Khan Al-Khalili (24 page)

“History and languages.”

He was the complete opposite: his favorites were sciences and math. Even so he pretended to be delighted. “So we think the same way!” he exclaimed.

She was amazed at how happy he seemed. “Why should you be so overjoyed?” she asked.

“How can you possibly not know the answer to that question, my dear?” he replied with his habitual smoothness. “The fact that we share the same intellectual preferences can surely serve as a firm basis for a more spiritual agreement of the kind we’re experiencing now!”

She blushed and turned away, something she usually did when her shyness got the better of her. She didn’t respond.

“Don’t you agree with me?” he asked her.

She remained silent, or, more accurately, silence retained its hold on her.

“So, am I to read into your silence the answer I’m hoping to hear?” he asked gently.

He looked at her and thought he saw the glimpse of a smile. Now his enthusiasm took over. “I knew the answer from your very first glance,” he commented softly.

“The very first glance?” she could not avoid asking, with a clear sparkle in her eyes.

“Yes indeed!”

“Unbelievable!”

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

“Aren’t you exaggerating? Are the things people say about love at first sight really true?”

His lovely honey-colored eyes sparkled as he replied, “No doubt about it!”

Now she changed her tone. “But we don’t even know each other yet!” she said.

He realized that she was trying to find a way to escape from the gold collar he had put around her neck, but he was not about to let her get away.

“Don’t change the subject. We’re bound to know each other better before long; either that, or else it’ll all come to
an end, and my name will become a mere memory! But the one thing I want to tell you is that, if it’s not love at first sight,” (and he deliberately used the word “love” as though it was something spontaneous), “then it’s not love at all.”

Once again she remained silent.

“I don’t mean,” he went on, still smiling at her, “that love has to occur at first sight. What I’m saying is that the very first glance is enough to reveal that there are people with whom we share spiritual ties that may turn into real love. Don’t they say that souls can talk to each other without invoking the senses at all? Through a single glance the soul can transcend all expectations. As for love, that is engendered by time and fostered by intimacy, it has to be regarded, more often than not, as a product of either habit, benefit, or other values that involve careful deliberation. What do you think?”

She hesitated for a moment, looking somewhat puzzled. “Are you saying,” she asked, “that there can’t be …,” (she didn’t mention the word “love”) “unless it’s at first sight?”

That made him realize that he had been prattling on for too long. He was afraid of what might happen if he had to explain what he meant. “No, no,” he replied anxiously, “that’s not it. What I meant was that the first glance may well be a good indicator of the goal toward which one’s emotions may lead.”

She gave a gentle laugh. “Your philosophy is tricky,” she said. “It doesn’t involve either history or languages!”

With that he dissolved into laughter. He was utterly delighted by her response and dearly wished that he could kiss that tiny mouth with its delectable nectar.

“Actually it’s much simpler than either history or languages, because it’s based on innate instincts. The clearest proof is that the two of us have met under its inspiration. God willing, we will never be parted.”

By now they had gone about half way, and the City of the Dead was looming ahead to their left, shrouded in its eternal gloom and all-pervasive silence. She stared at the tombs with her honey-colored eyes.

“It’s my lot,” she said to hide the awkwardness she felt listening to his sweet talk, “to have to look at those tombs every morning. What a gloomy scene!”

The young man wondered why it was that she had to take such a long route in order to get to Abbasiya and then back again in the afternoon. Why didn’t she take the trolley along Khalig Street? Then the truth hit him; he realized that she justified the exhaustion involved—or rather her father justified it for her—as a means of cutting down on expenses. Kamal Khalil Effendi was considered to be a minor civil servant, one of those people who strive with genuine determination—and in difficult circumstances—to lift their families up to a higher social level. Rushdi recalled that his own family had had to go through similarly hard times, especially his beloved brother who had steadfastly and patiently kept misfortune at bay. His whole heart blossomed with affection, love, and admiration.

“You won’t have to look at the tombs after today,” he said.

“How can that be?” she asked with a frown. “Am I supposed to walk blindfolded or something?”

“No. Our conversation will be enough to distract your attention!”

She gave a gentle laugh as a way of showing that she understood.

“It’s a long walk,” she said. “You won’t be able to stand it for long, particularly since winter’s on the way.”

“We’ll see about that.”

They carried on walking, with only desert on the right and tombs on the left. They proceeded through the tombs toward the west. Rushdi pointed out a wooden tomb with a small courtyard, lying to the right, the third one in.

“That’s our family tomb,” he said.

The girl looked to where he was pointing and noticed the small tomb. “Then let’s recite the Fatiha,” she said.

They did so together.

“Here’s where my ancestors lie,” he said. “The most recent are my grandmother and grandfather on my father’s side and my youngest brother.”

“When did your brother die?” she asked.

“A while ago when we were still young.”

With that they left the tombs and talk about them behind and returned to happier topics without even thinking about the glaring contrast between talk of love and tombs. For example, they did not spoil the mood by asking themselves how much remained of their lives on this earth or what would transpire in their lives before they too would be laid to rest in this tomb or another like it. None of that concerned them.

At this point she plucked up a bit of courage. “We don’t even know each other yet,” she said.

“Aren’t we neighbors?”

“Yes, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Heaven forbid. It’s Rushdi. Rushdi Akif.”

“But you don’t know my name either!”

“Oh yes I do!”

“Did you know that from the very first glance as well?”

Rushdi laughed and gave a nod.

“So what’s my name?” she asked.

“Ihsan.”

She laughed out loud. “Is that how you make up names?” she asked.

“No. That’s your name!”

“No, sir, you’re wrong. Maybe you were after someone else. So feel free to go back!”

“But I can distinctly remember my mother talking about yours on one occasion. She called her Umm Ihsan.”

“So you thought Ihsan was me?”

“Yes.…”

She laughed again, loud enough to make her face turn red. “That’s my elder sister’s name. She got married two years ago!”

Rushdi gave an awkward smile. “Forgive me,” he said. “So what’s your name?”

“Nawal.”

“Long live beautiful names!”

She hesitated for a moment, then gave him a crafty look. “Are you at school?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “I’m a student at the Abbasiya School for Girls!”

“So you’re a civil servant then?”

“With Bank Misr.”

“And I’m an employee of the Ministry of Education!” she replied in turn.

They had a good laugh. They were now approaching Abbasiya, and Rushdi realized that his first encounter with his new love was about to come to an end.

“Okay,” she said, “this is far enough. We must separate here.”

They stopped walking. He took her hand and held it tenderly. “Good-bye until tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Good-bye,” she replied with a nod of her head.

She hurried away, while he stood where he was, watching her with unalloyed delight. “At first she was obviously shy,” he told himself, “but then she opened up and became friendlier than a fragrant breeze. She is so pure and delicate; may God protect her from all evil demons, myself among them!”

Up until now his routine had involved flirting with a girl, then getting to know her, and finally loving her. But on this particular morning he found himself making his way back, listening as his heartbeats beat out the prelude to a love song on the silence of the road.

Meanwhile, Nawal kept walking down the street to her school, telling herself how kind, handsome, and sweet he was. If only dreams could come true, she told herself.

A
hmad had kept his eyes wide open and immediately noticed the change in his younger brother’s demeanor. That Saturday afternoon Rushdi seemed drunk with happiness, so much so that he looked as though he were in a daze. Ahmad noticed that he changed his normal habit of taking a nap between noon and sunset—the time when he took off for al-Sakakini; instead he rested for just one hour, then woke up—eyelids drooping—combed his hair, put on some cologne, then made his way to his beloved window. His middle-aged brother, meanwhile, read in his room, or rather tried to read until the time came for him to go to the café—that being the new routine in his life. He was pinning all his hopes on the process of forgetting, waiting for it to happen just as a despairing patient anticipates the end. His heart was still being battered by feelings of love and failure, of disdain and jealousy. He loved his brother and hated him at the same time. His feelings fluctuated between the two without settling on either one, and the whole thing was almost making his head burst.

Toward evening Rushdi burst into his room. There was nothing unusual about that, and Ahmad smiled up at him, making a big effort not to look sad or melancholy. His young brother gave him a sweet smile and offered him a cigarette.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said apologetically but with obvious happiness. “But I’ve some really great news for you!”

“I hope it’s good!” replied Ahmad, his heart pounding.

“A friend in the government service has told me that they’re thinking of instituting some kind of restitution for overlooked workers.”

“That’s terrific news!” Ahmad responded with a relief that his brother was incapable of appreciating.

“It’s a terrible miscarriage of justice for someone like you to spend twenty years in the eighth administrative grade.”

Ahmad shrugged his shoulders. “You know full well that I’m not bothered about grades or government posts in general.”

They chatted for a while, then Rushdi went out so as not to waste his brother’s valuable time. After Rushdi had left, Ahmad started thinking about his feelings toward his brother, and the whole thing exasperated him. He felt utterly miserable. Was it possible to forget that he had loved his little brother from the cradle onward? Was it possible to deny that Rushdi loved him even more than he loved his own parents?

Just before sunset he hurried over to the Zahra Café, relieved to be out of the house. He spent a couple of hours with his friends there, using the conversation as a way of escaping his misery and his disturbing thoughts, then went
back home. Rushdi, of course, was still out, spending his evening at the casino. This girl of his seemed to have purloined the time of day—from noon until sunset—when he would normally have been asleep, with the result that his entire day had turned into one continuous unit of wakefulness and exhaustion. Ahmad looked angrily at the window—which he had vowed never to open while he was at home. Would she have noticed that he wasn’t by the window any more? he wondered as he changed his clothes. Would that bother her as much as it should? How he longed for her to be aware of the contempt he felt for the way she had deceived him! His sense of pride was still bleeding and a fiery anger was still blazing in his heart.

He went to bed earlier than usual in order to avoid reading. He was woken up by the air-raid siren. He got up quickly, put on his coat, left his room, and bumped into his parents in the lounge. His mother was in a panic because Rushdi had not returned from his night out; she kept wondering where he was and beseeching God to keep him safe. The weather outside was cold and damp.

“Things are always worse during winter,” his father said.

They went to the shelter and took up their usual positions. His father looked at his watch and discovered that it was 2 a.m.

“It would be an act of mercy,” he said in a sarcastic tone, “if Rushdi stayed outside. Then he wouldn’t have to bother about coming home at this time of night!”

Ahmad decided he’d keep an eye out, but just then he spotted Rushdi hurrying down the shelter stairs and looking around for them. Once he found them, he came over
with a smile; his lingering inebriation clearly fortified him enough to face up to their questions—especially those of his father. He greeted them all.

“We were in al-Gamaliya when the siren went off,” he told Ahmad, “so I ran like the very devil in the dark.”

His father rounded on him. “You’re the devil incarnate, no doubt about it!” he said. “Can’t you manage somehow to curb your rowdy behavior in such tense times as these?”

Ahmad could not bring himself to glance at his brother’s face. Rushdi was not prepared to sit and listen to such talk, so he got up and started pacing around the shelter. Ahmad allowed his gaze to wander as well, and he looked over at the far corner where the family of Kamal Khalil was sitting. He spotted her sitting next to her mother and looking down at the floor; only the right side of her face was visible. He wondered whether she had noticed him. Did she still imagine he did not know about what she had done? Wasn’t she suffering just a few pangs of anxiety and misery? Or was he the only person who was fated to suffer those feelings? At that precise moment, he remembered the apocalyptic desire that had occurred to him previously, the one about the air raid that would destroy everything. He shuddered at the thought and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “O God, be merciful, Most Merciful of all!”