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 (9 page)

BOOK: Karnak Café
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“So it's over then?”

“I don't think so.…”

“Really?”

“We're both sick. At least I am, and I know the reason why. She's sick too. One day our love may be revived; otherwise it'll die for good. At any rate, we're still waiting, and that doesn't bother either of us.”

So they're both waiting. But then, who isn't?

Zaynab Diyab

Z
aynab was both vivacious and pleasant, a combination that drew me to her from the first. She had a wonderful wine-dark complexion, and her figure had bloomed sweetly and with a certain abandon; she looked both svelte and trim. She seemed well aware that I admired her fascinating personality; in fact that was what allowed us to get to know each other well and eventually to develop a really strong sense of friendship.

She had grown up in the same surroundings as Isma‘il; in the very same building, in fact.

Her father was a butcher, and her mother started out as a washerwoman before becoming a broker after a good deal of effort. She had a brother, who worked as a plumber, and two married sisters. As a result of her mother's second job the family could afford some of life's necessities; for Zaynab she was able to provide the bare minimum of clothing she needed. They were not prepared for the way Zaynab excelled in her school work, and it caused both surprise and problems. They could see no harm in allowing her to continue playing this game with education until some nice young man came along. That was why her mother did not welcome Isma‘il al-Shaykh at first. She thought he was a layabout and a distinct roadblock to the future progress of any pretty
young girl. Truth to tell, Zaynab's mother was the real power in the household. Her father worked hard all day for a few piasters and then proceeded to squander it all at the beer parlor. The standard result was a fierce family quarrel. The amazing thing was that her dissolute father was actually very good-looking; his austere face may have had hair sprouting from it and a mass of wrinkles to go with it, but his features were very handsome. It was from him that Zaynab had inherited her looks. Meanwhile, her virago of a mother was just as tough as any man.

The long-anticipated crisis had finally arrived when Zaynab was in secondary school. A chicken seller who was considered to be wealthy in the terms of this poor quarter came to ask for her hand. He was forty years old and a widower with three daughters. Zaynab's mother welcomed the idea of him taking her away from the tenement courtyard and giving her a happy life of her own. However, Zaynab turned him down, and that made her mother very angry. It was Isma‘il and his family who had borne the brunt of that anger.

“You'll be sorry!” she yelled at her daughter. “It'll be too late, and then you'll regret it.”

Even then the matter did not blow over quietly. The merchant spread a rumor that there was something going on between Zaynab and Isma‘il. This also raised a storm inside the courtyard, but Zaynab's will was still strong enough to triumph. It also affected the way she behaved. In order to confront these unjust accusations head on, she decided to act in a very conservative fashion. If certain people decided to accuse her of being reactionary, then so be it; she did not care. Nor did her increasingly broad education change her demeanor in any way.

“We represent a conservatism that is deliberately dressed
in the guise of progressivism,” she said. “That's why, within the framework of the revolution, I've found things that to me seem both comforting and reassuring.”

She loved Isma‘il very much and fully understood the way he thought as well. She believed that they shared the same set of attitudes. Even though he might pretend to say things that he didn't really believe in his heart of hearts, she realized that he would never forgive her if she were to look down on him in any way.

“At the time,” she told me, “old Hasaballah, the chicken seller, was eager to get me at any price. When I turned him down, he wasn't put off. He used an old woman who worked with him to get to me again. But I certainly taught her a lesson.”

“You mean, he wanted to have you out of wedlock?”

“That's right. And he was prepared to pay a high price for it too!”

She was saying all this in a listless tone that seemed strangely inappropriate to the situation. At the time I had no idea what lay behind it.

“Zayn al-‘Abidin ‘Abdallah tried the same game later on,” she said.

“Never!” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Oh yes, he did,” she replied emphatically.

“But he was crazy about Qurunfula!”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Maybe he was just pretending to be in love with her,” I suggested. “He wanted to hide the fact that he was really after her money.”

“No,” she replied. “He was genuinely in love with her; he still is. He just needed a bit of diversion for consolation's sake. Maybe the old rogue thought I was one of those girls who fools around.”

“When did he let you know what he was after?”

“Many times, but I'm referring to the first time, immediately after our first spell in prison.”

“In spite of his stubbornness I believe that he's given up hope about Qurunfula.”

“Why should he give up hope? He's simply sitting around waiting for the time when he'll get his dues.”

She decided to put an end to this chatter about affairs of the heart. “There were many others as well,” she said.

“Was Hilmi Hamada—God rest his soul—one of them?” I asked with a great deal of hidden concern.

“Certainly not!” she replied in amazement.

“I must tell you in all candor that I'd thought there was something between the two of you.”

“We were close friends,” she replied sadly. “But Isma‘il's the only man I've ever loved.”

“Are you still in love?” I asked.

She ignored my question.

The story of her attitude toward the revolution was exactly the same as Isma‘il's. “They arrested me because of my connection with Isma‘il,” she said, talking about her first arrest. “There was not even the slightest suspicion of a case against me, and I told them I'd never been a member of the Brotherhood. I was only held for a couple of days, then released unharmed.” She gave me a sad smile. “The real trouble was at home. My mother told me that those were precisely the kind of difficulties I should have expected to find myself in because of my being with Isma‘il. It so happened that my own arrest came one week after my father had been taken in; he'd been accused of rowdiness and assaulting a police officer.”

“In such circumstances,” I commented admiringly, “the way you have managed to move ahead is remarkable.”

“I asked Khalid Safwan why they were badgering us like this. We were all children of the revolution, I told him; we owed it everything. How could they accuse us of being opposed to it? His sarcastic response was to the effect that the very same excuse was being used by ninety-nine percent of the people who were genuinely opposed to the revolution.”

She talked to me about her former belief in the revolution and about the fact that their imprisonment had done nothing to alter or take away their core belief in its values. “However, whereas we had previously thought that we had all the power in the world, that feeling had been severely jolted by the time we'd emerged from prison. We'd lost much of our courage and along with it our self-confidence and belief in the workings of time. We had now discovered the existence of a terrifying force operating completely outside the dictates of law and human values.”

Zaynab told me that she had discussed with Isma‘il the agonies she had gone through when he had suddenly disappeared. “Wouldn't it be a good idea,” she had suggested, “for us to keep to ourselves for a while and avoid meeting friends and other groups?”

“It was my fault that they were all arrested,” he had replied sarcastically, “not vice versa!”

I did my best to console her. “This is the kind of thing humanity has to go through,” I said. “It's part of the price of all great revolutions.”

She let out a sigh. “When will life be really pleasant, I wonder? Will we ever be finally rid of these dreadful miseries?”

She now started talking about her second prison term. I immediately realized that I was about to hear a tale with some truly awful memories attached to it.

“This time we were accused of being Communists,” she
said and then went on nervously, “it's a period in my life that I'll never forget.”

She told me how she'd been taken to see Khalid Safwan again.

“So here we are again!” he had said sarcastically. “Our friendship is becoming well established!”

“Why have I been arrested?” she asked. “For my part I've no idea.”

“Ah, but I do.”

“Then what's the reason, sir?”

“It all goes back to those two distinguished gentlemen, Marx and Lenin.” He stared at her angrily. “Now answer my questions, but make sure you don't use that silly nonsense again. You know: ‘Why do you keep on badgering me?' ‘We're all children of the revolution,' and so on. Understand?”

“We're not Communists,” she replied, totally despairing of ever being able to persuade him.

“That's a shame!” he uttered cryptically.

She told me that she had been thrown into a cell and subjected to the most humiliating forms of torture, the pain of which only a woman could possibly appreciate fully.

“I had to live, sleep, eat, and carry out my bodily functions all in one place! Can you imagine?”

“No,” I responded sadly.

“At any moment,” she went on, “I might look up and see the guard leering at me through the peephole in the door. Can you appreciate what that meant?”

“Unfortunately I can.”

“One day I was summoned to Khalid Safwan's office while Isma‘il was being interrogated. When I saw how humiliated and hopeless he looked, tears welled up in my eyes. From the very bottom of my heart I poured curses on
the world. But I was only there long enough for him to hear the threat of my being tortured. I was taken back to my filthy cell where I cried for a long time. Day after day the torture continued.”

She continued her tale by telling me about another occasion when she had been summoned to Khalid Safwan's office.

“ ‘I hope you approve of our accommodations,' he said.

“ ‘Oh yes, sir,' I replied bravely. ‘Thank you very much.'

“ ‘Our friend's confessed to being a Communist,' he went on.

“ ‘Only when you threatened him!' I yelled.

“ ‘But it's the truth, however the information was obtained.'

“ ‘Absolutely not, sir. The entire thing's atrocious.'

“ ‘Oh no, my dear,' he replied cryptically. ‘It's marvelous.'

“ ‘How so, marvelous?'

“ ‘We'll see,' he replied. With that he gave a specific hand gesture.

“I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. They came closer and closer till they seemed almost to envelop me. What can I say?”

She had to stop for a moment, and the muscles in her jaw visibly tightened. Now I readied myself to hear something even worse than what had already happened.

“We can stop if you like,” I suggested.

“No,” she said. “It makes for good listening.” She looked me straight in the eye. “At this point he decided to put on a titillating and exciting spectacle for himself, something utterly beyond the bounds of normalcy and decency.”

“My dear Zaynab,” I asked, my heart pounding, “what on earth do you mean?”

“You've got it right.”

“No!”

“Down to the last detail.”

“Right in front of him?”

“That's it, right in front of him!”

There now followed a prolonged silence, like a prolonged, mute sob.

“What kind of man can he be?” I eventually managed to mutter, referring to Khalid Safwan.

“There's nothing odd about the way he looks,” Zaynab said. “For that matter he could just as well be a professor or a man of religion.”

“The entire matter needs further study,” I said, feeling utterly nonplussed.

“Study?” she yelled. “Did you say ‘study'? Do you seriously propose to initiate a research program involving my personal honor?”

I felt so ashamed, I didn't say another word.

BOOK: Karnak Café
12.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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