Read Karnak Café Online

Authors: Naguib Mahfouz

Tags: #Literary, #Fiction, #General, #Egypt - Social Conditions - 1952-1970, #Egypt, #Cairo, #Political, #Coffeehouses, #Coffeehouses - Egypt - Cairo, #Cairo (Egypt), #Espionage

Karnak Café

NAGUIB MAHFOUZ
KARNAK CAFÉ

Naguib Mahfouz was one of the most prominent writers of Arabic fiction in the twentieth century. He was born in 1911 in Cairo and began writing at the age of seventeen. His first novel was published in 1939. Throughout his career, he wrote nearly forty novel-length works and hundreds of short stories. In 1988 Mr. Mahfouz was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. He died in 2006.

THE FOLLOWING TITLES BY
N
AGUIB
M
AHFOUZ
ARE ALSO PUBLISHED BY ANCHOR BOOKS:

The Beggar, The Thief and the Dogs, Autumn Quail
(omnibus edition)
Respected Sir, Wedding Song, The Search
(omnibus edition)
The Beginning and the End
The Time and the Place and Other Stories
Midaq Alley
The Journey of Ibn Fattouma
Miramar
Adrift on the Nile
The Harafish
Arabian Nights and Days
Children of the Alley
Echoes of an Autobiography
The Day the Leader Was Killed
Akhenaten, Dweller in Truth
Voices from the Other World
Khufu's Wisdom
Rhadopis of Nubia
Thebes at War
Seventh Heaven
The Thief and the Dogs

The Cairo Trilogy:
Palace Walk
Palace of Desire
Sugar Street

FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, DECEMBER 2008

Copyright © 1974 by Naguib Mahfouz
First published in Arabic in 1974 as
al-Karnak
English translation copyright © 2007 by Roger Allen

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by
Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in
hardcover in the United States by The American University in
Cairo Press, Cairo and New York, in 2007.

Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.

The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.

eISBN: 978-0-307-79385-0

www.anchorbooks.com

v3.1

Contents

Translator's Afterword

Qurunfula

I
t was sheer chance that brought me to the Karnak Café. One day I'd made my way to al-Mahdi Street to get my watch repaired; the job was going to take several hours, so I had to wait. To kill the time I decided to look at all the watches, jewelry, and trinkets on display in the store windows on both sides of the street. And that's how I came to stumble across the café.

It's very small and off the main street. Since that day it's become my favorite place to sit and pass the time. To tell you the truth, at first I hesitated by the entrance for a moment, but then I spotted a woman sitting on a stool by the cash register, the usual spot for the manageress. You could tell she was getting old, and yet she still had vestiges of her former beauty. Those clear, refined features of hers jogged something buried deep in my memory. All of a sudden the images came flooding back. I could hear music and drums. I was sitting there watching a gorgeous body swaying from side to side; the air was permeated by the aroma of incense. A dancer, that's what she was. Yes, the star of ‘Imad al-Din, none other than Qurunfula herself! Now there she was sitting on the stool, Qurunfula in person, the roseate dream from the 1940s.

So that was how I came to enter the Karnak Café. I felt
drawn in by some obscure magic force and a carefree heart, and all because of someone who had never even heard of me. We had never had any kind of relationship, whether of affection, self-interest, or simply courtesy. At one time she had been a real star, whereas I was just one of her contemporaries. The admiring glances that I directed at her still-glorious figure seemed to have absolutely no effect on her, and I did not feel I had any reason to go over and say hello. So I just took a seat and started looking around the café.

It seemed to consist simply of one large room, but it was all neat and tidy. There was wallpaper on the walls, and the chairs and tables looked new; mirrors all around and colored lamps as well. The plates, dishes, and cups looked clean. All in all, its attractions as a place to sit were pretty irresistible. Every time the opportunity arose, I stared long and hard at Qurunfula. The bewitching femininity of her earlier days was long gone, of course, along with the bloom of youth, but in their place there was an enigmatic kind of beauty, accentuated by a sorrowful expression that touched your heart. Her body was still lithe and svelte, and gave the impression that she could still be lively and energetic when need be. And with it all there was a sense of a carefully controlled inner strength, the result of many years of experience and work. The carefree mood that she exuded was totally captivating. Her glances would take in the entire establishment and kept the wine-steward, waiter, and cleaner on their toes. For the relatively few regulars at the café she showed tremendous affection; the place was so small that they all seemed like a single family. There were three old men who may have been in retirement, another middle-aged man, and a group of younger people, including a very pretty girl.

All this made me feel out of place. I certainly was feeling
happy enough, but still I got the impression that somehow I was intruding. Good God, I told myself, I really like this place. The coffee is excellent, the water is pure, and the cups and glasses are models of cleanliness. Beyond that, there's that sweetness about Qurunfula, the respectability of those old men, and the lively atmosphere that those young people over there bring in, not to mention the pretty girl. It's right in the middle of the big city, just the place for a wanderer like me to relax for a while. Here you get to sense past and present in a warm embrace, the sweet past and glorious present. To top it all, there is that enticement that the unknown brings. There I was, needing to have my watch repaired, and now I find myself succumbing to a multi-faceted infatuation! Very well then, Karnak Café can be my haven of rest and relaxation whenever time permits.

At that moment I had a very agreeable surprise. Qurunfula apparently decided to walk over and welcome me as a new customer. She left her chair and came toward me. She was wearing dark blue slacks and a white blouse.

“I'm pleased to see you here,” she said, standing right in front of me.

We shook hands, and I thanked her for her welcome.

“Did you like the coffee?” she asked.

“Very much,” I replied truthfully, “an excellent blend.”

She smiled contentedly and stared at me for a moment. “I get the impression,” she went on, “that you remember me from before. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I replied, “who could ever forget Qurunfula?”

“But can you remember what I really did for art?”

“Certainly, you were the first to modernize belly dancing.”

“Have you ever heard or read about anyone who acknowledges that fact?”

“Sometimes nations are afflicted with a corporate loss of memory,” I replied, feeling awkward, “but it never lasts forever.”

“That's all very well,” she replied, “but those are empty words.”

“To the contrary, what I just said is absolutely true.” I was eager to get out of this tight corner, so I went on, “I wish you a very happy life. That's what's most important.”

She laughed. “Thus far,” she said, “the conclusion seems to be a happy one.” With that she turned away and went back to her chair, but not before she bade me farewell with the words, “But only God knows the unseen!”

So we got to know each other; it was that simple. It turned into a new friendship, one that gave me then and has continued to give me much pleasure. It was new in one sense, and yet behind it there were other features that went back thirty years or more. Our meetings and conversations continued and indeed blossomed till a bond of genuine affection was established.

One day it occurred to me that she may have been a brilliant and gorgeous dancer, yet at the same time she had always been respectable.

“You were a wonderful dancer,” I told her, “but you still managed to keep your respectability. Wasn't that some kind of miracle?”

“Before me belly dancing involved the three b's: belly, bosom, and buttocks,” she responded proudly. “I turned it into something more tasteful.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I made sure never to miss the dancing soirees at al-Bargula.” She shook her head suggestively. “On the matter of respectability,” she went on, “I made it a matter of public knowledge that I would never consent to any relationship
which didn't involve genuine love, nor would I make love with anyone if there was no question of marriage.”

“And that was it?” I asked in amazement.

“If respectability has a public face,” she replied with a laugh, “that's enough, isn't it?”

I nodded in agreement. She muttered something that I couldn't hear, then continued, “True love will always give a relationship a legitimacy that is hard to fault.”

“So that's why no magazine ever dragged your name through the mud.”

“That's right, not even the worst of them.”

“Even so, there were a lot of men whose lives went downhill over you.”

“Yes,” she replied with a sigh, “nightlife is filled with personal tragedies.”

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