. She had lacked any opportunity for small talk during her life. She resembled the invisible fuel powering a large engine. She loved her son to the point of adoration, and this affection had doubled after his two siblings died in the bloom of childhood. Even so, she had not exerted any noticeable influence on his development. She had never had anyone she could talk to and had lived in silent ignorance as if mute. His father’s circumstances similarly had obliged him to withdraw from his son’s life. He worked nonstop at the firm from morning till after supper. Then he hurried off to Sufi dhikr circles, where he chanted till midnight. Thus he barely saw his son. He was a serious, indefatigable man, loyal to his chums and a good representative and reflection of them. He took pride in his kinship to a major bureaucrat—a relative of his wife’s. Like her, he never enjoyed any free time. He was not sustained by his marriage, and his supervision of his son was limited to forcing him to observe some of his religion’s duties—with frequent recourse to the stick. For all these reasons, Mahgub had feared his father while growing up and fled to the street where his upbringing and formation were completed. Thus his tie to his parents was weak and frayed. He loved his mother more than his father but remained ready to sacrifice his relationship to his parents in keeping with his nihilistic philosophy, which had no basis whatsoever. He did not grieve for his father as much as he felt anxious about the man who allocated three pounds to him each month.

O
n the morning of the second day, the physician came, examined the patient, and gave him an injection of camphor. Then he declared his satisfaction with the condition of his patient, who was definitely out of danger. Mahgub followed the man out of the room and caught up with him in the yard. The doctor turned toward him, realizing why he had trailed after him. “I told your father the truth. The stroke was partial; otherwise it would have been fatal. All the same, I told him just as candidly that he won’t be able to return to work. He’ll remain in bed for a few months. He should regain control of his paralyzed side. Indeed, he may even walk again.”