Khan Al-Khalili (7 page)

By now he had despaired of ever achieving anything worthwhile. That pushed him into a life of seclusion, while his despair in matters of love drove him to consort with prostitutes. It was as though the negative feelings he had about women in general now threw him into the hands of those wretched and defiled women who would only accentuate the unhealthy sentiments he already had. His malicious attitude now served to convince him that the only genuine women were prostitutes. The veils of deceit regularly used by other women had been ripped away; they no longer felt any need to pretend that they were in love and could remain loyal and pure. However, consorting with prostitutes robbed him of more than his respect for women; it also killed off any vestigial sense he had of his own worthiness as a man. He was convinced that, if a prostitute loved a man, it was only for his natural masculine attributes and had absolutely nothing to do with either social values or relationships through family or neighbors. The Jewish girl may have fallen in love with him because there was no one else around. With his would-be fiancée it had
been the fact that they were neighbors and their mothers had encouraged it. But with a prostitute none of those factors were involved when she chose a lover from among the dozens of men who regularly consorted with her. So, if he had not managed to attract a prostitute for such a long time, it must be because he was not sexually attractive. Having reached that conclusion, he could now add sexual incompetence to the ugliness he had been using as an excuse before.

Once his brother Rushdi had finished his college degree in commerce and obtained a job with Bank Misr two years earlier (his other brother had died a while ago), Ahmad genuinely felt that his major task was not merely complete but duly celebrated.

A
fter lunch he made his way back to the new quarter. “Second alleyway on the right, then the third door on the left,” he mumbled to himself as he drew closer. As he made his way up the winding staircase, he remembered the young girl he had seen that morning, the one with the lovely olive complexion and honey-colored eyes. Would he see her again, he wondered? What apartment did she live in and on which floor?

By now his mother had organized things in the apartment. He stayed there until sunset, but then decided to wander around the streets of the quarter in order to explore and find out as much as he could. He put his clothes back on and headed outside. He paused for a moment by the apartment entrance and looked around him as he tried to decide in which direction he should start his exploration. But before he had a chance to make up his mind, he was aware of someone coming toward him. Turning round, he spotted the person whom he had identified that morning as
Boss Nunu. The man approached him with a heavy tread, beaming with pleasure.

“A hearty welcome to our new neighbor!” the man said, extending a hand as rough as a camel hoof. “What a wonderful day for all of us!”

Ahmad greeted his new neighbor, hardly expecting such a warm welcome from the source of “God damn the world!” “And greetings to you too, Boss!”

The man gestured to a chair in front of his store. “Please join us for a minute,” he went on, the broad smile still on his thick lips. “This is a happy day indeed!”

Ahmad hesitated for a moment. It was not so much that sitting down with the boss would mean negating the purpose of his expedition, but rather that his shyness would never allow him to accept such an invitation without due hesitation.

“I swear by al-Husayn himself,” the boss went on in his usual loud voice, “that, unless you have some really urgent business to attend to, you be my honored guest. Gaber, bring us some tea and a shisha too!”

In spite of his hesitation Ahmad was delighted to accept the boss’s invitation. He went over to a chair, while the boss came back with another. They sat facing each other. The calligraphy store was exactly like all the others in terms of its size and neat appearance. It was covered with beautiful signs, with a table in the middle on which bottles of colored inks, pens, and rulers were arranged. Leaning against one of the pillars was a large sign at the top of which was written in gaudy colors “The Khan Gaafar Grocery Store,” with the name of the owner etched out in pencil but not colored in yet. The boss was wearing a
gallabiya, white coat, and skullcap. He was about fifty years old, stocky, and well built. He had a large head with pronounced features, an equally large mouth, and thick lips. His complexion was wheat-colored, with a red tint to it.

“Nunu the Calligrapher, your humble servant,” he said once he had sat down.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Ahmad replied, raising his hand to his head. “This humble servant is Ahmad Akif, civil servant in the Ministry of Works.”

He had never liked mentioning where he worked as a way of salving his own sense of pride. Every time he had to introduce himself, it was a moment of sheer torture. But this time he did not feel the same way because he was well aware that people like Boss Nunu had great respect for civil servants. The man raised his hand to his head as a token of respect, then gave a gentle smile.

“It would be an honor to welcome you at any time,” the man said with his characteristic bluntness, “but was it really fear of the air raids that brought you here?”

Ahmad was utterly amazed that people already knew why they had left the old quarter when they had only been in the new one for a single night.

“Who told you that?” Ahmad asked, staring disconsolately at the man.

“The driver who brought your furniture,” he replied in all simplicity. “These days everyone’s moving somewhere else.”

That was a cue for Ahmad to launch into a defense of his family’s courage. “Actually,” he said, “all the quarters that have been subjected to the danger of air raids have
emptied out. What drove us to leave our old quarter was the fact that my father has a weak heart, and we were worried about it. We really didn’t want to leave.”

At this point the waiter came with the tea and shisha. He put the shisha pipe down in front of the boss, then brought a chair from the store, placed it in front of Ahmad, and put the teapot down on it. The boss urged his guest to take some tea, while he himself grabbed the shisha pipe with relish and took a long puff from it, filling his nostrils.

“It’s always okay for people to go looking for security, even though in fact everyone’s life is in God’s hands and fate decides what’s going to happen. Ahmad Effendi, I’m one of those people who places complete reliance on God. I have no idea how to get to the bomb shelter. Which bomb shelter are you talking about, for heaven’s sake? Have you ever listened to the words of Salih Abd al-Hayy’s song? ‘Whatever your share of life may be, that is the way it is!’ Even so I pray to God that He will be a sufficient protection against calamity. At the same time I also pray that our luck may be good. After all, if it weren’t for decisions made by some people, we wouldn’t have the good fortune to be new neighbors, would we?”

Ahmad was aware that what the boss had said at first was intended to poke a bit of fun at him, even though it may not have been malicious. The rest of it obliged him to show some gratitude.

“Thank you, Boss,” he replied with a smile. “Prudent people have often told us that there is security to be found in the al-Husayn quarter.”

The other man took another huge puff and let out a cloud of thick smoke. “That’s true enough,” he said. “It’s
a blessed and much loved quarter, much honored because of the person it’s named for. In days to come you’ll realize that from now on you won’t be able either to forget it or do without it. A deep-seated emotion will continually call you back. Here, take a puff from the shisha.”

Ahmad thanked him but declined. As he listened to his companion, he kept enjoying the sips of tea. Wanting to join his companion in a smoke, but of his own kind, he took out a cigarette and lit it with a smile. He felt very relaxed as he sat there talking to his new neighbor, probably because there was a strange quality about him, something he had never encountered in anyone before. His simplicity, frankness, and forceful presence, they all surprised him, but what was more important than any of those things was that Ahmad felt a sense of superiority that stroked his own tortured vanity. That impression made Ahmad want to get to know him better.

“Why don’t you like the shisha?” Boss Nunu asked. “It’s just like a cigarette except with water. The smoke’s filtered and purified. Beyond that, it conveys an aura of authority, and the gurgling sound it makes has a music of its own. And its very shape has sex appeal.”

Ahmad could not help laughing, but his laugh was drowned out by the ringing guffaws from the boss himself; they sounded like a continuous loud mooing and culminated in a burst of coughing that went on and on until he ran out of breath.

“Do you think we locals are stupid?” he asked Ahmad, his face still smiling. “Do you realize that English tourists come to visit this quarter in droves; many, many more than Arabs. But, in any case, by al-Husayn’s faith and God’s,
may you find untold happiness in his quarter and may our relationship and your time here be a happy one too, in spite of whatever Hitler and Mussolini decide to do.”

“God willing, that will be so.”

“A number of distinguished government personnel like yourself live in the area,” the boss went on by way of encouragement.

“Oh Boss, please! I’m not that important.” Ahmad hurriedly replied.

“No, I swear by al-Husayn and his beloved grandfather, the Prophet himself. Most of my friends in the neighborhood are officials. The new apartments have attracted a lot of good families here. You’ll find everything you need: coffee, radios, kindness, and shishas. In fact, there’s enough available here to make God happy and angry in equal measure.”

“Heaven forbid we should make God angry!” Ahmad said with a laugh.

The boss stared hard at him, then carried on with his usual bluntness. It was as if he had known Ahmad for many years, not just a few minutes. “Pleasing God and angering Him are like night and day, inseparable from one other. Beyond them both lies God’s mercy and forgiveness. You’re not a Hanbali, are you?”

“Certainly not!”

“You surprise me!”

“But how can this quarter be big enough to cater to things that anger God?”

“Ah well, disaster always lurks, so they say, wherever people don’t pay attention. Just wait and make sure for yourself. But I have to say that whatever faults there may
be are not the fault of our quarter but of others. The corruption has spread so far that they can’t keep it within their own walls. They keep sending their excess over to us; and that’s exactly what the radio keeps telling us about world trade. Here we export primary goods and other quarters import them ready made. In some parts of our quarter they export servant girls; the other quarters convert them into barroom singers. Because of this the world’s been turned upside down. Just imagine, my dear sir, yesterday I heard the radish-seller’s daughter using English with her sister. ‘Come here, darling,’ she said.”

Ahmad laughed. By this time he was feeling much more relaxed and at home. “In spite of all that, Boss,” he said, his strategy being to get the other man to do the talking, “your quarter is pure enough. The level of corruption in other quarters is beyond conception.”

“God protect us! It’s obviously a good idea not to let our anxieties get the better of us. So forget about such things, laugh, and worship God. The world belongs to Him, whatever happens is His doing. His command is certain, and the ending belongs to Him as well, so what’s the point of spending time bashing your brains and feeling miserable? God damn the world!”

“Well, Boss, that seems to be your favorite expression. I’ve heard it many times from my room upstairs.”

“Yes, God damn the world! It’s a phrase of derision, not a curse. But can you really curse the world in actuality as you do when you use those words? Can you despise the world and laugh at it when it makes you poor, leaves you naked, and brings hunger and disaster down on you? Believe me, the world’s just like a woman: kneel in front of
her and she’ll turn her back on you; beat her or curse her and she’ll come running. With the world and women therefore I have just one policy. Before and afterward I rely totally on the Lord God Almighty. There’s been many a day when we have no idea where the next penny is coming from; the family has nothing to eat and I can’t even buy myself a shisha, but I still keep on singing, cursing, and joking. The family might as well belong to my neighbors, and poverty be a mere passing cold. Then things change; I’m asked to do some work and grab the money I get. Then it’s, ‘Be happy, Nunu!’ ‘Thank God, Nunu!’ ‘Zaynab, go and buy us some meat!’ ‘Hasan, get some radishes!’ ‘Aisha, run out and buy us a melon!’ ‘Fill your stomach, Nunu!’ ‘Eat up, children!’ ‘Be grateful, you wives of Nunu!’ ”

That phrase “wives of Nunu” attracted Ahmad’s attention. He wondered exactly how many wives Nunu had in his harem. Would he be prepared to share his domestic secrets with the same frankness as he had used to detail his personal philosophy? The only way he could see to find out was to ask a trick question: “God is always there to help us. You obviously have a large family.”

“Eleven stars,” the man replied simply, “and four suns. Oh, and a single moon!” he went on, pointing to himself.

“You have four wives?” Ahmad asked after a pause.

“As God wills.”

“Aren’t you afraid of not being fair to them all?”

“And who’s to say that I’m unfair?”

“Do you rent four separate houses for them?”

“No, like you, sir, I’ve just one apartment. It has four rooms, and there’s a mother and her children in each one.”

Ahmad’s expression showed his astonishment as he stared at his companion in disbelief.

Boss Nunu’s laugh was filled with a certain pride. “Why are you so astonished, Ahmad Effendi?” he asked.

At this point Ahmad discovered a sense of daring that was unusual for him. “Why haven’t you been satisfied with just one?” he asked.

“One?” came the reply. “I’m a calligrapher. Women are just like calligraphy; no single one can make up for the others. One’s naskh, another ruq’a, another thuluth, and a fourth farsi. The only thing I have one of is God Almighty.”