Khan Al-Khalili (17 page)

“I’m glad you’ve arrived home safe and sound!” said Ahmad, clasping his brother’s arm. “How are you?”

“I’m very well, brother,” Rushdi replied happily, his face somewhat flushed as a result of the journey’s exertions.

Amid a horde of other people the two brothers walked side by side toward the exit. They were of roughly the same height and had the same thin build. Even though Ahmad looked somewhat crumpled and his younger brother much fresher, there was no mistaking the fact that they were brothers. Their facial features were similar too, except that in Rushdi’s case they were more handsome while Ahmad’s face sagged a bit and more often than not he was frowning and looking tired. Rushdi had the same long, thin face, but his cheeks were not as pale as Ahmad’s, and, while his olive skin may have turned a bit sallow recently, he still looked in the full flush of youth. His eyes were elongated and widely spaced, but their irises were larger. That made his looks seem more piercing; his eyes had a glow to them that suggested a sharp mind, a propensity for fun, and a willingness to take risks.

As they walked shoulder to shoulder, they soon felt the irresistible urge to chat, as is only to be expected with people who have been apart for a long time. They had no idea where to start, what to talk about and what not. It was the younger brother who started things.

“Before anything else,” he asked his brother, “how’s Mother?”

“As well as you could wish her to be. She’s still pursuing those childish fancies of hers without caring in the slightest about the way it affects me. So go ahead and grab your portion of it!”

“All the time I’ve been in Asyut, I’ve never forgotten my portion of it! I’ve bought her some ivory ornaments, nice plates, and subtle scents that will suit her lady friends, I hope.” (He gave a loud laugh at that.) “And how’s Father?”

“Just as you remember him: prayers at home and visits to the mosque. Now we’re living close to the al-Husayn Mosque, so may he find blessings there.”

Smiling, Rushdi said, “I must say, I was amazed when I heard you had all moved to the al-Husayn district.”

By now they had reached the Station Square, where they took a taxi. Rushdi paid the porter a tip, and then the taxi took off and crossed the broad square. Rushdi’s lovely light brown eyes scanned the scene, taking in all the cars, carts, trolleys, and pedestrians.

“My head’s almost spinning,” he said, banging his forehead with a finger. “It’s as though I’m seeing trolleys and the metro for the first time ever. Do you remember the joke about the country yokel who comes to Cairo for the first time? No sooner does he look at this teeming square than he panics. He goes straight back to the train. ‘I’ve arrived too late,’ he tells himself sorrowfully, ‘everyone’s leaving!’ ”

Ahmad laughed out loud. He had always loved his brother’s sense of humor and his basic simplicity. Luckily Rushdi was no university type in the literal sense of the term; not for him academic topics or any concern with memorizing their technical terms. But for that, he would have been a clone of Ahmad Rashid. What’s more, he was one of the people actually taken in by Ahmad’s pseudo-erudition; he regarded his brother as a genuine intellectual and was as convinced as his brother that the other possessed a fine mind. For his part, Ahmad was delighted by the way his brother believed in him and regarded him as a symbol of the Egyptian University’s certification of his superior genius.

“Cairo’s one of God’s gifts to mankind!” enthused
Rushdi. “It’s this world and the next all rolled into one. Day and night, heaven and hell, East and West. The entire process is a miracle!”

“You must have been very bored in Asyut.”

“Any place other than Cairo would be equally boring!”

Ahmad stared at him. “For people like you, prison’s the best place. In any case your expression doesn’t look very relaxed.”

The younger brother smiled, revealing a set of near-white teeth. “Whenever two bureaucrats get together anywhere,” he remarked with a leer, “the gambling table will always be their companion.”

Ahmad sighed. “I hereby rule,” he said, “that you be deprived of the blessing of sleep forever!”

“The blessing of sleep?” his brother replied. “Sleep’s actually a curse. It involves purloining a huge and priceless chunk of our short lives.”

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about!”

“My dear brother, you’re a very sage man, and I’m a crazy youth. That’s the way young people like me think.”

“So you’re going back to.…”

“God willing, yes. In Asyut I met a man who’s a devotee of comedy. He used to say that the best nourishment for good health is drama. If that’s so, then rowdy behavior must be a very precious vitamin!”

“And what if it’s not so?”

“Let’s pray to God that it is. But tell me, when did you start getting so fat?”

“You know I’m continually studying and contemplating.”

“True enough. Maybe it’s natural for our family to be skinny.”

“And what about your mother?”

Rushdi gave a hearty laugh at that. He took off his fez and revealed a gleaming head of hair with a nice clean parting in the middle. “But then,” he said with great affection, “she’s always relied on the drug store to work wonders! How I’ve longed to see her all this time. Tell me, does she still talk about exorcism ceremonies?”

“No longer quite so blatantly,” Ahmad responded with obvious disgust. “But once in a while she still complains about how cruel people are to prevent her from participating in them.”

“Our mother is as gentle as an angel. She never loses her temper. I can hardly ever remember her being anything but happy and full of laughter.”

Ahmad smiled.

“Devils are certainly something to believe in,” Rushdi continued. “I have to admit though that I’ve never actually seen any despite a lengthy relationship with deserted streets late at night.”

“Mankind is the worst devil of them all. Just think of this war.”

Rushdi laughed again. The mention of the war reminded him of the family’s move from al-Sakakini. “Indeed it’s this devilish mankind that’s forced us to leave our old quarter. Amazing! Don’t you realize, Ahmad, that up until now I’ve never even set eyes on the Khan al-Khalili quarter?”

The mention of the quarter’s name aroused a profound sense of joy in the elder brother’s heart. “You’re going to be seeing it morning and night,” he said with great affection.

“Did things get so bad that you had to all leave al-Sakakini?”

“Certainly. Many people were convinced that the air raids were going to destroy Cairo the way they had London, Rotterdam, and Warsaw. But God decided otherwise. Father was in very bad shape, so we decided to get out.”

The younger brother shook his head sadly. He looked at the street outside and noticed that they were crossing Queen Farida Square on the way up al-Azhar Street. The scene called to mind memories of unforgettable love affairs that now wafted across his heart the way a breeze does over gently glowing embers.

“So how do you find the new place?” he asked, perking up considerably.

If he had been asked that same question earlier on, he would have been almost totally negative. But now …! “Just wait until you can see it for yourself, Rushdi. It may take a while, but you’ll get used to it.”

“What are the neighbors like?”

“Mostly lower-class types, but some of the people living in the new apartment buildings belong to our class.”

“Have you found somewhere suitable to think and do your studies?”

The question delighted him, as anything would that reminded him he was an intellectual. “As the proverb says,” he replied, “ ‘Wear the appropriate clothing for every occasion.’ That’s why every evening I go to the local café and sit there with some friends. Once the radio stops or the general din dies down, I return home to study.”

“So at long last you’ve learned how to visit cafés!” Rushdi commented with a laugh.

“One of the requirements of our new quarter,” Ahmad replied with a smile.

The taxi came to a halt by the entrance to Khan al-Khalili. The two men got out, and the driver followed behind with the suitcase.

“Take good note of the things around you,” Ahmad warned as they plunged into the labyrinth of streets. “Learn the streets by heart, or else you’ll get completely lost.”

As they approached the apartment building, Ahmad noticed his mother looking out of the window in his room. Grabbing his brother by the arm, he pointed up to her. Looking up, Rushdi saw his mother with a brown scarf tied around her head; she was fully made up just like a bride waiting for her groom. No sooner did their eyes meet than she was opening her arms to embrace him. It only took a few moments longer until she was actually giving him a warm embrace.

T
hey all gathered around the table. By this time Rushdi’s father had appeared and the younger son had kissed his hand. They embarked upon their conversation with relish. Rushdi told them about Asyut and its people, about his feelings of loneliness, and longing for his family and home. The father spoke about air raids and the incendiary bombs dropped by planes. Rushdi’s mother talked about her neighbor, and about Boss Nunu and his four wives. Just then she noticed that Rushdi had not gained a single pound while he was away. Transferring her attention to the cookies, she let him know that he was about to taste cookies the like of which no one in Egypt had ever before savored.

With that, she took him to his room. Once Rushdi was on his own, he could no longer control his temper; it was written all over his face. Ever since he had taken in the scene at the entrance to Khan al-Khalili, he had felt his heart sinking. When he entered the apartment, he was astonished at how tiny it was, and he knew for sure that he
could never feel at home in this new place. What made him even angrier was that all his friends were still in al-Sakakini and neighboring suburbs. From now on, he would be spending the evening with them; then he would have to trek all the way back to this quarter, meandering his way in a drunken stupor along its narrow alleyways. Seething with anger, he told himself he would have to make his way back to their old house or another one nearby, however much it cost.

He opened his suitcase and took everything out. Humming one of Abd al-Wahhab’s songs as was his habit, he started arranging his clothes in the wardrobe. After changing his clothes, he made his way to the bathroom at the opposite end of the long, narrow hallway from his own room. He took a cold bath to get rid of the dust and fatigue of the journey, then went back to his room looking and feeling a lot better. He closed the door behind him so that he could sing as loudly as he wanted, and opened the window. He applied Vaseline to his hair and combed it very carefully, then put on some of his favorite cologne, all of which made him feel much better. He was drawn to the window and looked outside so he could see what kind of view he had. He could see the alley below leading to the old part of Khan al-Khalili, but his view in the other direction was blocked by the next building. That aggravated him and made him feel as though he had come to some kind of prison. Where now was that window he used to have on Qamar Street in al-Sakakini looking out on the square where the observant eye could always manage to spot clusters of lovely Jewish girls?

With a sad sigh he looked around. His gaze was attracted
by a window opposite his own but slightly higher, on the side of the building facing his own. Both shutters were open, and he could see the face of a young girl, an exceptionally beautiful face adorned with a pair of eyes that sparkled with simplicity and grace. Their eyes met. Her look was one of disapproval, but his was that of a hunter who’d just spotted his prey. At this point, the way he was staring at her made her feel awkward, so she lowered her eyes and moved away. He gave a gentle smile, and his whole expression brightened at the thought of her pretty face and her flustered looks. He stayed where he was and kept his eyes riveted on the window. He expected her to come back; as far as he was concerned, it was only natural for her to want to take a second glance at the new neighbor who had stared at her so fixedly and shamelessly. He stood where he was, watching and waiting, his feelings a blend of desire, patience, and sheer stubbornness. Eventually the girl did poke her head out again, albeit cautiously. Their eyes met a second time, and the girl retreated yet again in apparent annoyance. He chuckled quietly to himself and left the window with a smirk of satisfaction. Sitting at his small desk chair, he muttered to himself that for the first time something nice had happened since he had entered this miserable quarter. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he thought for a moment. “She’s our neighbor, that’s clear enough,” he told himself. “Her room’s right opposite mine.”

He pictured her face and had to admit that she was pretty and graceful. He was feeling all the inward happiness of someone who has acquired something precious. Where love was concerned, he had limitless self-confidence, based on one success after another. It was all founded on
tremendous patience, an iron will that never gave up, and an innate suavity much assisted by artifice. He was patient for sure, and yet he never stopped insisting, urging, chasing, day after day, month after month, year after year—if need be—until he had achieved his goal. Among his well-known maxims on the topic of love was, “Anyone responding to love’s call cannot afford to shackle his quest by being shy, worried, or scared. If you’re chasing a woman, forget about honor. If she rejects you, don’t get angry; if she swears at you, don’t be sad. Rejection and curses are merely fuel for love’s fire. If a woman slaps you on the right cheek, offer here the left one as well. You’ll be the master in the end!”

There had once been an occasion when he took upon himself to chase after a determined young girl who was both well brought up and had a mind of her own. Things went on for quite a while with no sign of softening or change on her part. With that he simply spoke to her one day in a totally unaggressive way: “Listen,” he said, “I’m a disgusting, heartless, annoying rogue. Don’t even dream that you can send me away by throwing reproachful looks or rude words at me. That won’t help, nor will punching me or calling the police either. I’m going to force you to talk to me one way or another, whether it’s today, tomorrow, the day after, in a year’s time, or a century’s time. I really don’t care. But, since the ending is a foregone conclusion, then for heaven’s sake, make the process shorter!”