The Beggar, the Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail (20 page)

           

A
t last exhaustion conquered his will. He forgot his determination to get the uniform and fell asleep, awaking a little before midday. Knowing he would have to wait until nightfall to move, he spent the time setting out a plan for his escape, fully aware that any major step would have to be put off for a while, until the police relaxed their surveillance of the area near Tarzan's café. Tarzan was the very pivot of the plan.

Sometime after midnight he entered Sharia Najm al-Din. There was light coming from a window of the flat. He stood staring up at it in amazement, and when he finally believed what he saw, his heart seemed to beat so loudly as almost to deafen him, while a wave of elation roared over him, sweeping him out of a nightmare world. Nur was in the flat! Where had she been? Why had she been away? At least she was back now. And she must be suffering the scorch of those same hellfires where he'd been burning, wondering where he was. He knew she was back by that instinct of his that had never deceived him, and the
strain of being on the run would now recede for a while, perhaps for good. He would hold her tight in his arms, pouring out his eternal love for her.

Intoxicated with joy and assured of success, he crept into the building and climbed the stairs, dreaming of one victory after another. There was no limit to what he could do. He would get away and settle down for a long time, then come back eventually and deal with those scoundrels.

A little out of breath, he came up to the door.
I love you, Nur. With all my heart I do love you, twice as much as you have loved me. In your breast I will bury all my misery, the treachery of those scoundrels and my daughter's alarm
. He knocked on the door.

It opened to reveal a man he had never seen before, a little man in his underclothes, who stared back at him in astonishment and said, “Yes; what can I do for you?”

The little man's look of inquiry soon gave way to one of confusion and then alarm. Dumbfounded, certain he'd recognized him, Said silenced him instantly, slamming one fist into his mouth and the other into his stomach. As he lowered the body quietly to the threshold, Said thought of entering to search for his uniform, but he couldn't be sure the flat was empty. Then from inside he heard a woman's voice calling, “Who was that at the door, dear?”

It was hopeless. Said turned and raced back down the stairs and out into the street, then made his way up Sharia Masani to Jabal Road, where he could see suspicious figures moving about. He crouched at the base of a wall, carefully recommencing his walk only when the street was entirely empty. It was a little before dawn when he once again slipped into the Sheikh's house. The old man was in his corner, awake and waiting for the coming call to prayer. Said took off his outer clothes and stretched out on
the mat, turning his head to the wall though he had little hope of falling asleep.

“Go to sleep, for sleep is prayer for people like you,” the Sheikh said.

Said made no reply. The Sheikh quickly chanted the name of God, “Allah.”

When the dawn prayer was called Said was still awake and later he heard the milkman on his round. He knew he'd fallen asleep only when he was disturbed by a nightmare and opened his eyes to see light from the dim lamp spreading through the room like a fog, which made him suppose he'd slept for an hour at most. He turned toward the Sheikh's bed and found it empty, then noticed near his pile of books some cooked meat, figs, and a pitcher of water. He silently thanked the old man, wondering when he had brought the food.

Voices coming from outside the room surprised him. Creeping on all fours to the partly open door, he peeped through the crack and to his amazement saw a group of men who had come to pray, seated on mats, while a workman was busy lighting up a large oil lamp above the outer door. Suddenly he knew it was sunset, not dawn, as he had imagined. He had slept through the whole day without realizing it, a really deep sleep indeed.

He decided to put off any further thought until after eating. He consumed the food and drank his fill, then dressed in his outdoor clothes and sat on the floor with his back against his books and his legs stretched straight out in front of him. His thoughts turned immediately to the uniform he'd forgotten, to the man who had opened the flat door to him, to Sana and Nur and Rauf and Nabawiyya and Ilish, to the informers, to Tarzan, and to the car he would use to break through the cordon. His mind
churned with agitation. Clearly neither further patience nor hesitation was now in his interests. No matter what the danger, he had to contact Tarzan that night, even if it meant crawling to him over the desert sands. Tomorrow the police would be busy everywhere and those scoundrels would be out of their wits with fright.

Outside he heard someone clap his hands. The men's voices were suddenly silent and no other sounds could be heard. Sheikh Ali al-Junaydi chanted the word “Allah” three times and the others repeated the call, with a melody that brought the memory of the notion of the mystic dance to his mind once more. “Allah…Allah…Allah.” The chant increased in tempo and pitch like the sound of a train racing ahead, continuing without interruption for a considerable time. Then it began gradually to lose its power, its rhythm slowing, hesitating, and finally sinking into silence. At that point a full, fine voice arose in a chanted melody:

Said could hear the other men murmuring sighs in appreciation all around, and then another voice began a melody:

This song was followed by more sighs of delight and more singing, until someone clapped hands again and they all began repeating at length the name of God—Allah.

As he listened, Said allowed his mind to wander and the evening wore on. Memories came drifting by like clouds. He remembered how his father, Amm Mahran, had swayed with the chanters, while he, then a young boy, had sat near the palm tree observing the scene wide-eyed. From the shadows emerged fancies about the immortal soul, living under the protection of the Most Compassionate. Memories of hopes once bright shook off the dust of oblivion and flashed with life again: beneath that lone tree at the edge of the field tender words were whispered again in early-morning joy; little Sana sat again his arms, speaking her first wonderful baby words. Then hot winds blew from the depths of hell and a succession of blows were struck.

In the background the prayer leader's chant and the congregation's sighs wailed on. When would peace come, when his time had passed in futility, when he had failed and fate was on his trail? But that revolver of his lying ready in his pocket, that was something at least. It could still triumph over betrayal and corruption. For the first time the thief would give chase to the dogs.

Suddenly from beneath the window outside he heard an angry voice explode and a conversation:

“What a mess! Why, the whole quarter is blocked off!”

“It's worse than during the war!”

“That Said Mahran…!”

Said tensed, electrified, gripping the revolver so tightly that every muscle in his body strained. He stared in every direction. The area was crowded with people and was no doubt full of eager detectives.
I mustn't let things get ahead
of me. They must now be examining the uniform and the dogs will be there too. And meanwhile here I am, exposed. The desert road isn't safe, but the Valley of Death itself is only a few steps away. I can fight them there to the death
.

He got up and moved decisively toward the door. They were still engrossed in chanted prayers; the passage to the outer door was clear. He crept out into the street, then turned off to the left, walking with studied calm, moving into the road to the cemetery.

The night was well advanced, but there was no moon and the darkness made a black wall across his path. He plunged off among the tombs, into the maze of ruins, with nothing to guide him, stumbling as he walked, not knowing whether he was progressing forward or backward. Though no spark of hope glimmered within him, he felt he was bursting with incredible energy. The loud noises which were brought to him now on the warm wind made him wish he could hide inside a grave, but he knew he could not stop. He feared the dogs, but there was nothing at all he could do. There was nothing within his power to stop.

After some minutes he found himself at the last row of graves in front of a familiar scene: the northern entrance to the cemetery, connecting with Sharia Najm al-Din, which he recognized, and there the only building on it, was Nur's flat. He located the window. It was open and light was streaming out. He focused his gaze on it and saw a woman through the window. The features of her head were indistinct, but the shape of the head reminded him of Nur. His heart pumped hard at the thought. Had Nur returned, then? Or were his eyes deceiving him now, as his emotions had done before? The fact that he had become so completely deceived foretold that the end was near. If that was
Nur, he told himself, all he wanted was for her to care for Sana, if his time indeed had come. He decided to shout to her, disregarding the danger, to tell her what he wanted, but before a sound could emerge from his mouth he heard dogs beginning to bark in the distance, and the barking went on, breaking the silence like a series of explosive shots.

Said started back in fright, darting in again between the tombs as the barking grew louder. He pressed his back against a tomb and took out his gun, staring out into the darkness resignedly. There it was. The dogs had come at last and there was no hope left. The scoundrels were safe, if only for a while. His life had made its last utterance, saying that it had all been in vain.

It was impossible to tell precisely where the barking came from; it was carried in on the air from all around. It was hopeless now to think of fleeing from the dark by running away into the dark. The scoundrels had indeed got away with it; his life was a proven failure. The barking and the commotion were very close now, and soon, Said knew, all the malice and vengefulness he'd been running from would be breathed right into his face. He held his gun poised as the barking grew ever louder and closer. And suddenly there was blinding light over the whole area. He shut his eyes and crouched at the base of the tomb.

“Give yourself up,” a triumphant voice shouted. “It's no use resisting.”

The ground shook now with the thud of heavy feet surrounding him and the light spread all around, like the sun.

“Give yourself up, Said,” the voice said firmly.

He crouched closer still to the tomb, ready to open fire, turning his head in all directions.

“Surrender,” came another shout, confident, reassuring, and dignified, “and I promise you you'll be treated with all humanity.”

Like the humanity of Rauf, Nabawiyya, Ilish, and the dogs no doubt?
“You're surrounded on all sides. The whole cemetery is surrounded. Think it over carefully, Said. Give yourself up.”

Sure that the enormous and irregular multitude of the tombs prevented them from actually seeing him, Said made no movement. He had decided on death.

“Can't you see there's no point in resistance?” the firm voice shouted.

It seemed to be nearer now than before, and Said shouted back warningly, “Any closer and I'll shoot!”

“Very well, then. What do you want to do? Make your choice between death and coming to justice.”

“Justice indeed!” Said yelled scornfully.

“You're being very stubborn. You've got one minute more.”

His fear-tortured eyes could see the phantom of death now, stalking through the dark.

Sana had turned away from him in alarm, hopelessly.

He sensed surreptitious movement nearby, flared with rage, and opened fire. The bullets showered in, their whistle filling his ears, chips flying from tombs all around. He fired again, oblivious to danger now, and more bullets pelted in. “You dogs, you!” he raved in a frenzy of rage, and more shots came in from all sides.

Suddenly the blinding light went out, and the firing stopped; there was darkness again and quiet fell. He wasn't firing anymore either. Slowly the silence was spreading, until all the world seemed gripped in a strange stupefaction. He wondered…? But the question and even its
subject seemed to dissolve, leaving no traces. Perhaps, he thought, they had retreated, slipped away into the night. Why, then, he must have won!

The darkness was thicker now and he could see nothing at all, not even the outlines of the tombs, as if nothing wished to be seen. He was slipping away into endless depths, not knowing either position, place, purpose. As hard as he could, he tried to gain control of something, no matter what. To exert one last act of resistance. To capture one last recalcitrant memory. But finally, because he had to succumb, and not caring, he surrendered. Not caring at all now.

Translated from the Arabic by
Trevor Le Gassick and M. M. Badawi
.

Revised by John Rodenbeck
.

              

              

The stature which Naguib Mahfouz has earned as the Arab world's most illustrious novelist is well captured by ‘Abd al-Rahman Yaghi when he entitles the fourth chapter of his book
Al-Juhad al-Riwa'iyya
(
Endeavors in the Novel
, 1972) “The Novel's Establishment Stage, in other words the Naguib Mahfouz Stage.” Several studies of his works in English have by now been added to the myriad books, articles, and interviews on him which have appeared throughout the Arab world itself. While he is not yet as well known to Western readers as some other famous non-Western writers, several of his works are available in English.
^*

The word for “establishment” in Yaghi's title quoted above is
ta'sil
, which literally implies giving something roots. That describes very well the role which Mahfouz has played in the development of the modern Arabic novel.
Throughout a long career he has indeed laid the groundwork for the emergence of this most taxing and variegated genre and then proceeded to experiment with a number of forms and techniques. Some scholars have chosen to divide his works into “phases,” each one with its specific characteristics; others have preferred to illustrate the continuum of themes which occupy the author's mind, pointing out at the same time that features of these “phases” will often have been presaged in earlier writings. In spite of the differences between these viewpoints, both acknowledge that Mahfouz has been constantly striving to find new ways to express his vision of Egypt's present and therefore its past and future. This remains as true of his most recent writings, where, in addition to his continuing experiments with multi-sectional works and a variety of narrative voices, we find echoes of earlier Arabic literature, such as
The Thousand and One Nights
and the travels of Ibn Battuta.

During the 1960s, Mahfouz wrote a great deal: novels, short stories, and plays. Much of the inspiration for this outburst of creativity was certainly prompted by the wide success of his monumental three-part novel,
Al-Thulathiyya
(
The Trilogy
, 1956–57). And yet it is also abundantly clear from his writings in all the genres listed above that an equally cogent force impelling him to write was a deep disquiet with the course of the Egyptian revolution, a feeling which was to be vented at its fullest in
Miramar
(1967) and in works published after the June war of 1967. With that in mind it is of some interest to note that Mahfouz chose in the second of the novels of this decade,
Al-Summan wal-Kharif
(
Autumn Quail
, 1962) to indulge in a historical retrospect by placing the action of the novel during the Revolution of 1952 itself and the years immediately following. Thus, while this work may
be something of an anomaly within the sequence of Mahfouz's works conceived and written during the 1960s, it surely works to treat the events of the Revolution itself within a fictional context.

The novel opens with a description of the famous Cairo fire which followed the massacre of Egyptian policemen at the Suez Canal by British soldiers in January 1952. It goes on to trace (often through the medium of radio broadcasts) the main events of the early stages of the Revolution—the purge of corrupt officials and the abolition of political parties, for example. It comes to an end sometime after the nationalization of the Suez Canal Company and the Tripartite (British, French, and Israeli) invasion of 1956. There is also a very concrete link to place in this work: to various districts of Cairo, each with its own memories and connotations; and to Alexandria, with its pounding winter seas, its foreign quarters, and its still much desired distance from the clamor of the capital city. Thus, of all the novels which Mahfouz published in the 1960s,
Autumn Quail
has the strongest connection with the realities of both time and place.

Against the backdrop of these places and events, the central character whose fall is portrayed in this novel is Isa ad-Dabbagh, a senior civil servant in the Egyptian government during the final days of the monarchy. He has just become engaged to Salwa, the beautiful and feckless daughter of Ali Bey Sulaiman, a justice and senior Palace official. Isa and his mother live in an opulent villa in Dokki, then as now a typical outward symbol of the
nouveau arrivé
. The graphic description of the Cairo fire—with its sinister symbols of smoke and fire—warns of dire things to come. Sure enough, after the revolution comes the Purge Committee. Isa's past willingness to accept
bribes catches up with him, and he is pensioned off. As a result of this loss of position and prestige his engagement to Salwa is abruptly terminated.

Isa is of course a symbol of all that the immediate past stands for. In his defense before the Purge Committee he excuses himself by pointing out that everyone behaved exactly as he did, and asks why it is that he is being singled out. However, in spite of Isa's rapid and heavy fall, the past which he symbolizes throughout the novel does manage to display positive characteristics as well. For, unlike his friend Ibrahim Khairat, who almost immediately sets about penning hypocritical articles in praise of the revolution, Isa remains stubbornly loyal to the old regime and adamantly refuses to consider accepting the offer of a job from his cousin Hasan, who has become an important figure because of the revolution. This positive aspect of Isa's character, his sense of loyalty and concern for his country, is perhaps best seen through his relationship with Qadriyya, the woman whom he eventually marries. At the onset Isa is aware that the marriage may not work and leaves himself an escape route by overlooking her previous marriages. But as the couple live together through the Suez Crisis of 1956, Isa is amazed by her total lack of concern with politics and the fate of Egypt. Qadriyya, the barren, overfed nonentity, brings out the positive side of Isa's attitude.

On the intellectual level Isa seems to become reconciled to the idea of accepting the revolution and the changes which it is bringing about. But on every occasion his basic emotional instincts hold him back, at least until the very end of the novel. He suffers an internal conflict between mind and emotion, and it is in the latter area that the
women of the novel play such an important role. If the marriage to Qadriyya, with its literal and figurative barrenness, is doomed from the start, then the relationship with Riri, the Alexandrian prostitute, represents Isa's real fight with emotion, his total failure to meet his moral responsibilities, and his eventual realization through a very bitter lesson of what those responsibilities are. This relationship is as creative—literally—as that with Qadriyya is not. Isa's failure to regain his real family (as he comes to call it) symbolizes the failure of his emotions to react responsibly to the circumstances in which his own past has left him. As he realizes this bitter fact and its consequences for the future, his life with Qadriyya emerges as the sham which it really is and always has been; in his own words, he has no home with her.

The final pages bring Isa together with a young man whom he had imprisoned during his period as a powerful civil servant. By now, his emotions have been jolted into some kind of reality by the sight of his own daughter and by Riri's bitter words to him. Past and present encounter each other in the dark under the statue of Saad Zaghlul, the poignant symbol of the past mentioned several times in this book and with equal effect in
Miramar
. Isa is disturbed and troubled by the young man's friendly attitude and by his enthusiasm for the revolution. When the latter gives up hope of converting Isa and heads toward the city, Isa follows him. Since it is past midnight, this may perhaps be considered a move away from Saad Zaghlul's statue, out of the darkness toward some new dawn.

From an artistic point of view, this ending—with Isa running after the young man into an uncertain future—has been regarded as contrived. We have already noted that Isa
had given several signs of a dispassionate
intellectual
acceptance of the revolution. The question to be posed in the current context thus concerns his stubborn adherence to his own past and his emotional attitudes. What is the role of his final encounters with Riri and his own daughter, Ni‘mat, in this process? Has it shaken him into a sense of emotional and moral responsibility sufficient to justify his decision to run after the young man? Is the Indian palm reader's comment about “recovery from a serious illness” a forewarning of his eventual decision to follow the young man? I must leave it to the readers of
Autumn Quail
to make their own judgments on the
artistic
efficacy of the ending vis-à-vis these questions; I would merely comment that I find it less unconvincing than many of its critics do.

The long period of time (over four years) covered by this novel, the close linkage with the political events of the day, and the optimistic ending have all been criticized on artistic, if not political, grounds. It has been suggested that
Autumn Quail
represents a response on Mahfouz's part to critical reactions (including presumably those of “the official cultural sector” of which he himself was a part) to the subtly negative commentary on the Revolution to be found in
Al-Liss wal-Kilab
(
The Thief and the Dogs
, 1961), the first novel in the series of works published in the 1960s. In the latter work, a man who has been “framed” is released from prison and vows vengeance on his wife and her lover, who have tricked him. In trying to kill them, he mistakenly kills two other people and is then hunted (or hounded) down by the police as a homicidal maniac, meeting his death in a cemetery as the police dogs chase after him.
Autumn Quail
certainly represents—at least in the implications of its ending—a more “upbeat” view of Egyptian
society than that. I would not wish to imply that Mahfouz felt himself to be under the same constraints as Dimitri Shostakovich, who prefaced his Fifth Symphony with the phrase “an artist's response to just criticism” in the wake of his ostracism from Russian cultural life (in turn a reaction to his Fourth Symphony). However, one may legitimately wonder whether the general intellectual atmosphere in Egypt during the early 1960s—a period about which many details concerning assaults on civil liberties have only recently come to light—did not suggest to Mahfouz that a retrospect with positive contemporary implications might be at least apropos.

Whatever the artistic and societal motivations may have been in writing
Autumn Quail
, Mahfouz decided to trace within a novelistic framework the relationship of past and present within the Egyptian Revolution and the possibilities of cooperation, or perhaps coexistence, in the future. It has to be admitted that the novel's narrative suffers from the extended time period. Bearing in mind Isa's frequent travel back and forth between Cairo and Alexandria, the links of time and place seem to be extended beyond endurance in a comparatively short novel (compared, for example, with
The Trilogy
, a huge societal canvas in which these two aspects can be more expansively and successfully managed).

All this said,
Autumn Quail
will provide the Western reader with insights and reflections on the Egyptian Revolution and its progress, put into the mouths of Egyptian characters from different backgrounds and with varying social and political attitudes. Indeed, several themes of this work—alienation, political downfall, moral responsibility, to name a few—transcend the boundaries of independent
national literary traditions and are to be found in much of contemporary world fiction. As for the characters themselves (quite apart from the intrinsic interest of their comments about politics, religion, and the world situation), the symbolic mesh within which Mahfouz illustrates their relationships gives this work a peculiar fascination.

R
OGER
A
LLEN