Khan Al-Khalili (9 page)

For a moment no one said anything. Boss Nunu started pouring more tea into the cups. Ahmad Akif looked around. For the first time he noticed a young boy sitting on a chair alongside Kamal Khalil Effendi; he could not decide whether the boy had been there when he arrived or whether he had come in while Ahmad was preoccupied with his argument about degrees. However, it took no more than a moment to confirm that the boy was Kamal’s son; even a passing glance made the family resemblance clear. Ahmad looked around some more, but soon focused on the boy again. There was something about his face, but he could not put his finger on it. He obviously could not stare at him for a long time, so he started sneaking perplexed glances in the boy’s direction from behind his teacup, from which he
kept taking sips. What was it that so attracted his attention to that face and made him almost forget about the fierce argument he had just been having? He had a vague feeling that he had seen him before, particularly those wide eyes with their sweet, simple expression. Such feelings will nag their owner till some recollection will shed light on memories shrouded by the past. As a result he fell back on asking himself where and when he had seen that face before. Was it in al-Sakakini? On the trolley? At the ministry? In response to his stubborn inquiries, his memory treated him with a cruel mockery: an image would float up into his consciousness with glimpses back into times and places past, and he would tell himself he almost had it, but then everything would vanish into a profound darkness. The image would disappear, leaving behind yet more obscurity, ambiguity, and despair.

Eventually he reached the point of not wanting to recall anything that was not relevant to his chief concern, but the truth of the matter was that at this point his memory was not the only thing impinging upon his consciousness and confusing him. In fact, deep down he could feel something pulling his heart back in the direction of those honey-colored eyes and their sweet, simple expression. Every time he sneaked a look in that direction, a wave of longing and attraction swept over him. He was totally confused and felt abashed by the whole thing. The watchful eyes of the assembled company were warning enough. Clutching the handle of his teacup he stared at the floor, his heart pounding. Yet his imagination totally refused to forget about the boy, something that showed in both his facial expression and the look in his eyes, while his heart overflowed with
affection and longing. His eyes were on the point of giving him away, but a combination of fear and anger managed to keep them under control. What on earth had come over him, he wondered.

It was Boss Nunu who dragged him out of these personal reveries. “Do you play any recreational games?” he asked.

Ahmad looked at him, his expression that of someone who has just been jolted awake. “I don’t know anything about games,” he said.

Kamal Khalil laughed. “Our professor, Ahmad Rashid, is exactly the same,” he said. “You can chat to each other while we play a game for an hour or so.…”

“Come on, Muhammad,” he said turning to his son, “It’s time to go home.”

Ahmad’s heart gave a flutter. He looked at the boy once again and followed their progress as they made their way toward the door and then vanished from sight. Once again he asked himself in frustration how it was he could not remember where he had seen that boy before. By now the company had split up into separate groupings: Boss Nunu and Kamal Khalil were playing dominoes; Sulayman Ata and Sayyid Arif were playing backgammon; and Abbas Shifa had moved his chair so he could sit with the group around the café owner. Ahmad Rashid moved his chair to make room for the game players and came over to sit beside Ahmad Akif. The latter realized that he had come over, and that made the feelings he had just been having disappear, to be replaced once again by argument and conflict. Out went all notions of love, and in came anger and hatred.

“How are you, sir?” Ahmad Rashid asked, turning in
his direction. “By the way, I don’t want you to think that I’ve known Khan al-Khalili for a long time. I came here just two months before you.”

Ahmad was delighted that the other man wanted to befriend him. “Was it the air raids that made you move as well?” he asked.

“Pretty much. The fact is that our old house in Helwan was vacated for military reasons. I thought that a move into Cairo would mean I was much closer to work. I found it difficult to locate a vacant apartment until a friend happened to point me to this district.”

Ahmad Akif lowered his voice. “What an unsettling neighborhood it is!”

“You’re right. Even so, it has its consolations. It’s weird, but it’s also full of art and amazing examples of humanity. Just take a look at the café owner to whom Abbas Shifa is talking. Notice the drowsy look in his eyes. He takes a dose of opium every four hours. He goes about his work without ever really waking up; or, to put it another way, without ever wanting to wake up.”

“And does this improve life?”

“I don’t know. The only thing that’s certain is that he and others like him totally abhor the state of wakefulness that we enjoy and try to maintain by drinking tea and coffee. Were he to be compelled for some reason or other to remain in a wakeful state, you would find him yawning all the time, bleary-eyed, bad-tempered, and completely incapable of staying on an even keel until he found a way of canceling the world and floating in the universe of delusion. So is it some kind of nervous pleasure habitually obtained, or a purely illusory sense of happiness to which
the human soul resorts as a way of escaping the hardships of reality? Only the café owner can provide the answers to that.”

Ahmad told himself that he too was scared of the hardships of reality, just like one of these drug addicts. He too ran away from it regularly in order to seek refuge in his isolation and his books. Was he any happier than they were? He felt an urge to explore the subject further.

“How can I concentrate on my studies,” he asked with a changed tone of voice, “with all this hubbub going on?”

“Why not? The noise is very loud, it’s true, but habit is that much stronger. You’ll get used to the noise, and eventually you’ll be disturbed if it’s not there. At first, I found it annoying and despaired of ever getting anything done, but now I can write my briefs and review legal materials in a completely calm and relaxed fashion amid this incessant din. Don’t you think that habit is a weapon with which we can face anything except fate itself?”

Ahmad nodded his head in agreement. Not wanting the other to outdo him, even with such a trite phrase, he said: “Here’s what the poet Ibn al-Mu’tazz has to say on the subject: ‘Adversity brings a sting of distress; should a man suffer it for a while, it lessens.’ ”

Ahmad Rashid gave another of his cryptic smiles. He never memorized poetry and hated hearing it cited. “So, Professor Akif,” he asked agreeably, “are you one of those people who are always citing poetry?”

“What’s your opinion about that?” Ahmad asked dubiously.

“Nothing at all. It’s just that I notice that people never cite modern poetry, only the old stuff. What that means is
that, if they cite poetry a lot, it is always ancient poetry. I hate looking back into the past.”

“I don’t think I understand you.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I hate to hear poetry cited because I hate any resort to the past. I want to live in the present and for the future. When it comes to the provision of guidance and direction, I’m quite content to rely on the sages of this era.”

Unlike his colleague, Ahmad Akif was someone who believed that genuine greatness resided in the past. Or rather, the only examples of greatness that he was familiar with were in the past; he had no knowledge of greatness in the contemporary era. As a result, the other Ahmad’s statement made him angry again.

“Why would anyone wish to deny the greatness of times past,” he asked, “with their prophets and messengers?”

“Our era has messengers of its own!”

Ahmad was about to express his sense of outrage, but he didn’t want to express it in words unless it was his companion’s ignorance that was involved rather than his learning. “So,” he asked calmly, “who are the messengers of this era?”

“Let’s take those two geniuses: Sigmund Freud and Karl Marx.”

He felt as though a hand had grasped his neck and was throttling him. Indeed, he felt as if his honor had just suffered a deep wound, because he had never heard either of those two names before. He was now insanely angry with his companion, but was obviously unwilling to display his own ignorance. He shook his head as though he was well acquainted with the views of the two men.

“Do you really see them as being the equals of geniuses of the past?”

The young lawyer was thrilled to come across another educated person and was eager to argue points of principle. He pulled his chair up so close that they were almost touching.

“Freud’s philosophy concerning the individual,” he said in a low voice so no one else could hear, “has shown us the way out of the ills of our sexual existence that play such an essential role in our lives. Marx for his part has provided us with ways to liberate ourselves from the miseries of society. Isn’t that so?”

Ahmad Akif’s heart was pounding and his fury was barely suppressed. This time he did not know how to object, let alone to come out on top. All of which led him to dodge the whole issue.

“Take it easy, Professor,” he said gently, although his chest was bursting, “take it easy! In the old days we were all as enthusiastic as you are, but the passage of time and further thought on the matter both demand that we maintain a certain balance.”

“But I do think a great deal about the things I read!” protested Ahmad Rashid.

“I’m sure you do,” he replied, “but you’re still young. As you get older, you’ll acquire genuine wisdom. Haven’t you heard people say, ‘Someone one day older than you is a whole year wiser’?”

“Some ancient proverb, no doubt.”

“A sage one too!”

“There’s no wisdom in the past.”

“Oh yes, there is!”

“If there were any genuine wisdom in the past, it wouldn’t have become just our past.”

“What about our religion then?”

The young man raised his eyebrows in amazement. If Ahmad Akif had been able to look behind the dark glasses, he would have spotted a look of sheer contempt.

“Utter naiveté!” the young man muttered.

Ahmad Akif had read the religious philosophy of the Brethren of Purity. There were two reasons why he was anxious to summarize it for his obnoxious companion: firstly to defend himself against the charge of merely following the popular view of religion; and secondly as a means of baffling his companion just as much as the latter had done to him.

“Religion constitutes a sensory phenomenon for people in general and a rational essence for intellectuals. It involves truths that intellectuals should have no problems believing in, such as God, divine law, and the active intellect.”

His companion gave a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. “Come now,” he said, “our contemporary scholars know about the elements contained in the atom and the millions of stars that lie beyond our own galaxy. Where is God in all that? A load of religious myths! What’s the point of thinking about issues that cannot be solved, when we face any number of problems that can and must be solved?”

The young man gave Ahmad a furtive smile. “Needless to say,” he went on, altering his tone of voice, “we mustn’t include anyone else in this particular conversation.”

“Of course, of course! But never forget that disbelief is always the point at which knowledge begins.”

Their conversation was interrupted by an angry outburst from Sulayman Ata. Apparently Sayyid Arif, his opponent at backgammon, had finally provoked him with all his blather.

“What a wise and just God who’s deprived you of your powers!”

Ahmad Akif recalled what had been said about Sayyid Arif just an hour earlier and smiled at Ahmad Rashid, who smiled back meaningfully.

“Our friend keeps taking those pills,” he said, “with sincere hope and belief in their effectiveness!”

At this point both of them noticed a group of men in gallabiyas gathered around the café entrance, each of them clutching a huge wad of bank notes. The entire scene was astonishing for the contradictions it implied.

“Maybe they’re war profiteers,” Ahmad Akif suggested.

“You’re right,” his companion responded. “They’re leaving one class in order to join another.”

“The war’s managed to lift a number of people out of the lower classes.”

“Lower classes, you say! True enough, but there’s no real gap between lower and upper classes any more. Today’s aristocrats are yesterday’s poor. Surely you realize that in the past marauding mobs could grab our land by right of conquest. The same is true now with the upper classes. They all wallow in their prestige, power, and privileges without limit.”

For the first time he was inclined to concur with his companion without any argument.

“I agree with that,” he said.

“It’s Marx’s view,” the young man went on, “that the
working classes will eventually win, and the world will turn into a single class where everyone can enjoy the necessities of life and human fulfillment. That’s what socialism is.”

Neither of them said any more, as though they were both exhausted. Ahmad Akif started pondering: What ideas! Freud and Marx, atoms and millions of planets, socialism! His facial expression showed signs of a burning hatred and disgust. It had never occurred to him that in Khan al-Khalili he would come across someone who could challenge his own cultural identity and force him to acknowledge that there was always going to be more to be learned. Would he never be able to find any peace in this world?

With that the young man took off his glasses to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief, only to reveal that his left eye was actually made of glass. For just a moment he was astonished, but then a wave of malicious satisfaction poured over him as he realized that the other man’s eye condition gave him at least one way of exerting his sense of superiority.

He stayed there for a short while longer, but then left to go home, his mind churning and his dignity outraged. Fortunately for him, at that very moment he remembered the young boy, and that completely changed his mood. A cool moist breeze wafted across his burning senses and blew away the anger and hatred. Those honey-colored eyes appeared once again, with the coy expression. He gave a deep sigh. “I’m bound to see him again,” he told his heart.