Khan Al-Khalili (11 page)

“Then why was Cairo bombed in the middle of the month?”

“That was al-Sakakini, the quarter where the majority of the inhabitants are Jews.”

“What do you suppose the Muslim peoples can expect from him?”

“Once the war is over, he’s going to restore Islam to its former glory. He will unite the Muslim peoples, and then alliances and treaties of friendship will be signed with Germany.”

“For that reason we pray that God will support him in his war efforts.”

“And he would not be victorious if his motives were not pure—our reward is ultimately a measure of our intentions.”

Ahmad listened to this conversation with a mixture of pleasure and disapproval. True enough, most of them were local folk, but even so it had never occurred to him that their sheer naiveté could reach such a level of illusion or that propaganda—if there were such a thing—had managed to achieve such a comic effect. In spite of that he was unwilling to deny himself the pleasure of this unconscious humor and would not have done so had he not spotted at that very moment his great rival, Ahmad Rashid, walking slowly past him. He jumped up, and they shook hands.

“I didn’t see you today,” Ahmad Akif said.

“No,” replied Ahmad Rashid in his dark spectacles, “I was busy studying a legal case.”

The very mention of the subject aroused his jealousy, and he made no comment.

“I see all our colleagues are here,” the lawyer went on, casting an eye over the assembled company, “but of course I don’t see Boss Nunu.”

“I’m surprised by his strange behavior,” said Ahmad with a smile.

“All summarized in the single phrase ‘God damn the world!’ ”

“For him it’s a slogan; you could almost call it his theme song.”

“He would have paid more heed to death if he were younger.”

“For him it’s a matter of faith.”

“He has a profound sense of God’s presence. Wherever he is, he keeps Him in mind and puts his trust in Him with all his heart. He has not the slightest doubt in his mind that God will never abandon him. That’s why you can see him indulging in every conceivable kind of outrage, firm in the belief that he’s going to receive God’s forgiveness and mercy.”

“I suppose he’s a happy man,” commented Ahmad Akif with a sigh.

“Fool’s paradise is more like it,” the young man retorted with a scoff. “That’s the happiness of ignorant fools and blind faith, the kind of happiness that tyrants enjoy by virtue of controlling the lives of simpletons. It’s really funny that I’ve despaired of ever discovering happiness among
people of wisdom, and yet you seem to find it in such a stupid form. You need to search for genuine happiness within the framework of science and knowledge. If that makes you feel anxious, angry, or miserable, then look on that as a sign of a genuinely virtuous human existence, one that will rid society of its faults and the human soul of its illusions. When it comes to real happiness, Boss Nunu’s version of it only credits our suffering—those of us that support science and reform, that is—to the extent that he can privilege death with its would-be repose over the boons of life with all its struggles and tensions.”

The atmosphere in the bomb shelter had already made Ahmad Akif feel tense, so he did not feel up to arguing with him. “Don’t you think,” he responded with a smile, “that the very unthinking happiness that you’ve just talked about is letting him sleep soundly while we’re all down here sweating it out through the night?”

The young man had more self-control than Ahmad Akif and simply laughed. “He’s undoubtedly sleeping soundly at this very moment, undisturbed by anyone except for the quarter’s ‘husband lover.’ ”

The look on Ahmad Akif’s face made it obvious that he did not understand what his companion was talking about.

“Haven’t you heard about her?” the young lawyer asked with a smile. “She’s a terrific woman. Her official role is to be Abbas Shifa’s wife. Do you remember him? Every evening her house provides a warm welcome to a whole crowd of heads-of-household from this quarter. Boss Zifta, the café owner, calls her the quarter’s ‘husband lover.’ ”

This information startled Ahmad Akif. “You mean.…”

“Yes!”

“What about Abbas Shifa?”

“He’s her official husband, one who’s found both a trade and a profit in playing that role.”

“Is that why everyone makes such a fuss over him even though he’s so ugly and coarse?”

“He is a much esteemed personage!”

At that moment the image of the despicable man with his disheveled hair popped into his mind. Simultaneously, however, the young man moved away, and Ahmad went with him. Very slowly they passed by all the people standing and sitting until they spotted Sayyid Arif sitting beside a pretty young girl with a baby on her lap.

“That’s Sayyid Arif and his wife,” the young man whispered.

“His wife?” Ahmad asked abashed. “How did he get married to her?”

“The way people do,” Ahmad Rashid replied. “He’s a perfectly normal man, apart from a critical condition about which he remains hopeful, especially given those German pills, and he won’t.…”

Ahmad Rashid had no time to finish the sentence because at that moment he was interrupted by a loud bang followed by a whole string of others. Ahmad Akif’s heart skipped a beat. He felt as if his whole body gave a jolt, and that bothered him in case his great rival noticed. Total silence followed, and everyone looked panicked and scared.

“Those are the anti-aircraft guns,” people said as a way of reassuring themselves and everyone else, but all it managed to do—whether intentionally or not—was to make people even more nervous and angry.

A man came rushing in from the outside. “The sky’s full of searchlights,” he said.

That made people even more anxious. There were other
explosions farther away which lasted for a while and then stopped. Once again there was complete silence, which went on for quite a while. People started to relax a bit. First there were a few whispers, then everyone burst into conversation.

“The disaster of random air raids won’t happen again!”

“Radio Berlin has apologized for the raid in mid-September.”

“It was an Italian raid. The Germans don’t make mistakes!”

Ahmad Rashid allowed himself a smile. “Do you see how fanatical these people are in supporting the Germans?” he said. “What about you? Are you the same way?”

As usual, Ahmad Akif relished the chance to empathize with the underdog. Since the majority were supporting the Germans, he was glad to express an opposing viewpoint. “No,” he replied, “I’m for the Allies, heart and soul. What about you?”

“I’ve just one hope,” said Ahmad Rashid, adjusting his spectacles. “I want the Russians to win, and then they can liberate the world from chains and illusions!”

They both moved away from the people who were chatting. At the very end of the other side of the shelter, to the right of the entryway, they spotted their friend Kamal Khalil with his family. Ahmad Akif looked at them carefully and saw a very fat woman, the young boy, Muhammad, still in his pajamas, and the beautiful girl with the honey-colored eyes. Now he could see for himself the game that love had played with him; he was thrilled to discover that the connection he had made a few hours earlier was
correct. He could not keep on staring at her, so he turned away feeling delighted and fulfilled.

“Kamal Khalil and his family,” he heard Ahmad Rashid say.

“Is the girl his daughter?” he asked.

“Yes, he has Muhammad, Nawal, and an elder daughter who’s married.”

He sneaked another glance at her in order to fill himself with that lovely, simple expression so full of charm. She had wrapped herself in a winter coat, and her long black hair was done up in a thick plait. She was looking drowsy and let out a big yawn. At that point Kamal Khalil spotted them both and came over with a smile. They stood there chatting. Ahmad Akif realized that the fact that Kamal had come over to talk to them meant that the family must be paying attention to them; it was not out of the question that those two honey-colored eyes were looking him over—if they had not done so already—with his flowing gallabiya and white skullcap. He suddenly felt shy and blushed. Did she remember him, he wondered. But they did not stay talking for long, because the all-clear siren went off and the shelter resumed its normal busy routine. Ahmad Akif said farewell to his two companions and went back to his parents.

“So you leave us alone while the raid’s on,” said his father angrily, “and you come back when the all-clear is given!”

“God is always with us, whatever the circumstances!” said his mother with a laugh.

Moving very slowly they made their way amid the mass of people toward the shelter’s exit and climbed the stairs to
the street. The light from windows illuminated the way as they climbed up to their apartment. As they went upstairs with everyone else, Ahmad could recognize Kamal Khalil’s voice. Ahmad hurried to his bedroom in the hope of getting to sleep again, but for a long time all he could see were those two honey-colored eyes and the lovely image they presented.

T
he fasting month of Ramadan now approached; there were just a few days left before it started. But Ramadan never arrived unexpectedly, and its advent was always preceded by preparations to accord with its sacred status. Ahmad’s mother was never going to be one to shirk her duties in that regard, she being the person in the household primarily responsible for making sure that the month was properly observed and respected. One day she made it the topic of family conversation.

“It’s a month that brings its own rules as well as obligations,” she said, obviously directing her remarks at Ahmad.

He was well aware of the point she was making. “For sure Ramadan has its rules,” he replied defensively, “but war is a bitter necessity for all of us. It overrides all other obligations.”

His mother was very unhappy at that remark. “God forbid that we should ever break our customs,” she said.

That managed to arouse his miserly streak. “Ramadan
can pass just like any other month,” he said in an exasperated tone. “We can make up for the things we missed doing sometime in the future when there’s peace.”

“But what about Ramadan treats: candied almonds, honey cakes, and mini-stuffed pancakes?”

Even though he was feeling annoyed, the very mention of those treats had a magical effect on him, not merely because he loved them so much but also because they invoked happy memories of the beloved month and especially his childhood. Even so, such memories, wonderful though they might be, were not enough to counteract the bitter reality of inflation or to soften his frugality.

So, even though in his heart of hearts he longed to go along with the idea, he delivered a firm refusal. “Let’s forget about such luxuries as long as we’re living through these difficult times. Let’s beg God Almighty to help us with the bare necessities of life.”

His father gave the impression of not paying much attention, but in fact he was listening carefully to what his son was saying. He was inclined to agree with his wife’s position, but did not have the necessary courage to say this in so many words. However, he intervened at the crucial moment.

“There’s no need for us to either stint or be extravagant,” he said.

His son realized full well that his father was taking his mother’s side, and he certainly could not talk to him as bluntly as he had to his mother. From a very early age he had learned to respect his father. As was always the case, the last thing he wanted to do was to ignore the hand extended to him for help now that he had become his
father’s primary source of support. With that in mind, he made no comment although he felt awkward and unsure of what to say.

It was his father who eventually spoke. “We can make do,” he said, “with some pine-nuts and raisins for stuffing and a packet of apricot drink mix to whet the whistle. We need only have honey-cake just once, and the stuffed pancakes twice; they don’t need to be cooked in fat. All that won’t cost a lot.”

The whole thing appalled him. He was sure that during Ramadan they would spend what little he usually saved every month. He might even have to withdraw an additional amount from his savings account. That idea really stuck in his craw. Just then he remembered something else that was even more significant than the honey cake and candied almonds.

“What about meat?” he asked.

“The government has allowed the purchase of meat throughout the holy month,” said his mother, mustering all her resources. “That’s because a piece of meat is something that the heart of an exhausted faster really comes to rely on.”

“But our budget’s too small,” protested Ahmad. “We can’t afford to buy a pound of meat every day along with all our other necessities!”

“You’re right,” said his father, but then used a certain amount of cunning as he went on to say, “so it’ll be better for us to eat no meat once every three days.”

In the few days left before Ramadan actually started, the mother busied herself getting the kitchen ready, cleaning pots and pans, and storing away almonds, sugar,
onions, and spices. Even though she had only been observing the Ramadan fast for a few years, the advent of the fasting month was still a source of pleasure and delight for her since it was always a month devoted to the kitchen as much as to fasting itself—even though the latter was its primary purpose. What was best about the month were the long nights and enjoyable visits where conversation would be accompanied by the cracking of nuts and melon seeds. This particular year they were lucky because Ramadan was falling in the month of October when the weather was usually mild and the temperature would be reasonable. That would make it feasible to stay up until the initial crack of light announced the arrival of dawn.

The night of the moon-sighting arrived; after sunset everyone was waiting and wondering if today would be the day. At dinnertime the lights on the minaret of the al-Husayn Mosque were turned on to announce that the moon had indeed been sighted. Because of the war emergency, they had decided not to fire off cannons but to make the announcement by illuminating the minaret. The entire column had been decorated with lightbulbs that emitted a pearly light over the entire neighborhood. Groups of people with drums now toured the quarter, calling out “Time to fast! To the fast let us aspire, just as Islam’s judge requires!” Young men greeted the group with shouts, while the girls ululated. A feeling of joy spread throughout the quarter as though borne on a night breeze.