The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail (13 page)

Said eyed a statue of a Chinese god, a perfect embodiment of dignity and repose. “I learned tailoring in prison.”

“So you want to set up a tailoring shop?” said Rauf with surprise.

“Certainly not,” Said replied quietly.

“What then?”

Said looked at him. “In my whole life I've mastered only one trade.”

“You're going back to burglary?” Rauf seemed almost alarmed.

“It's most rewarding, as you know.”

“As I know! How the hell do I know?”

“Why are you so angry?” Said gave him a surprised look. “I meant: as you know from my past. Isn't that so?”

Rauf lowered his eyes as if trying to assess the sincerity of Said's remark, clearly unable to maintain his bonhomie and looking for a way to end the meeting. “Listen, Said. Things are no longer what they used to be. In the past you were both a thief and my friend, for reasons you well know. Now the situation has changed. If you go back to burglary you'll be a thief and nothing else.”

Dashed by Rauf's unaccommodating frankness, Said sprang to his feet. Then he stifled his agitation, sat down again, and said quietly, “All right. Name a job that's suitable for me.”

“Any job, no matter what. You do the talking. I'll listen.”

“I would be happy,” Said began, without obvious irony, “to work as a journalist on your paper. I'm a well-educated man and an old disciple of yours. Under your supervision I've read countless books, and you often testified to my intelligence.”

Rauf shook his head impatiently, his thick black hair glistening in the brilliant light. “This is no time for joking. You've never been a writer, and you got out of jail only yesterday. This fooling around is wasting my time.”

“So I have to choose something menial?”

“No job is menial, as long as it's honest.”

Said felt utterly reckless. He ran his eyes quickly over the smart drawing room, then said bitterly, “How marvelous
it is for the rich to recommend poverty to us.” Rauf's reaction was to look at his watch.

“I am sure I have taken too much of your time,” Said said quietly.

“Yes,” said Rauf, with all the blank directness of a July sun. “I'm loaded with work!”

“Thanks for your kindness and hospitality and for the supper,” Said said, standing up.

Rauf took out his wallet and handed him two five-pound notes. “Take these to tide you over. Please forgive me for saying I'm overloaded with work. You'll seldom find me free as I was tonight.”

Said smiled, took the bank notes, shook his hand warmly, and wished him well: “May God increase your good fortune.”

           

S
o this is the real Rauf Ilwan, the naked reality—a partial corpse not even decently underground. The other Rauf Ilwan has gone, disappeared, like yesterday, like the first day in the history of man—like Nabawiyya's love or Ilish's loyalty. I must not be deceived by appearances. His kind words are cunning, his smiles no more than a curl of the lips, his generosity a defensive flick of the fingers, and only a sense of guilt moved him to let me cross the threshold of his house. You made me and now you reject me: Your ideas create their embodiment in my person and then you simply change them, leaving me lost
—
rootless, worthless, without hope—a betrayal so vile that if the whole Muqattam hill toppled over and buried it, I still would not be satisfied
.

I wonder if you ever admit, even to yourself, that you betrayed me. Maybe you've deceived yourself as much as you try to deceive others. Hasn't your conscience bothered you even in the dark? I wish I could penetrate your soul as easily as I've penetrated your house, that house of mirrors
and objets d'art, but I suppose I'd find nothing but betrayal there: Nabawiyya disguised as Rauf, Rauf disguised as Nabawiyya, or Ilish Sidra in place of both—and betrayal would cry out to me that it was the lowest crime on earth. Their eyes behind my back must have traded anxious looks throbbing with lust, which carried them in a current crawling like death, like a cat creeping on its belly toward a bewildered sparrow. When their chance came, the last remnants of decency and indecision disappeared, so that in a corner of the lane, even in my own house, Ilish Sidra finally said, “I'll tell the police. We'll get rid of him,” and the child's mother was silent—the tongue that so often and so profusely told me, “I love you, the best man in the world,” was silent. And I found myself surrounded by police in Al-Sayrafi Lane—though until then demons themselves with all their wiles had failed to trap me—their kicks and punches raining down on me
.

You're just the same, Rauf—I don't know which of you is the most treacherous—except that your guilt is greater because of your intelligence and the past association between us: You pushed me into jail, while you leapt free, into that palace of lights and mirrors. You've forgotten your wise sayings about palaces and hovels, haven't you? I will never forget
.

At the Abbas Bridge, sitting on a stone bench, he became aware for the first time of where he was.

“It's best to do it now,” he said in a loud voice, as if addressing the dark, “before he's had time to get over the shock.” I can't hold back, he thought. My profession will always be mine, a just and legitimate trade, especially when it's directed against its own philosopher. There'll be space enough in the world to hide after I've punished the bastards. If I could live without a past, ignoring
Nabawiyya, Ilish, and Rauf, I'd be relieved of a great weight, a burden; I'd feel readier to secure an easy life and a lot further from the rope. But unless I settle my account with them, life will have no taste, because I shall not forget the past. For the simple reason that in my mind it's not a past, but the here and now. Tonight's adventure will be the best beginning for my program of action. And it'll be a rich venture indeed.

The Nile flowed in black waves slashed sidelong by arrows of light from the reflected streetlamps along its banks. The silence was soothing and total.

At the approach of dawn, as the stars drew closer to earth, Said rose from his seat, stretched, and began to walk slowly back along the bank toward the place from which he'd come, avoiding the few still-lit lamps, slowing his steps even more when the house came in sight. Examining the street, the terrain, the walls of the big houses as well as the riverbank, his eyes finally came to rest on the sleeping villa, guarded on all sides by trees like ghostly figures, where treachery dozed in a fine unmerited tranquillity.
It's going to be a rich venture, indeed, and one to give an emphatic reply to the treachery of a lifetime
.

He crossed the street casually without a movement to either right or left, without looking wary. Then followed the hedge down a side street, scanning carefully ahead. When he was sure the street was empty he dodged into the hedge, forcing his way in amidst the jasmine and violets, and stood motionless: If there was a dog in the house—other than its owner, of course—it would now fill the universe with barking.

But not a whisper came out of the silence.

Rauf, your pupil is coming, to relieve you of a few worldly goods
.

He climbed the hedge nimbly, his expert limbs agile as an ape's, undeterred by the thick, intertwining branches, the heavy foliage and flowers. Gripping the railings, he heaved his body up over the sharp-pointed spikes, then lowered himself until his legs caught the branches inside the garden. Here he clung for a while regaining his breath, studying the terrain: a jungle of bushes, trees, and dark shadows.
I'll have to climb up to the roof and find a way to get in and down. I have no tools, no flashlight, no good knowledge of the house: Nabawiyya hasn't been here before me pretending to work as a washerwoman or a maid; she's busy now with Ilish Sidra
.

Scowling in the dark, trying to chase these thoughts from his mind, he dropped lightly to the ground. Crawling up to the villa on all fours, he felt his way along a wall until he found a drainpipe. Then, gripping it like an acrobat, he began to climb toward the roof. Partway up he spotted an open window, just out of reach, and decided to try it. He steered one foot to the window ledge, and shifted his hands, one at a time, to grip a cornice. Finally, when he could stand with his whole weight, he slid inside, finding himself in what he guessed was the kitchen. The dense darkness was disturbing and he groped for the door. The darkness would be even thicker inside, but where else could he find Rauf's wallet or some of his objets d'art? He had to go on.

Slipping through the door, feeling along the wall with his hands, he had covered a considerable distance, almost deterred by the darkness, when he felt a slight draft touch his face. Wondering where it could come from, he turned a corner and crept along the smooth wall, his arm stretched out, feeling ahead with his fingers. Suddenly they brushed
some dangling beads, which rustled slightly as he touched them, making him start. A curtain. He must now be near his goal. He thought of the box of matches in his pocket, but instead of reaching for it he made a quiet little opening for himself in the hanging beads and slipped through, bringing the curtain back into position behind him, slowly, to avoid making any sound. He took one step forward and bumped some object, perhaps a chair, which he edged away from, raising his head to look for a night light. All he could see was a darkness that weighed down upon him like a nightmare. For a moment he thought again of lighting a match.

Suddenly he was assailed by light. It shone all around him, so powerful that it struck him with the force of a blow, making him shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Rauf Ilwan was standing only a couple of yards from him, wearing a long dressing gown, which made him look like a giant, one hand tensed in a pocket, as if he was clutching a weapon. The cold look in his eyes, his tightly closed lips, chilled Said to the core; nothing but deep hatred, hostility. The silence was suffocating, claustrophobic, denser than the walls of a prison. Abd Rabbuh the jailer would soon be jeering: “Back already?”

“Should we call the police?” someone behind him said curtly. Said turned around and saw three servants standing in a row. “Wait outside,” said Rauf, breaking the silence.

As the door opened and closed Said observed that it was made of wood in arabesque designs, its upper panel inlaid with an inscription, probably a proverb or a Koranic verse. He turned to face Rauf.

“It was idiotic of you to try your tricks on me; I know
you. I can read you like an open book.” Speechless, helpless, and resigned, still recovering from the shock of surprise, Said had nevertheless an instinctive sense that he would not be handed back to the custody from which he'd been set free the day before. “I've been waiting for you, fully prepared. In fact, I even drew up your plan of action. I'd hoped my expectation would be disappointed. But evidently no mistrust in you can prove groundless.” Said lowered his eyes for a moment and became aware of the patterned parquet beneath the wax on the floor. Then he looked up, saying nothing. “It's no use. You'll always be worthless and you'll die a worthless death. The best thing I can do now is hand you over to the police.” Said blinked, gulped, and lowered his eyes again.

“What have you come for?” Rauf demanded angrily. “You treat me as an enemy. You've forgotten my kindness, my charity. You feel nothing but malice and envy. I know your thoughts, as clearly as I know your actions.”

His eyes still wandering over the floor, Said muttered, “I feel dizzy. Peculiar. It's been like that ever since I got out of jail.”

“Liar! Don't try to deceive me. You thought I'd become one of the rich I used to attack. And with that in mind you wished to treat me—”

“It's not true.”

“Then why did you break into my house? Why do you want to rob me?”

“I don't know,” Said said, after a moment's hesitation. “I'm not in my proper state of mind. But you don't believe me.”

“Of course I don't. You know you're lying. My good advice didn't persuade you. Your envy and arrogance were aroused, so you rushed in headlong as always, like a madman.
Suit yourself, do what you like, but you'll find yourself in jail again.”

“Please forgive me. My mind's the way it was in prison, the way it was even before that.”

“There's no forgiving you. I can read your thoughts, everything that passes through your mind. I can see exactly what you think of me. And now it's time I delivered you to the police.”

“Please don't.”

“No? Don't you deserve it?”

“Yes, I do, but please don't.”

“If I set eyes on you again,” Rauf bellowed, “I'll squash you like an insect.” Thus dismissed, Said was about to make a quick exit, but Rauf stopped him with a shout: “Give me back the money.” Frozen for a second, Said slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out the two bank notes. Rauf took them and said, “Don't ever show me your face again.”

Said walked back to the banks of the Nile, hardly believing his escape, though relief was spoiled by a sense of defeat, and now in the damp breath of early daybreak, he wondered how he could have failed to take careful note of the room where he'd been caught, how all he'd noticed had been its decorated door and its waxed parquet. But the dawn shed dewy compassion, giving momentary solace for the loss of everything, even the two bank notes, and he surrendered to it. Raising his head to the sky, he found himself awed by the dazzling brilliance of the stars at this hour just before sunrise.

           

T
hey stared at him incredulously, then everyone in the café rose at once to meet him. Led by the proprietor and his waiter, uttering a variety of colorful expressions of welcome, they formed a circle around him, embraced him, kissing him on the cheeks. Said Mahran shook hands with each of them, saying politely, “Thanks, Mr. Tarzan. Thanks, friends.”

“When was it?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“There was supposed to be an amnesty. We were keeping our fingers crossed.”

“Thank God I'm out.”

“And the rest of the boys?”

“They're all well; their turn will come.”

They excitedly exchanged news for a while, until Tarzan, the proprietor, led Said to his own sofa, asking the other men to go back to their places, and the café was quiet again. Nothing had changed. Said felt he'd left it only yesterday. The round room with its brass fittings, the
wooden chairs with their straw seats, were just the way they used to be. A handful of customers, some of whom he recognized, sat sipping tea and making deals. Through the open door and out the big window opposite you could see the wasteland stretching into the distance, its thick darkness unrelieved by a single glimmer of light. Its impressive silence broken only by occasional laughter borne in on the dry and refreshing breeze—forceful and clean, like the desert itself—that blew between the window and the door.

Said took the glass of tea from the waiter, raised it to his lips without waiting for it to cool, then turned to the proprietor. “How's business these days?”

Tarzan curled his lower lip. “There aren't many men you can rely on nowadays,” he said contemptuously.

“What do you mean? That's too bad.”

“They're all lazy, like bureaucrats!”

Said grunted sympathetically. “At least a lazy man is better than a traitor. It was thanks to a traitor I had to go to jail, Mr. Tarzan.”

“Really? You don't say!”

Said stared at him surprised. “Didn't you hear the story, then?” When Tarzan shook his head sympathetically, Said whispered in his ear, “I need a good revolver.”

“If there's anything you need, I'm at your service.”

Said patted him on the shoulder gratefully, then began to ask, with some embarrassment, “But I haven't—”

Tarzan interrupted, placing a thick finger on Said's lips, and said, “You don't need to apologize ever to anyone!”

Said savored the rest of his tea, then walked to the window and stood there, a strong, slim, straight-backed figure of medium height, and let the breeze belly out his jacket, gazing into the pitch-dark wasteland that stretched away ahead of him. The stars overhead looked like grains of
sand; and the café felt like an island in the midst of an ocean, or an airplane alone in the sky. Behind him, at the foot of the small hill on which the café stood, lighted cigarettes moved like nearer stars in the hands of those who sat there in the dark seeking fresh air. On the horizon to the west, the lights of Abbasiyya seemed very far away, their distance making one understand how deeply in the desert this café had been placed.

As Said stared out the window, he became aware of the voices of the men who sat outside, sprawled around the hill, enjoying the desert breeze—the waiter was going down to them now, carrying a water pipe with glowing coals, from which sparks flew upward with a crackling noise—their lively conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter. He heard the voice of one young man, obviously enjoying a discussion, say, “Show me a single place on earth where there's any security.”

Another one disagreed. “Here where we're sitting, for instance. Aren't we enjoying peace and security now?”

“You see, you say ‘now.' There's the calamity.”

“But why do we curse our anxiety and fears? In the end don't they save us the trouble of thinking about the future?”

“So you're an enemy of peace and tranquillity.”

“When all you have to think about is the hangman's rope around your neck, it's natural enough to fear tranquillity.”

“Well, that's a private matter—you can settle it between yourself and the hangman.”

“You're chattering away happily because here you're protected by the desert and the dark. But you'll have to go back to the city sometime soon. So what's the use?”

“The real tragedy is that our enemy is at the same time our friend.”

“On the contrary, it's that our friend is also our enemy.”

“No. It's that we're cowards. Why don't we admit it?”

“Maybe we are cowards. But how can you be brave in this age?”

“Courage is courage.”

“And death is death.”

“And darkness and the desert are all these things.”

What a conversation! What did they mean? Somehow they're giving expression to my own situation, in a manner as shapeless and strange as the mysteries of that night. There was a time when I had youth, energy, and conviction too—the time when I got arms for the national cause and not for the sake of murder. On the other side of this very hill, young men, shabby, but pure in heart, used to train for battle. And their leader was the present inhabitant of villa number 18. Training himself, training others, spelling out words of wisdom. “Said Mahran,” he used to say to me, “a revolver is more important than a loaf of bread. It's more important than the Sufi sessions you keep rushing off to the way your father did.” One evening he asked me, “What does a man need in this country, Said?” and without waiting for an answer he said, “He needs a gun and a book: the gun will take care of the past, the book is for the future. Therefore you must train and read.” I can still recall his face that night in the students' hostel, his guffaws of laughter, his words: “So you have stolen. You've actually dared to steal. Bravo! Using theft to relieve the exploiters of some of their guilt is absolutely legitimate, Said. Don't ever doubt it.”

This open wasteland had borne witness to Said's own
skill. Didn't it used to be said that he was Death Incarnate, that his shot never missed? He closed his eyes, relaxing, enjoying the fresh air, until suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. And looking around, he saw Tarzan, holding out to him a revolver in his other hand.

“May it be fire for your enemy, God willing,” Tarzan said to him.

Said took it. “How much is it, Mr. Tarzan?” he said, inspecting the bolt action.

“It's a present from me”

“No, thank you, I can't accept that. All I ask is that you give me some time until I can afford to pay you.”

“How many bullets do you need?”

They walked back to Tarzan's sofa. As they passed the open doorway, they heard a woman's laughter ringing outside. Tarzan chuckled. “It's Nur, remember her?”

Said looked into the darkness, but could see nothing. “Does she still come here?” he asked.

“Sometimes. She'll be pleased to see you.”

“Has she caught anybody?”

“Of course. This time it's the son of the owner of a candy factory.” They sat down and Tarzan called the waiter over. “Tell Nur—tactfully—to come here.”

It would be nice to see her, to see what time had done to her
. She'd hoped to gain his love, but failed. What love he'd had had been the exclusive property of that other, unfaithful woman. He'd been made of stone. There's nothing more heartbreaking than loving someone like that. It had been like a nightingale singing to a rock, a breeze caressing sharp-pointed spikes. Even the presents she'd given he used to give away—to Nabawiyya or Ilish. He patted the gun in his pocket and clenched his teeth.

Nur appeared at the entrance. Unprepared, she stopped
in amazement as soon as she saw Said, remaining a few steps away from him. He smiled at her, but looked closely. She'd grown thinner, her face was disguised by heavy makeup, and she was wearing a sexy frock that not only showed her arms and legs but was fitted so tightly to her body that it might have been stretched rubber. What it advertised was that she'd given up all claims to self-respect. So did her bobbed hair, ruffled by the breeze. She ran to him.

“Thank God you're safe,” she said, as their hands met, giggling a little to hide her emotion, squeezing him and Tarzan.

“How are you, Nur?” he asked.

“As you can see,” Tarzan said for her with a smile, “she's all light, like her name.”

“I'm fine,” she said. “And you? You look very healthy. But what's wrong with your eyes? They remind me of how you used to look when you were angry.”

“What do you mean?” he said with a grin.

“I don't know, it's hard to describe. Your eyes turn a sort of red and your lips start twitching!”

Said laughed. Then, with a touch of sadness, he said, “I suppose your friend will be coming soon to take you back?”

“Oh, he's dead drunk,” she said, shaking her head, tossing the hair from her eyes.

“In any case, you're tied to him.”

“Would you like me,” she said with a sly smile, “to bury him in the sand?”

“No, not tonight. We'll meet again later. I'm told he's a real catch,” he added, with a look of interest that did not escape her.

“He sure is. We'll go in his car to the Martyr's Tomb. He likes open spaces.”

So he likes open spaces. Over near the Martyr's Tomb
.

Her eyelashes fluttered, showing a pretty confusion that increased as her gaze met his. “You see,” she said with a pout, “you never think of me.”

“It's not true,” he said. “You're very dear to me.”

“You're only thinking about that poor fish.”

Said smiled. “He forms a part of my thinking of you.”

“I'll be ruined if they find out,” she said with sudden seriousness. “His father's an influential man and he comes from a powerful family. Do you need money?”

“What I really need is a car,” he said, standing up. “Try to be completely natural with him,” he went on, gently pinching one of her cheeks. “Nothing will happen to frighten you and no one will suspect you. I'm not a kid. When this is done we'll see a lot more of each other than you ever thought possible.”