In the Tavern of Life and Other Stories 9781685858285

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In the Tavern of Life & Other Stories

In the Tavern of Life & Other Stories

Tawfiq al-Hakim translated by

William Maynard Hutchins

A Three Continents B o o k 3 ^ L Y N N E R I E N N E R PUBLISHERS* BOULDER& LONDON

Published in the United States of America in 1998 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 1998 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hakim, Tawfiq. [Short stories. English. Selections] In the tavern of life and other stories / Tawfiq al-Hakim ; selected & translated by William Maynard Hutchins. p. cm. ISBN 0-89410-648-1 (cloth). — ISBN 0-89410-649-X (paper) 1. Hakim, Tawfiq—Translations into English. I. Hutchins, William M. II. Title. PJ7828.K52A24 1998 892'.735—DC20 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typesetting by Letra Libre Printed and bound in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the requirements (TO) of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984. 5

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Contents

Introduction, William Maynard Hutchins

1

The Artistes

11

The Radium of Happiness

21

In the Tavern of Life

27

Visiting the Angry Princess

31

By the Marble Basin

35

A Devilish Scheme

41

The Tree of Earthly Rule

47

My Donkey and Hypocrisy

65

Wedding Night

69

Expelled from Paradise

81

The World's a Stage

95

Satan Triumphs

105

Destiny

109

The Life of a Literary Character

123 v

vi

Contents

Show Me God

127

The Letter Carrier

131

I'm Death

135

Confederation of Sparrows

145

In the Year O n e Million

149

Azrael the Barber

159

A Woman Who Beat the Devil

163

The Unknown Lover

167

The Killer Confessed

175

The Birth of a Thought

183

Boats of the Sun

187

The Saints of Tarsus (for Children)

201

The Case of the Twenty-First Century

217

About the Book

232

In memory of Mohamad Aly Hassan

1953-1985 al-Adab Press, Cairo

I wish to thank my colleague Mary Ann Carroll for being the first reader, Riyad N. Delshad and Mahmoud El Lozy for assistance with some obscure words, and Sarah, Franya, and Kip Hutchins for their patience. William Maynard Hutchins

Introduction William Maynard Hutchins

F

OR MORE THAN FIVE DECADES, TAWFIQ AL-HAKIM ( 1 8 9 8 - 1 9 8 7 )

was a dominant, influential, and controversial voice in modern Arabic and Egyptian literature. He is remembered for his role in creating a viable theater tradition in Arabic literature with plays like The People of the Cave, Shahrazad, Muhammad, The Sultan's Dilemma, Fate of a Cockroach, Isis, The Tree Climber, and Poet on the Moon. His novels, especially Return of the Spirit and Maze ofJustice, are landmarks of twentieth-century Arabic literature and still enjoyable reading. A distinguished essayist, al-Hakim also considered himself a philosopher. He is perhaps least known for the short story, notwithstanding the importance of this genre in modern Arabic writing. Yet al-Hakim pronounced his short stories a good introduction to his thought, and they are an excellent demonstration of his impressive skills with lively dialogue and the light-hearted but serious analysis of ideas. An Arab critic has suggested that the short story was in fact the genre for which (along with comedy) al-Hakim's talent was best suited, but that since he wished to make a totally original contribution to Arabic literature he concentrated on drama, which was then less respectable in Arab literary circles than the short story.1 Tawfiq al-Hakim was not motivated merely by personal ambition when it came to art, but by a sense of his duty as an artist. To the question of whether an author's mission is limited to producing a beautiful work, he responded: No, "all higher forms of human life rest on spiritual principles, which we label freedom, thought, justice, truth, and beauty." It is the task of literary people to defend these principles. Since interests of state may clash with ideals, we cannot rely on the government to protect them.2 He wrote:

1

2

Introduction Man's life, unlike that of plants and animals, does not stop at the boundary of material existence.... It embraces existence in its diverse manifestations, observable and unobservable, material and spiritual.3

Al-Hakim termed art the external manifestation of the feelings an individual experiences as he passes through the stages of his life and likened the phases of a person's life to those of a nation's. Both proceed from idealistic ambition (or ambitious idealism) to a second stage of realism, where one is "content with the status quo." For him, Christ symbolized the idealistic phase and Muhammad the realistic one. 4 Religion, like literature, is most of all the "profound expression of what is in the human soul," of h u m a n emotions. In any depiction of feelings, neither realism nor idealism alone is adequate. Actuality must be preceded by a dream, and "Reality can only be understood by means of the imagination." 5 It is harder to create art from reality than from imagination. Thinking u p something that has not occurred is well within normal human abilities. To try to bring back to life an incident that God created is a mighty feat, for the artist is stretching toward God. Al-Hakim's novels Return of the Spirit and Maze ofJustice-were based on reality, "so to speak." For him, "All great art is a process of restoring life. All great art is a resurrection . . . a restoration of spirit to f e e l i n g s . . . implanted in our s o u l s . . . . " Therefore, just as idealism and realism need each other, the true task of imagination in art is to return "the spirit to those authentic feelings that God created and that the passage of time would have swept away had it not been for the artist's work." 6 From the dawn of history, according to al-Hakim, the feelings of the Egyptian people have revolved a r o u n d the concept of resurrection, just as the waterwheel turns and returns. Isis brought her husband Osiris back to life. Shahrazad resurrected Shahriyar, since he had lost his humanity and sunk to the bestial level. Many of al-Hakim's other heroines are versions of Isis, for, "In Egypt, resurrection is at the h a n d of a woman." 7 Nonetheless, al-Hakim admitted that he had not read much by women authors. This neglect was attributable not to prejudice but to a difference between his artistic temperament and that of many woman authors. H e explained, "Since I was young, my artistic inclinations have been based on these two pillars: a philosophic tendency and concentrated delivery." Therefore, in the main, he read either books of philosophy and related texts, n o matter how dry, or plays, since drama is a creative writing genre suited to concentrated rendition. As of the 1930s, women had not, so far as he knew, distinguished themselves in either of these fields. Most creative efforts by women to that time, h e felt, were based not on reflection and con-

Introduction

3

centration but on feelings and analysis, from Sappho to George Sand, George Eliot, Colette, Mary Webb, Katherine Mansfield, and Sigrid Undset—authors who were exemplary in their use of emotion and analysis in literature. The gift for analysis is required of a novelist, since the novel is based on a delicate penetration of character.8 Writing a novel takes the endurance and patience needed for knitting. In fact, most women's stories, he thought, resemble needlework in being exquisitely crafted, detailed domestic miniatures. He confessed that he did not have the patience or endurance to read pure novels or "narrated stories." His artistic loves were: "drama, architecture, and symphonic music."9 In a later essay, al-Hakim ventured that, It is natural for women to excel in the observation of the precise details of the concerns of daily life and to be skilled in the analysis of feelings. They have an instinctive passion for lengthy description and an inborn disposition toward prolix narration. They have a gift for using the pen as a knitting needle to create a story from the tales of different people. 10

These comments may explain why al-Hakim was occasionally accused of sexism, why he never wrote another work as novelistic as Return of the Spirit, and why of the short stories in this collection only the earliest, "The Artistes," shows an interest in description for its own sake, that is to say, in literary needlework. A contemporary but radically different author, Virginia Woolf offered some suprisingly similar opinions about the role of previous women writers. Even the most remarkable novels by nineteenthcentury women "were profoundly influenced by the fact that the women who wrote them were excluded by their sex from certain kinds of experience." What interest would Conrad's seafaring novels have retained had he never been to sea? Women have tended to write fiction, because it "is the least concentrated form of art. A novel can be taken up or put down more easily than a play or a poem." Women authors were often distracted from their creations by domestic chores. Moreover, life in the "sitting-room, surrounded by people," offered a woman the occasion for training, "to use her mind in observation and upon the analysis of character. She was trained to be a novelist and not to be a poet."11 Woolf looked forward to the time when "the novel will cease to be the dumping-ground for the personal emotions."12 She wrote, We long sometimes to escape from the incessant, the remorseless analysis of falling into love and falling out of love. . . . We long for some more impersonal relationship. We long for ideas, for dreams, for imaginations, for poetry. 13

4

Introduction

For al-Hakim too, since "man is not merely a body navigating through the physical environment consisting of country or city; of home, club, or place of employment," storytelling achieves the status of art by concerning itself with man's intellectual and spiritual life, with the competition and development of philosophic and religious principles. Sophocles, Tolstoy, Shakespeare, and Goethe . . . merited "their lofty status in the immortal arts" by highlighting "for us what is most profoundly rooted in man." 14 Both Woolf and al-Hakim f o u n d the novel overly d e p e n d e n t on a potentially tedious form of analysis and thought it less "concentrated" than other art forms. Although a magnificent achievement, it was less satisfying as art than the concentrated dreams and imaginations of poetry and drama. Its subject matter also tended to be limited to the mundane. In his preface to Ash'ab, a "novel" composed of connected tales inspired by medieval Arab authors, al-Hakim praised the Arab authors' exceptional portrayal of character and wondered why their works have not been more admired in the West. His response was: Most probably, the cause for that can be attributed to different views of artistic beauty for the Arabs and the Europeans, respectively. Arabs find the ultimate artistry to be in concision, in other words in concentrated expression, whereas Europeans consider profuse expression or analysis to be the indispensable art.

The Arab admiration for terseness led Arab authors to "portray personality or depict a trait of character through a narrated anecdote, a memorable incident, or a verse of poetry." Western authors and readers were not satisfied by such a "fleeting glance" and desired instead, "a complete tableau composed of a series of events.. . . Both views of art are valid. Terse expression has its own beauty and power." 15 He explained: "It is an art created by a skilled stylist for a skilled reader." Profuse expression is usually more didactic and better suited to a broad audience, since it elaborates instructively on everything. In Ash'ab, al-Hakim's goal was, "to reconcile these two approaches." 16 In his preface to a short story collection, al-Hakim also praised the modern short story for its "condensation and concentration." Noting that some critics think the short story will be the art of the future, given the fast pace of modern life and the threats that the novel faces from technology-based auditory and visual competitors, alHakim conjectured that modern, international taste may eventually

Introduction

5

be reconciled through the short story to the medieval Arab taste for elegant abbreviation in verbal expression. 17 Two key terms for understanding the short stories of Tawfiq alHakim, then, seem to be tafkir (speculative thought) and tarkiz (concentration). Most of his stories are philosophic tales rather than character sketches or analyses of personal relationships. Many are briefs for the defense of the concepts that Hakim considered essential to civilized society: thought, freedom, justice, truth, and beauty. Al-Hakim has three primary collections of short stories in print in Egypt: Ahd ash-Shaytan ("Pact with Satan"), Arini Allah ("Show Me God"), and Laylat az-Zifaf ("Wedding Night"). The dates given by the publishers for these collections are 1938, 1953, and 1966, respectively. Laylat az-Zifaf, however, with the exception of its order and the one new story, "Marakib ash-Shams" ("Boats of the Sun"), is identical to Qisas Tawfiq al-Hakim ("Stories of Tawfiq al-Hakim"), volumes I and II, as published by Dar Sa'd Masr by 1949 (the date at the end of the second volume). Between Qisas and Laylat az-Zifaf there was another edition of the same stories without "Boats of the Sun," in yet a different order. The stories now included in Arini Allah were originally scheduled for publication with three or four others in the projected third, fourth, and fifth volumes of Qisas Tawfiq al-Hakim, although in a different sequence, according to the announcement at the end of the second volume. Ash'ab (1938) should be considered a collection of short stories, too, as it was a modern attempt to revive medieval trickster tales, here starring Ash'ab, prince of the moochers. In addition to these collections of short stories, al-Hakim included at least one short story in Ahl al-Fann ("Artists," 1934), Sultan az-Zalam ("Reign of Darkness," 1941), Taht al-Misbah al-Akhdar ("By the Green Lamp," 1941), Shajarat al-Hukm ("Rulership Tree," 1945) and the 1984 edition of Thawrat ash-Shabab ("Revolt of the Young"). Many of these works are polemical (dramatized essays), political, or autobiographical in a sense that goes beyond mere autobiographical fiction. 'Adala wa Fann ("Art and Justice"), his memoirs for the period of his life when he worked in the judicial service, was also in story form. Al-Hakim thought of the account in Zahrat al-'Umr ("The Bloom of Life," a collection of letters from France, 1943) of an affair with the dancer Sasha as a short story. Himar al-Hakim, ("Al-Hakim's Ass," 1940) was a cross between essay, story-telling, and autobiography. In short, there is a continuum both of form and content in Tawfiq al-Hakim's works between essay, short story, autobiographical sketch, and dramatic sketch or play. Al-Hakim's blurring of the boundaries of the short story genre was not naive or accidental. In an essay on the story, he protested

6

Introduction

against the commercial prostitution of the story and suggested that literature might be forced to abandon the short story to the wolves of journalism, broadcasting, and the cinema. Inspired by pioneering works by authors like André Gide, Aldous Huxley, Stefan Zweig, and Ilya Ahrenburg, literature might seek alternative ways of delving into the relationship between truth and contemporary issues: whether memoirs, diaries, histories, essays, or studies. 18 Another possiblity was that storytelling might be monopolized by women authors, considering the success of Gone with the Wind, Forever Amber, and the novels of Vicki Baum. What al-Hakim actually hoped for was "a marriage between literature and the story." The miracle would be a perfect harmony between storytelling and the art of literature. 1 9 In short, al-Hakim was aware and appreciative of efforts by other authors to blur the line between storytelling and alternative forms of literary expression. Dates provided for the tales in this book are those given by alAdab Press editions and refer in most instances to the story's first publication in a collection. In the order that they appear in this book, the stories come from the following sources: from Ahi al-Fann ("Artists") 1934 and Raqisat al-Ma'bad ("Temple Dancer") 1939: "The Artistes," story dated 1927; from Ahd ash-Shaytan ("Pact with Satan") 1938: "The Radium of Happiness," "In the Tavern of Life," "Visiting the Angry Princess," and "By the Marble Basin"; from Ash'ab, published as Tarikh Hay at Ma'ida ("Biography of a Stomach") 1938: "A Devilish Scheme"; from Shajarat al-Hukm ("Rulership Tree") 1945: "The Tree of Earthly Rule"; from Himari Qala li ("My Donkey Told Me") 1945: "My Donkey and Hypocrisy"; from Qisas Tawfiq al-Hakim ("Stories of Tawfiq al-Hakim") vols. I and II, 1949, reissued by al-Adab Press as Laylat az-Zifaf ("Wedding Night"): "Wedding Night," "Expelled from Paradise," "The World's a Stage," "Satan Triumphs," and "Destiny"; from Farm al-Adab ("The Art of Literature") 1952: "The Life of a Literary Character"; from Arini Allah ("Show Me God") 1953: "Show Me God," "The Letter Carrier," "I'm Death," "Confederation of Sparrows," "In the Year One Million," "Azrael the Barber," "A Woman Who Beat the Devil," "The Unknown Lover," "The Killer Confessed," and "The Birth of a Thought"; from Laylat az-Zifaf ("Wedding Night") 1966, the one new story: "Boats of the Sun";

Introduction

7

from Ahl al-Kahf (lil-Atfal) ("The Saints of Tarsus (for Children)") 1979: "The Saints of Tarsus"; from Thawrat ash-Shabab ("Revolt of the Youth") 1984: "The Case of the Twenty-First Century."

Notes 1. Gilbert Victor Tutungi, "Tawfiq al-Hakim and the West," unpublished dissertation (Indiana University, 1966), pp. 166-167. 2. Tawfiq al-Hakim, "Hal Fahim Udaba'una al-Mu'asirun Haqiqa Risalatihim?" ("Do Contemporary Writers Understand Their True Mission?" in Taht al-Misbah al-Akhdar (Cairo: Maktaba al-Adab, 1942), pp. 55-56. 3. Hakim, preface, Laylat az-Zifaf (Cairo: Maktaba al-Adab, 1976, first edition 1966), p. 7. 4. Hakim, "Khatarat fi-l-Fann" ("Reflections on Art"), in Taht al-Misbah al-Akhdar, p. 129. 5. Ibid., p. 130. 6. Hakim, "Al-Waqi' wa'l-Khayal fi-l-Fann" ("Reality and Imagination in Art"), in Taht al-Misbah al-Akhdar, pp. 81-84. 7. Hakim, "Khatarat," pp. 131-132. 8. Hakim, "Hal Tanqus al-Mar'a Ba'd al-Mawahib al-Fanniya?" ("Do Women Lack Some Artistic Talents?" in Taht al-Misbah al-Akhdar, pp. 63-66. 9. Ibid., pp. 67-69. 10. Hakim, "Art of the Story," in Fann al-Adab (Beirut: Dar al-Kitab alLubnani, second printing, 1973), p. 222. 11. Virginia Woolf, "Women and Fiction," 1929, in Granite and Rainbow (London: The Hogarth Press, 1960), pp. 78-79. 12. Ibid., p. 84. 13. Woolf, "The Narrow Bridge of Art," 1927, in Granite and Rainbow, p. 19. 14. Hakim, Fann al-Adab, p. 219. 15. Hakim, "Preface," in Ash'ab (Cairo: Maktaba al-Adab, n.d., first edition 1938), p. 7. 16. Ibid., p. 8. 17. Hakim, Laylat az-ZiJaf, pp. 7-8. 18. Hakim, Fann al-Adab, pp. 220-221. 19. Ibid., pp. 222-223.

In the Tavern of Life & Other Stories

The Artistes

For Maestra Hamida al-Iskandaraniya, the person who taught me the word, "art"

A

BOUT FIVE MINUTES BEFORE THE TRAIN WAS SCHEDULED TO

leave the Cairo station, Hajj Muhammad al-Mutayyib scooted down from the third class coach to stand on the platform by one of the windows. Wiping sweat from his brow, he emitted the cough of a substance abuser who lives for each puff from a hashish pipe. Then he cried out, "My God . . . happy Ramadan!" He coughed again, ending with the ejaculation of a giant wad of spit. Then he cast a brief, reassuring glance at Maestra Hamida and the members of her troupe of entertainers, who had wedged themselves into facing seats toward the end of the carriage, wdth their instruments in piles between them. He remarked, "All kidding aside, here I've settled you in a cozy nook. Stay like that until, God willing, you reach Sidi Gabir Station in Alexandria." Maestra Hamida thrust her hands toward the heavens and exclaimed, "Come to our aid, Saint Gabir. Group, recite the opening of the Qur'an in honor of Sidi Gabir." Hajj Muhammad shouted at once, 'That's enough. . . . Watch out. All kidding aside, your hand's going to knock the tambourine off the top of the pile and that's going to break the lute's neck." "May evil depart and remain distant! Help us, Sidi Gabir! May God set our minds at rest with the saint's power. . . . Hajj Muhammad, is this train direct or the nonstop Pullman?" "The direct e x p r e s s . . . no offense intended, because, is there a third class Pullman?"

11

12

Tawfiq

al-Hakim

"Then we probably won't arrive until after the cannon is fired to break the fast." "Most assuredly... but you'll find a representative of the wedding hosts waiting for you at the station." A sarcastic laugh escaped from Sulum, the aged tambourine player. She capped it with her words: "What if no one is waiting for us, fellow? When it's time to break the fast, the only thing anyone thinks about is his belly." Turning in her direction, Maestra Hamida said, "By the Prophet, hold your tongue. Put a lid on your pessimism. I have the address." Hajj Muhammad smiled and said, "Bravo, Maestra Hamida! All kidding aside, if there's no one waiting for you, you've got the address." The distinguished Maestra Hamida had not thought of the address until this moment. She began immediately to search for it in her dress. Finally she turned to Fatima, the dancer, and anxiously demanded, "Girl, Fatima, where's the paper I gave you when we were in the cab?" The dancer replied, "What we used to wrap the finger cymbals?" Maestra Hamida smote herself on the chest and screamed, "Finger cymbals, girl? The paper with the address on it! God's curses on you!" Hajj Muhammad frowned slightly. He said, "Then, all kidding aside, you can't keep track of a single piece of paper. . . ." The first warning bell sounded, and all the members of the troupe at once shouted in a disorganized, impromptu fashion: "Take care of yourself, Hajj Muhammad." But Hajj Muhammad gestured for them to be still: "Hush . . . not y e t . . . hush. There's still one more bell left, all kidding aside." Then he coughed, spit, and shouted, "O God, happy Ramadan!" Smiling mischievously, Maestra Hamida said, "Really, Hajj M u h a m m a d . . . it's clear that you truly are fasting. May God grant you patience." Hajj Muhammad did not reply or take notice of the mocking and sarcastic smiles exchanged by the members of the ensemble. He kept on mumbling about God and fasting. Then he raised his head to say, "So you understand, all kidding aside, what to do when you reach Sidi Gabir Station? Ask for the home of Muhammad Bey Qutbi—exactly what was written on that piece of paper—Muhammad Bey Qutbi, one of the noted citizens of Alexandria. A thousand people will be able to direct you to him." At that moment the train whistled. Hajj Muhammad shouted, "Hey, group, isn't there anything you need?"

The Artistes

13

Blind Sulum shrieked, "Hajj M u h a m m a d . . . Hajj Muhammad, we need a jug of water." Hajj Muhammad scolded her: "What do you mean, 'a jug of water,' old woman, when we're in Ramadan? Fear God and think of your reputation." Nagiya the drummer nodded her head and commented, "Words of wisdom. . . . So, Hajj Muhammad, water's forbidden but not hashish?" Hajj Muhammad shouted angrily, "What hashish are you talking about, woman? By the truth of my f a s t . . . " Nagiya interrupted him, "Your f a s t ? . . . Is that the way you fast, my s o u l . . . . You shouldn't say such things. I saw you with my own eyes: This morning you were holding a water pipe and busily nursing it." Hajj Muhammad wanted to protest, but Maestra Hamida stopped him and changed the course of the conversation in order to derail this dispute. Winking at the drummer Nagiya, she said, "Hajj Muhammad is fasting just like me. Drop this pesky subject, kids. Drop i t . . . . Blast! Oh, Hajj Muhammad, Hajj Muhammad . . . see here, sister. I forgot to tell you.. . . What a predicament! The rabbits are entirely at your mercy, Hajj Muhammad. Don't forget to throw melon rinds on the roof for them. I'm counting on you. May the Prophet's granddaughter grant you strength." Then the final bell rang and there was a bustling commotion on all sides. As the train began to move, members of the troupe started shouting, "Take care of yourself, Hajj Muhammad." At the same time Hajj Muhammad was yelling back, "Goodbye." These voices got so mixed up with each other that finally it was beyond the ability of Hajj Muhammad or anyone else to identify the word "rabbits" or the phrase "Take care of yourself' in this cacophony. Even so, both sides continued this instinctual yelling, as though the shouting was for its own sake, until the train pulled away. Then everyone calmed down. «—rFor a short time the members of the ensemble sat in deep silence, as if leaving Cairo, albeit only for a short assignment, saddened them and made them feel desolate. What broke this gloomy silence was the voice of blind Sulum, who said, " H e y . . . . Look, sister. We forgot to tell Hajj Muhammad to buy us cigarettes. So we have only this great packet of 'Samson' tobacco. Will that last all day long?"

14

Tawfiq al-Hakim

No one answered. Each remained in her silent, downcast pose. Finally Maestra Hamida raised her head a little and sighed. She exclaimed emotionally, "Oh my darling Cairo!" This phrase seemed to express perfectly what each of them was feeling. They bowed their heads again for a moment. Then everyone began looking up and glancing around to restore her spirits. Frail, elderly Sulum remarked, "It's just tomorrow and then we'll be coming home again." Nagiya the drummer smiled and, with her eyes directed toward the next seat, said, "Is Alexandria so bad? By the Prophet, Alexandria's a dear." The dancer Fatima, her eyes also focused coquettishly on this nearby seat, commented, "Alexandria's salubrious. Its sand is saffron." In this manner, each woman began to regain her composure as the effects of their dejection wore away. Serenity returned to Maestra Hamida's face, and she said, "Sulum, roll me a cigarette." Sulum took the container of tobacco and began to roll a cigarette, while Maestra Hamida looked around to study the faces of their fellow passengers. Glancing at Fatima and Nagiya, she said scornfully, "Alas, alack for these passengers!"

Maestra Hamida was not far from the mark. In fact most of the passengers were from Upper Egypt or farm laborers. All the same, Maestra Hamida and her black eyes had not noticed the men in the nearby seat. There were four of them, three decked out as Westernstyle "effendis" and one wearing a robe and a fez. «—p If Maestra Hamida wishes to learn more than this, she can know that from the moment the train began moving, these four men had not taken their eyes off her and the members of her ensemble, excepting blind Sulum of course. If Maestra Hamida desires further clarification, she should ask the eyes of Nagiya and Fatima.. . .

Sulum rolled the cigarette and then struck her chest, exclaiming, " H e y . . . what an ill-omened catastrophe! We don't have any matches." At that moment the conductor appeared, pounding the side of the carriage with his punch. He shouted, "Tickets for Qalyub?"

The Artistes

15

Turning in the direction of the conductor's voice, Sulum yelled, "Mister Conductor. . . . Don't you have a match, may God render us both victorious." The conductor answered coldly, "What matches?" Maestra Hamida intervened ingratiatingly, "Don't blame us. It's just to light a cigarette." Without even turning to look at them, the conductor replied warily, "Are you fasting for Ramadan, or what?" He had reached the seat next to the troupe's. The man in the robe quickly cleared his throat and, seeing a favorable opportunity for a word, volunteered, "Entertainers are allowed to break the fast, Mister Conductor." The conductor did not reply. Instead he maintained his cold reserve and proceeded to execute the duties of his profession with dry earnestness. When he had moved away, Maestra Hamida said, "What a beastly conductor!" Gazing at the effendis in the nearby seat, Fatima responded, "Sister, really. . . what's the matter with him? Why is he so distant and haughty?" After clearing his throat, the man in the robe answered, "A guy like that, if you'll excuse my saying so, thinks he's the government." Fatima agreed, and then the members of the troupe and the effendis on the other side all began discussing the conductor. Finally one of the effendis remarked, "It's turned out for the best, praise God." A second one politely noted, "We have matches, ladies." The third added, "And we also have cigarettes." The robe-clad gentleman cleared his throat to say, "Where are you all getting o f f . . . if I'm not being too forward?" Sulum replied quickly, as though delighted to make the acquaintance of these men who possessed matches and cigarettes, "Sidi Gabir, fellow." The men shouted, "Just like us then! The same destination, God willing. We're getting off at Alexandria too." One of the effendis added, "Tonight, by the grace of God, we'll perform our Ramadan prayers at Sidi Abu al-Abbas." The robe-wearer cleared his throat once more and said, "I assume you ladies are traveling to a wedding?" With proud grandeur, Maestra Hamida responded, "Yes sir. May the power of God's name protect him, it's Muhammad Bey's wedding. Which Muhammad Bey, girl? Fatima, girl?" Fatima quickly answered, "Muhammad Bey Qutbi."

16

Tawfiq

al-Hakim

Gazing at the effendis, Maestra Hamida said, "Muhammad Bey Qutbi, one of Alexandria's most distinguished citizens, a man known to all." "Excellent! Fantastic!" One of the effendis continued, "Muhammad Bey Q u t b i . . . I think he's well up in years." The aged Sulum retorted, "The bridegroom? No, by your life, he's a charming slip of a boy, handsome enough to heal the sick." Nagiya turned to ask her, "You mean you've seen him?" Sulum replied, "Hajj Muhammad said the bridegroom was a young boy." At this juncture, one of the effendis took a box of cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to the members of the ensemble. Gazing at the dancer Fatima, he commented, "I assume that the young lady is the dancer who gathers the wedding contributions?" Fatima replied coquettishly, "Yes, sir." Another, looking at Nagiya, asked, ' T h e n what role does this lady have?" Smiling, Nagiya replied, "The drum, sir." The man with the robe remarked to Maestra Hamida, "We would really like to learn your distinguished name. . . ." Maestra Hamida answered grandly, "Hamida al-Mahallawiya. . . . Ask in the Bab al-Khalq district: A thousand people will be able to direct you to me." The men all said respectfully, "Excellent! Fantastic!" Then, pointing to the lute, one asked, "Are you, then, the master lutenist?" She replied, "Yes, sir." The robe-wearer cleared his throat and said, "God's will be done! How wonderful! The lute is the sultan of musical entertainment. My goodness!" Another said, "That's a well known fact. It's the 'father' of singing and delightful celebrations." They were all silent for a moment, until Sulum burst in: ' T h e fact is that no one has asked what I might be." The men felt disconcerted and a little embarrassed. They stammered their feeble apologies. Then, wishing to escape from this impasse, one of them took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and passed it around to the members of the ensemble once more. All the same, after extending her hand to accept a cigarette, Sulum said with a frown, "It's just that—thanks for your kindness—we only smoke the 'Samson' brand of loose tobacco, made especially for rolling cigarettes."

The Artistes

17

At this point the train was pulling into Qalyub, and the effendi insisted on buying Sulum a packet of 'Samson' from the platform. By the time the train left Qalyub, the relationship between the parties on the adjoining seats was on pretty firm ground. The man in the robe cleared his throat and commenced, "So, Maestra Hamida, pray for the prophet. . . . " She parried, "May God bless him and grant him peace. . . . " The berobed man continued, "So, we, if you'll excuse me mentioning it, are fasting, and the faster has a right to consoling entertainment . . . or am I wrong about this?" O n e of the effendis added, "By God, you would be doing us a most meritorious favor. . . . " "No, and it would also be a way of making up for breaking the fast. . . . " Maestra Hamida, who was penciling in her eyebrows with a match stick, answered, "My voice is a little hoarse. . . ." The man in the robe said, 'Your voice even when hoarse is the sultan of musical delight." O n e of the effendis remarked, "I would like to hear, 'I Spent My Time in Loving,' because the singer Na'ima al-Masriya . . . " Maestra Hamida interrupted him by shouting scornfully, "What a disgrace! Na'ima al-Masriya? Does she know how to sing, 'I Spent My Time in Loving'?" Then the effendi commented mischievously, 'That's just what I say." Sulum nodded her head and remarked, "Sir, people who listen to us wouldn't listen to failures like Na'ima al-Masriya." The effendi replied, "Yes . . . I'm planning to avoid hearing her." Maestra Hamida nodded her head to agree with Sulum's claim and then shouted with enthusiastic pride: "Tell him! Tell him who I am! I'm Hamida al-Mahallawiya, you trillers." The man in the robe shouted respectfully, "We understand, madam, and are very appreciative. . . ." During Maestra Hamida's agitated outburst, the top of her wrap slipped down, unbeknownst to her, and revealed the glittering gold o r n a m e n t adorning her hair and the dazzling kerchief sewn with tiny coins that covered her forehead. T h e m e n observed this and began stealing looks at her hair from time to time. T h e dancer Fatima noticed what they were doing and hastened to inform the maestra, using the j a r g o n these artistes employ: "Artseam, artseam, s'arait gniwosh"; in other words, "Maestra, maestra, your tiara's showing."

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But the maestra did not hear—or did not care to hear. She was engrossed in recreating her eyebrows with the match stick. Nagiya the drummer also realized that the men were looking at the maestra's hair. She quickly teamed up with her colleague Fatima to notify the maestra: "Artseam, s'arait gniwosh, sister." The maestra paid no attention. One of the effendis, puzzled by this strange phrase he could not understand, asked, "Artseam . . . where's this Artseam? Is that in Upper Egypt? The man in the robe said, "No, no. They're using secret jargon." Fatima became ever more bitter because of Maestra Hamida's feigned deafness and the effendis' license with the maestra's hair. She yelled furiously, "Sister, can't you hear then? S'arait gniwosh!" With equal rage and fervor, Nagiya repeated, "Sister, quickly.... S'arait showing!" One of the effendis noticed this slip and said, laughing, "Who is this Sarait that's showing?" Nagiya quickly corrected herself, shouting, "Oh, alas for me! Look, sister. I wanted to say, 'S'arait gniwosh,' but instead I said, 'S'arait showing.'" She emitted a resounding laugh that finally caught the maestra's attention. Turning to give the drummer a critical look, the maestra said, "Mutation's probably the least I have to fear when rowdiness like this erupts right here on a train. . . . " Nagiya said, "It's just that I made a mistake when using our jargon. Blast!" Maestra Hamida returned to her eyebrows and the match stick. The man in the robe begged, "Maestra Hamida, . . . I'll be your humble servant. . . . It's forbidden to be rude to people when they're fasting." The maestra replied proudly and saucily, "Yes . . . willingly." One of the effendis said, "'I've Spent My Time in Loving'. . . ." The maestra responded coquettishly, "Yes. . . . " Another effendi said, "Don't just say yes. . . . No . . . we are your humble servants." The maestra said, "Willingly . . . right away." The man in the robe pointed to the lute and asked, "The lute's there beside you, isn't it, Maestra Hamida?" She answered cheekily, "Yes . . . at once. . . ." Then she looked at Nagiya and told her loud enough for the effendis to hear, "Oh . . . how I long for a cup of coffee: I'm parched." The man in the robe offered, "You'll have that, Maestra Hamida, as soon as we reach Benha."

The

Artistes

19

Seizing this opportunity, o n e of the effendis asked, "Couldn't we hear, 'I Spent My Time in Loving,' Maestra Hamida? We beg you most especially." With the cheeky coquettry of her trade the maestra replied, 'Yes. . . . Grab your tambourine, Sulum." T h e n she looked at Fatima a n d whispered to h e r in their secret jargon, "Girl, Fatima, look at my face. Perhaps my eyebrows are thin, or are they thick?" At this m o m e n t the conductor r e t u r n e d to examine the tickets of the passengers who had boarded at Qalyub. H e asked the troupe in his dry, reserved tone, "No o n e was added to you?" Maestra H a m i d a stated, as she applied another line to h e r thin eyebrows, "Nothing's b e e n added to us but some lines." T h e conductor departed, fearful that his dignified d e m e a n o r would be compromised by the mirth of this group. No sooner had the conductor reached the e n d of the next carriage than there e c h o e d through the coach the sound of the entire ensemble and all their instruments: lute, tambourine, and d r u m . They were singing: I spent my time in loving. Today my cares suffice me. O h . . . see my wasted body. T h e conductor stood there flabbergasted, as the entire train rocked with excitement. Paris, June 1927

The Radium of Happiness

Y

ESTERDAY I REPLAYED A FILM OF COLORFUL MEMORIES IN MY

mind. The hue represented was the dark green of the linden and chestnut trees around that lovely nest—called "Auriage"—which nature's hand has placed at the bottom of a remote valley in the Alps to remind human beings of the paradise we lost. I arrived in this heavenly spot in the month of August 1938 toting a single bag that contained one change of clothes and all the volumes of a work by Ibn Abd Rabbih: al-Iqd al-Farid. The bag was not large enough to accommodate anything besides these garments and volumes, and there is nothing I hate more than lugging around several bags when I travel. While packing for the trip, I had hesitated for a long time, wondering whether to take more clothes instead of Ibn Abd Rabbih. At last I resolved to give preference to this companion with whom I would cross seas and mountains, escorting him to lands where his feet had never trod, and showing him sights his eyes had never viewed—on the assumption that one man of letters has legitimate claims upon another and that it would have been disloyal of me to deny Ibn Abd Rabbih an excursion like this. So laying aside the extra garments, I grasped the man of letters, and off we set.

Reaching the paradise of Auriage, we took up residence in the Meadow Hotel, a handsome edifice set on a carpet of grass where lovely French women reclined in the shade of the low-hanging

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branches and chatted with children and young men or listened to music carried by the breeze from a band playing in the modest equivalent of a square at the center of this resort. My table in the hotel restaurant was in a remote corner, since the guests arriving before me had commandeered those on the terraces that overlooked the spectacular scenery. All the same, I enjoyed a view of the adjoining table, where a young couple was seated. I was told that they had only recently married. They were a radiant pair of flowers in the Meadow Hotel bouquet, whereas I, always alone, had no companion but Ibn Abd Rabbih, whose masterpiece I placed in front of me on the table next to a bottle of Vichy water. Yes, although it had never occurred to me that this man of letters would be such a constant companion, going wherever I went, I grew accustomed to his presence, just as I had previously developed the habit of always taking my walking stick with me. I did not leave the hotel in the morning, return in the evening, and go to a cafe or bistro without carrying Ibn Abd Rabbih. Indeed, since this author can provide one with many delightful conversations, he is the best comrade and colleague for a solitary recluse like me. B u t . . . was I destined to win a companion with a more comely appearance and a sweeter voice? I had been covertly observing the happy couple next to me and imagined I had discovered various things about them. They did not converse much and kept their eyes lowered while eating. I had also noticed that the groom left his bride the moment he finished his meal—disappearing, not to be seen again until the next repast. I was preoccupied at this time by the search for a quiet cafe to make the headquarters for me, for the author I carried with me, and for the writing paper in my pocket. I had no taste for strenuous forms of exercise like mountain climbing or even for less taxing recreations like tennis. The area lacked a nearby stream where I could fish, and this is the only sport in which I am proficient. (May God forgive me for the term "proficient," since He has the truest insight into my level of proficiency in it.) At the foot of lofty trees with trailing branches like thick strands of hair, I chanced upon a small cafe consisting of a wooden hut around which chairs and table had been scattered. I told myself, "This is the place for me." After selecting a seat in a grassy area, I turned to hunt for a waiter to bring me a cup of tea. Near at hand I saw a waitress as lovely as the full moon. There was another, by the hut's door, as radiant as the sun, and a third, the youngest, sashayed back and forth between tables as gracefully as a gazelle, bestowing to her right and left servings of amiable charm in the form of enchanting smiles. If I say that I had never

The Radium of Happiness

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seen anyone in my life more charming than this young woman, I would not be lying. If I swear that this maiden's sole reason for existence was to receive admiring glances from people, I would certainly not be perjuring myself. Evidence for this last claim was provided by the great number of eyes gazing at her from every direction and by the mouths that hailed her from every table. . . . Her name was obviously Françoise. Partially overcoming my awe, I set Ibn Abd Rabbih on an empty chair beside me. I wanted to attract the girl's attention and order a cup of tea, but someone else was first: "Françoise, a mug of beer." I waited. Then as I was going to summon her, another voice rang out: "Françoise, a glass of orange soda." I had no choice but to hold my peace. When my hopes rose again, I looked up at her, but there came the cry, "Françoise! Françoise!" Turning, I spied the young husband who abandoned his wife at the hotel after each meal. He arrived almost at a trot and took a seat at a table near this waitress. He burst into a conversation with her, words jostling each other to emerge from his mouth. From time to time she laughed daintily, and the graceful stalk of her body swayed. Happiness shone from the young man's face, but his good humor was disturbed by the voices of some youths dressed for tennis. Even before sitting down, they shouted, "Françoise! Françoise!" The waitress glanced in their direction and smiled. Then she excused herself from the groom and rushed to them. They welcomed her almost with applause and traded jokes for a time. These young fellows were, I imagined, university students. Their prattling, rowdiness, and age all suggested that. The eldest, clad in white tennis trousers and a lightweight shirt that revealed bare arms, was of medium build and handsome appearance. He seemed the most interested of the group in this waitress. I found myself observing all this, while recalling that I had not had a shave for three days. This too was a habit of mine, for I never reflected on the state of my chin or attire, except by chance. Then I remembered not only my beret, which had slipped down to my ear like a skullcap, but also my massive stick and my huge tome, which with its ancient cover seemed a book of magic or astrology. I realized that my appearance would seriously diminish my chances of obtaining a cup of tea in this cafe. I wondered whether I should move to another one. But that was out of the question, since the beautifully poetic atmosphere of this cafe was itself an unrivaled pleasure. I sat there for a long time observing everything. Time fled quickly without my noticing it. Some people rose to leave, and others took their seats. No one seemed con-

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scious of my presence. I did not order anything, for I was embarrassed about attempting to attract the attention of any of the waitresses when their eyes showed no interest in alighting on me. Bitterly and dejectedly I began to wonder what prevented me from living like these other customers. Why should I think of myself as beyond hope when on a month's vacation at a resort? What kept me from shaving every morning, from brushing my hair and leaving it exposed to the elements, or from wearing handsome white trousers like those, with a short-sleeve shirt? I received no immediate reply to my question, but when my eyes glimpsed my friend Ibn Abd Rabbih beside me, I perceived at once who was responsible for my condition. Yes, alas . . . yes, I would have happily destroyed him, shredding and ripping his pages apart, but all I did was to seize him hostilely, as if gripping a book that recorded my accursed and inexorable destiny. At this moment, the young waitress happened to turn my way. Remarking my existence, she hurried toward me and smilingly apologized: "I forgot you, sir." With an indulgent grin, I replied, "Never mind! In any case, you haven't forgotten anything important." She brought me my order, and we exchanged no further words. But I was content with what I had been granted. We pitiable literary people are easily satisfied. The most trivial boons suffice to gladden and inspire us.

I went frequently to this cafe, and on each occasion I encountered the same individuals playing the same roles. The university student in his tennis outfit was always calling for Françoise. He never tired of chatting with her and exhibited no qualms about ordering one drink after another to keep the lovely waitress by his side. Once I heard him concede: "Oh! I'm ruined and broke. I've squandered all my money in this cafe." He would remain there for an hour, enjoying himself, laughing, and chattering away. Then he would set off for the courts, swinging his racket through the air with rapturous delight. The young husband would arrive after forsaking at the hotel his lonely, querulous, miserable, and suspicious wife. He would call out, "Françoise!" and order happiness for an hour from her smiling eyes . . . unmindful of the danger he ran of losing his wife in this way. After considering everything for a time, I told myself, "These two are handsome young men. Even so they have had to sacrifice something for a moment of bliss with this young woman. What would I give for a brief conversation with her?" Yes, this was the ultimate happiness

The Radium of Happiness

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I craved: to capture her attention for a moment. She would come to me and address me out of a fervent desire for conversing with me. Could this really happen while I was afflicted with the company of this ill-omened comrade? I leaned over the paper I had spread out, opened Ibn Abd Rabbih toward the beginning, and turned my attention to him. It seemed that fate wished to tease me or was deliberately attempting to disclose to me a little of my soul's essence that was hidden from my eyes, for it achieved this miracle. The girl did approach me, smiling in amazement. For a moment she stood silently gazing down at the lines of Ibn Abd Rabbih. Sensing her presence, I felt my heart beat faster and looked up. Before I could say anything she whispered, "Is this Chinese writing?" I laughed and replied, "No, Arabic." "How amazing! Can you read these hen scratches easily?" "Of course, and I write too." "You write it?" "Yes. Look!" I started writing Arabic while she watched with delighted astonishment. She asked me to explain the book's ideas. Calls from every side intruded on her attention, and she answered them. But afterwards she returned to converse elatedly with me. From our talk, which touched on many subjects, she learned that writing was my profession. So she launched into a rendition of her life's highpoints, those best suited for treatment in a story. At first my joy was evident. I felt new respect for Ibn Abd Rabbih, since he was responsible for all of this. Yet even the next time I visited this cafe, I sensed, when the girl came to pursue the same lengthy conversation on assorted topics, that my soul had undergone a sea change. The trees, this whole paradise, no longer looked the same. Their appearance had lost the old magic. The poetic atmosphere had evaporated from the cafe. The enchantment had vanished, and the veils surrounding its secrets had been rent. Now the girl and I were merely a pair of garrulous friends. I sensed that nothing tied me to this cafe any longer. I wanted to swap it for another one, where I could work unhindered and complete the opening chapters that I had begun under the inspiration of the astonishing power released by my fleeting moment of happiness. I realized that the happiness we artists need to embark on great projects must be as limited in quantity as if it were radium, packaged in an expensive, minuscule amount. If surrounded by a pool of this magical substance, we would think it clear water and not feel its effect or influence. Finally I placed Ibn Abd Rabbih under my arm and marched away with him. He had triumphed.

In the Tavern of Life

T

HERE ARE THREE STEWARDS IN THE TAVERN OF THE WORLD, IF

you summon them, they come dancing to you with drinks. In their eyes and on their lips is the hint of a mocking smile that is anything but reassuring. The first of these waiters is a boy, ever a child of five. They call him Love. The second is a man of exactly forty, known as Satan. The ageless third waiter is dubbed Death. He tends bar at this establishment and is the only one I never once thought of approaching. For this reason, I have refrained from drinking at the bar. I don't like his menacing looks. His impudent stance, dirty towel with a thousand holes in it, laugh like a consumptive's cough, and rotten teeth yellowed by an addiction to cigarettes and narcotics are almost unbearably disgusting. I would never willingly allow him to serve me. By contrast, Satan's relaxed manner, eagerness to please, and cleverness appeal to me. If I did not know that he has been tried in absentia and has a notorious record in crimes of fraud and deceit, I and the other patrons would rely on him. As for Love . . . woe to this beautiful, ignorant child! He captivates with his grace and tenderness. Yes, he is the only waiter I allow to serve me. I drink recklessly from his hands, not caring whether he brings me poison or champagne. Last spring when I called him, he fetched me a glass and stood there gazing at me with enchanting tenderness and favoring me with a winning smile that suggested certain things I did not comprehend at the moment. So I asked, "What do you want? A tip?"

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"Absolutely not. I wish to ask you to refrain from ordering anything m o r e f r o m me. Beware of ordering ice. If you request ice, I shan't bring you any." "Have n o fear. I won't ask for anything else f r o m you. Ever! No ice, n o soda water!" I moved my h a n d toward the glass, but h e protested. Catching m e off guard, h e snatched away my glass and ran away a short distance. T h e n , with a boyish giggle, he said in an angelic tone, "I'm going to torture you!" I heard, saw, and grasped nothing beyond the fact that h e had absconded with my glass. Trembling f r o m desire and thirst, I shouted: "Give me back my glass, boy!" H e held the drink close to my lips and in the same sweet, melodious voice said, "I'll t o r m e n t you!" "Give m e the glass, boy!" 'You'll curse me!" "Me?" "You'll despise me!" "I worship you." "I'll make you suffer!" "Give m e the glass!" "Take it!" «—r A year l a t e r . . . ."Waiter! Waiter!" "What do you want?" "Ice! At once! Ice!" "I warned you!" "I beg you . . . o n e piece of ice!" "I warned you!" "One p i e c e . . . . You can have anything you want for it." "No w a y . . . . O u t of the question!" "Don't go. . . . Don't make f u n of me. You won't leave till you bring some ice." "Impossible! O u t of the question!" "You tricked me! I didn't suspect that a beautiful, innocent child like you would dare commit a crime like serving me fire instead of wine." "Wine and f i r e . . . . What a naive ignoramus you are! Liquor and fire are the two elements of my life. They are the color of my cheeks and of my drink." "A piece of i c e . . . . I'll give you whatever you want."

In the Tavern of Life

29

"Impossible!" "Have mercy on me!" "If you were clever, you would realize that ice is not my responsibility." "Why? Why not?" "Ask the tavern keeper." "Spare me, God damn you!" "Ice is not my responsibility." "Cursed boy! What am I to do?" "How about a different waiter?" "Another waiter . . . who? Who?" Love ran to Satan, whispered something to him, and then gestured toward me, the benighted customer. Satan strolled over, asking, "Me? Here I am. How may I assist you? I can get you anything you desire. Your order is my command, noble gentleman." "Satan?" "At your service." "No! Impossible! You're a notorious felon." "Falsely accused! By your Lord, nothing was ever pinned on me. Don't believe what the hoi polloi say. By your Lord, I was falsely and slanderously accused." "What proof do you have of your innocence?" "Here are my papers . . . as unblemished as an unborn baby's heart." "Aren't you . . . a forger? In any case, I need you now. I need you desperately. Do you hear me?" "Yours to command." "Love . . . played a trick on me. Help me take revenge on him." "Sorry. Love is a colleague; I have no authority over him." "What can I do then?" "Forget about vengeance. Think of a cure." "Cure! Ice . . . a piece of ice in that case." "Ice isn't a r e m e d y . . . . The remedy is . . . " "What! What is it? Speak!" "It's the disease. Treat your malady with its cause." "What do you mean?" "Order another glass from Love." "You might as well say: more poison . . . more liquid fire in a spotless glass! No, you swindler . . . I've already been duped once." "How do you know? Perhaps this time . . . " "Hush, hypocrite! Heal me with ice. I know best what remedy suits me. Give me a piece of ice. Get ice quickly." "Impossible!"

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"You too?" "Ice is not my responsibility." "How so? How is that possible?" "Ask the tavern keeper." "What can I do? Have mercy on me." "I'll turn you over to another waiter and ask him to take good care of you. I frequently refer our noble patrons to him." Satan sped back to Death, whispered something to him, and then gestured toward me, the customer. Smiling sardonically, Death approached slowly. "Who asked for me?" "Death! Oh No, no, no Never!" "What amazing creatures you barflies are.. . . You're all alike. You call for the waiter and then deny it. Customer, didn't you ask for me? Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . ha." "Don't cough in my face! Get away from me." "How amazing you are! Ha . . . ha. My cough frightens you. Do you think I have tuberculosis? No. You're wrong. This comes from opium. Yes, ha . . . ha . . . ha. Don't you like opium use?" "By God, keep your distance, you with your yellow teeth. . . . Get away . . . away!" "What about the ice. . . . Didn't you order ice? That's my responsibility. Don't you want some?" "Your responsibility?" "It's always been my j o b . . . from the day I started working in this tavern." "Certainly not. . . . Don't get any closer. I told you: Don't come near me. Goodbye!" "Where are you going? . . . Ha!" "Get away from me. You're insufferable. You stink!" "And the ice . . . ha . . . ha. Didn't you order ice? White. . . . Come don't be afraid. Come. Ice . . . white like a shroud." "Help . . . help! Love, Satan, tavern keeper, save me from this hideous waiter. Everything is tolerable except this loathsome, frigid steward."

Visiting the Angry Princess

T

HE ANGRY PRINCESS IS PRISCA, HEROINE OF MY PLAY, THE

PEO-

ple of the Cave,1 and she, like me, loves books. This beauty, as fresh as a blossom, spent the beaming springtime of her life with her tutor Ghallias, a decrepit old man with a white beard, until fate placed before her the handsome youth Mishlinya. N o sooner had the heart of this bud o p e n e d itself to love than she found that destiny had separated her from her lover and decreed his death. A l t h o u g h I take n o special pride in it, I was this destiny that afflicted Prisca. As I j o t t e d down the words, I held in my hand her happiness or sorrow. I was pondering this idea one night when my soul suggested a j o u r n e y to the realm of my characters, so that I — like the gods in ancient l e g e n d s — c o u l d discover which were content and which irate, by exploring their feelings toward me and the world. I set off to visit Princess Prisca and found her as radiantly beautiful as ever, although her beauty was clouded by sorrow. T h e moment she saw and recognized me, she started screaming, "I despise you from the depths of my heart!" "God forgive me. Why, my lady? What have I done?" "I despise both you and Ghallias." "My lady, first of all, please note that unlike Ghallias I have no beard." "You can, first of all, tell me what it would have cost you to spare Mishlinya's life for m e — t o stay your pen for one brief moment, prolonging his life until Ghallias brought the milk. What did you gain from his untimely death? A single m o m e n t would have sufficed to

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rescue this young man . . . but you begrudged me even that, you hardhearted tyrant." "I'm not hardhearted, my lady, or a tyrant. If I could have kept Mishlinya alive a minute longer, I would have done so for your sake, most gladly." "If you could have . . . ? Who was responsible then?" "My lady, don't try to impose this responsibility on me." "How lovely . . . for a creator to disclaim responsibility for his creation in this way." "Oh! How unfair people can be! . . . How great a need creators in this world have for mercy and sympathy. . . . " "We are u n f a i r . . . and it is the authors who are unjustly accused. . . . How amazing!" 'You hold authors responsible and accuse them of being unfair, but they are innocent of all these charges. It's not a question of justice or injustice, hardheartedness or tenderness, wrath or good humor. Authors do not know these emotions and don't experience them. If a god paid attention to the voice of an individual human being, existence itself would disintegrate in the twinkling of an eye. The story of The People of the Cave would have disintegrated if I had listened to any of its characters. You ask me to postpone Mishlinya's death by a second, not realizing that one moment is long enough to change the course of a story, to overturn the fate of the characters, and to introduce chaos into the work. . . . Certainly not, my lady! I didn't want Mishlinya to die or to stay alive. I don't love or hate any of my characters. I am neither just nor unjust to them. The creator can submit to only one law—that of harmony." "Does the concept of harmony justify your cruelty?" "My lady, don't you know the craft of a creator? Believe me: The word 'cruelty' is meaningless with reference to this profession." "You are incapable of understanding me or love." "I don't understand you? Is this t r u e ? . . . It's not right to say that I fail to understand love." "You understand love?" "A little." "Have you ever been in love?" "Princess! I will not allow you to intrude into my private life." "Sorry. . . . I merely wished to know what sort of understanding you have of love." "Which do you want to hear about: a creator's love, which is the spirit of harmony, or the love that one of his characters experiences?" "A character's love . . . the heart's love . . . the kind of love I desire. Oh . . . you're right. You as a creator and I as a created character

Visiting the Angry Princess

33

are separated by an abyss. You don't see or know me as an individual. You don't relate to me as a person. Instead you perceive me as one element among many forming a harmonious whole. You contemplate me through the lens of that law you mentioned. You should be a character like me and merely an element or a part of the whole for a true relationship to exist between us or if you wish to take a personal interest in me. . . . So suppose you were a fictional character and suppose I was in love with you. Would you love me?" "How resourceful and clever you are!" "Answer me. If I loved you . . . ?" "What about Mishlinya?" "Let's not worry about Mishlinya now." "If you loved me? . . . Me?" "Yes. You!" "I'm afraid of this love." "Why?" "Because you will never really love me." "How do you know that?" "Have you seen me? I don't look anything like Mishlinya. I don't have his youth, good looks, physique, arms, lips . . . " "Or heart?" "I shouldn't answer that question too hastily. . . . I might have his heart, but you can be sure of this: Unlike Mishlinya, if suffering from love, I would not go to the cave or starve myself to death . . . to start with, because I have no cave to die in. Even if we found this cave, we would not find the courage and forbearance to renounce eating grilled meat and chicken for a single day." "Then you don't even have his heart!" "Yes, the more's the pity!" "So what does a person of your ilk do when troubled by love?" "He goes to one of the wine 'caves' of Montmartre to write plays." "Bravo! Bravo!" "Don't be angry with me, dear Prisca." "Is this your understanding of love?" "What do you expect? We're not saints!" "Yes! You're nothing but c r e a t o r s . . . . Oh. . . . I thought you were better than this." "Ghallias said something similar about the three saints one day— as best I remember—when he associated and conversed with them. Do you remember?" "I thought you at least had a better understanding of love than poor Ghallias." "I'm sorry to disappoint you, my darling."

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"Your darling! Certainly not! I won't allow you to call me that. You speak to me as though you had known me before or been married to m e . . . . " "Truly, princess, I haven't had the honor." "You may exit, fellow." "Where should I exit to, princess?" "Are you asking me? Back to where you came from . . . to your heaven." "Where is this heaven? In Cyrano's coffeehouse? Or in Groppi's pastry shop in Cairo? How many fantasies you characters h a v e . . . . " 'Yes, we have many fantasies, illusions, and disappointments." "That's because you want everything to conform to your own imagination...." "You're right! We picture saints and gods according to the dictates of our own minds." "Rest assured, princess, that if people one day should witness the most mysterious secrets of the universe, they would all echo your words of a moment ago: We thought it would be 'better than this.'" "Perhaps." "They will discover the unknown mystery is something that lacks any tie to their intellects, imagination, logic, emotions, or humanity." "We are created characters. What do you expect of creatures like us? We can't escape from our limitations in order to understand or to see anything beyond ourselves." "Even so, characters have a treasure that not even the gods possess." ' T h e heart." "Yes." "I believe what you're saying, but you certainly are a sorry excuse for a creator. You don't have a heart like Mishlinya's." "I admit that I'm less impressive than your true love." "Nonetheless, your hand dared to snuff out his beautiful life." "Have we returned to this charge?" "I loathe you. I despise you. I hate you from the bottom of my heart." "Glory to God! I declare that it's futile to debate with a woman in love."

Note 1. English translation: Tawfiq al-Hakim, The People of the Cave [ahl alkahf], trans., Mahmoud El Lozy (Cairo: Elias Modern Publishing House & Co., 1989).

By the Marble Basin

D

URING ONE OF MY LONG, SOLITARY NIGHTS, MY SOUL YEARNED

for company and I thought of Queen Shahrazad, another of my beautiful characters. 1 I declared, "She's the only companion for me tonight." I landed at her castle, just as I had previously dropped in on Princess Prisca. Yes! Who but queens and princesses should keep a man like me company? My literary world, brimming over with pearls, jewelry, and crowns, is always at my beck and call, but this consolation is the only one that creators can expect when we withdraw into our chilly clouds of seclusion. «—p I found Shahrazad reclining on cushions, smiling, and gazing at a marble basin. Reflected in the water, the golden sparkle of her eyes lent the quiet surface an unusual color. The handsome vizier Qamar was seated by her, his eyes demurely downcast, his soul boiling with a wide variety of suppressed but laudable emotions. Here is a transcript of their conversation. SHAHRAZAD (slyly): Qamar, I think you praise me excessively and neglect the merits of your friend Shahriyar. VIZIER: I d o n ' t n e g l e c t h i m .

SHAHRAZAD (slyly): It seems to me that you have forgotten the amazing affection you two have for each other. VIZIER ( s h a r p l y ) : I've f o r g o t t e n n o t h i n g ! SHAHRAZAD (mischievously): O h yes!

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VIZIER (with blind ferocity): I have forgotten nothing. . . . I was merely explaining why you provide him with the most exalted love. Don't ever claim anything else. I'm not deceived . . . deceived . . . deceived! SHAHRAZAD (calmly): Qamar! What's come over you? VIZIER (remembering himself): Your majesty! . . . Excuse me.. . . I... SHAHRAZAD: Occasionally you lose control. VIZIER: I . . . wished to say that you have changed him. He's turned into a new man since knowing you. SHAHRAZAD: He's never known me! (They hear a loud knocking, for I am hammering on the door.) VIZIER (listening intently): Here he is. SHAHRAZAD: Shahriyar always carries a key and enters my chambers through his subterranean passage. VIZIER: Who's at the door, then? SHAHRAZAD: Go find out for me. (The vizier exits quickly.) SHAHRAZAD: (musing aloud): Qamar, you poor dear. . . . (The vizier returns hurriedly.) QAMAR: Your majesty! Do you know who knocked? An oddly dressed man claiming to be "the author." He requests permission for an audience with you. SHAHRAZAD (amazed): The author? What author? QAMAR: I could not grasp his meaning, but that's what he said. SHAHRAZAD: Bring him in, so we can discover what his game is. QAMAR: At this hour of the night? SHAHRAZAD: What harm is there in that? You're here with me. QAMAR: Yes, I'll stay with you. (Qamar exits at once.) SHAHRAZAD (pensively): The author? I wonder if he's a sorcerer Shahriyar summoned. «—p Qamar escorted me to Shahrazad. On entering, I examined the palace and admired its marvels. Shahrazad caught sight of me and studied my attire for a time. Her beauty and dignity enchanted the soul of this writer just as surely as it had the souls of her fellow characters. Overwhelmed, I managed to say, 'Your majesty!" "What?" "Am I in the presence of Shahrazad?" The handsome vizier whispered to me, "You are with the mighty queen."

By the Marble Basin

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As if to myself, I remarked, "Yes, this beauty could only be hers." Observing my state, the lovely monarch asked, "What are you murmuring about, as if half-crazed?" "Forgive me, queen, I . . ." "Why are you looking at me this way?" "This extraordinary b e a u t y . . . " Shahrazad turned toward the vizier and said, "So you see, Qamar, you've brought me a crazed admirer in the middle of the night." Looking my way, Qamar inquired rather sharply, "Man, what brings you here?" I whispered in reply, "I don't know." Then I gazed at Shahrazad some more. She remarked, "I wish you wouldn't stare at me like that." So I said, 'Your majesty! I can't help myself." Looking about with bewitching eyes, she asked, "Where's the executioner?" At this point I agreed, "Yes, it would be better for you to order my head chopped off than to ask me to refrain from admiring you." "Do you really think I'm beautiful?" "Yes!" "That I have a beautiful body? I do have a beautiful body, d o n ' t I?" "It's not just the body." "Come closer." "No. . . . " "Why not?" I pointed toward the marble basin: "This basin . . . " "Does it frighten you?" "I fear I might slip and fall. I'm not a good swimmer." "It's not very deep." "Everything about you is deep." Shahrazad scrutinized my face and remarked, "Strange! You sound like Shahriyar.... Who are you?" "Your servant, Tawfiq al-Hakim." "Since 'tawfiq' means success and 'hakim' refers to someone possessing wisdom, which of the two do you offer?" "Neither. . . . It's just a name like any other." "What's your profession?" "I compose stories." "Like me?" "I'm not at your level. I lack your wit and imagination." "You praise me too highly and underrate your own worth." "My worth . . . what do you know about it? Are you familiar with any of my stories, queen?"

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"Certainly not. What have you written?" "The play, 'Shahrazad.'" An astonished expression appeared on the queen's face and she inquired, "My story?" "Yes, yours." "When did you write it?" "That doesn't matter." "Did you compose it in the past?" "No, in the future." "I understand . . . these strange garments." "Yes, I've come to visit you now from the future in which I live in order to meet you in my past, which is your present—like a bird that lands in a vast forest while migrating from north to south." "Amazing! Your words remind me of Shahriyar's." "Do you think so?" "But you are calmer than my husband." "Yes . . . now." Shahrazad gazed at me for a long time and then commented, "I'm surprised that fate has not brought us together before this." "It has united us forever." "Where?" Pointing to my heart, I replied, "Here!" As she gestured toward it, she asked in bewilderment, "There?" "Yes. You emerged into existence from this spot, for you're a product of the fire and light dwelling here." I pointed to my heart once more. Smiling, she said, "That's beautiful." "Do you see the stuff you're made of, dear character?" Waving his hand at me violently, Qamar grumbled, "Who is this man?" I replied immediately, "Hush, vizier! Consider your own situation and leave me alone. Tonight I've come solely on account of Shahrazad." With a sweet smile, Shahrazad asked, 'You came for my sake?" "Yes!" "What do you want from me?" "I want to live beside you." At this, Qamar flew into a rage and screamed at me, "Man! Who are you?" I answered calmly, "A creature in a more miserable condition than yours." "Why?" Shahrazad asked. "Because I feel a frigid isolation embracing me in my cloudy sky."

By the Marble Basin

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Smiling, she said, "Woe to creators!" "You're right, Shahrazad. Yes, if a creator does not live with his characters, he perishes in chilly solitude." "So you wish to land on earth. . . . " "You once told Shahriyar: 'There's nothing besides the earth.'" "Where is Shahriyar to hear you say that? He has quit the earth and attempts to reach the heavens." "Don't fear any harm for him. He will return to you." "When?" "The day he learns that the heavens are here on earth." "Fellow! I want something." "What?" "To grant you a kiss." "You allow me a kiss?" "Yes!" "I donate it to Qamar." Qamar glanced at Shahrazad with obvious disapproval. He shouted, "Your majesty!" I told him, "Take it, idiot. Who would refuse a kiss from Shahrazad?" Delicate Qamar could bear no more and left hurriedly. "The dunce has fled," I remarked. Shahrazad looked at me for a long time and then said, "I've finally recognized you." "You have? Who I am?" "Are you the man himself or do you live in him?" "Who?" "Shahriyar!" Agitated, I said, "I don't know. This isn't an appropriate question. Don't ask." "Then disappear!" she ordered. "You're nothing but a ghost." "Whose?" "Shahriyar's" "Don't say that. He's the ghost and I'm the reality." She replied, "Down through the ages, he will be the enduring reality. Thus he is your creator. He is the one who gives you immortality. You are nothing but an apparition. You'll follow servilely behind him, age after age. If your name is mentioned, it will be directly following his. During your own limited lifetime, you claim to be our creator and maker, but in reality tomorrow and for posterity we shall be your creators and makers." "Woe to me!" "What's the matter?"

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"Do you think I'm an apparition? That's the ultimate irony. In my solitude, doubt gnaws at my soul. When I call on you in pursuit of certainty, I learn that I'm a specter lacking any reality. Through the ages, I will count as the product of your fabrication." "Each thing creates another," she replied. "Yes." "There is only one reality." "What is it?" "That none of us is real." "Me as well as you?" "You along with us. There's no difference between us." I pondered her words for a moment and then responded, "You're right! All the same, is there no hope that I can live with you?" 'Today?" she asked. "Certainly not!" "When?" "Tomorrow," she replied. "Once you are formed of our stuff, if we can be said to consist of stuff. . . . " Lowering my gaze I said, "I understand.. . . Farewell, Shahrazad." "Until we meet again."

Note 1. See: "Shahrazad," in Plays, Prefaces & Postscripts of Tawfiq al-Hakim: Volume One: Theater of the Mind, trans. William M. Hutchins (Washington, D.C.: Three Continents Press, 1981), pp. 131-172.

A Devilish Scheme

F

OR SEVERAL DAYS ASH'AB AND BANAN CONSUMED THE TASTY

food and refreshing beverages (gleaned from their last escapade), but eventually these supplies were almost depleted and the two men sensed the specter of want and hunger advancing on them. Then their souls counseled them to revive here a scheme they had used at Arafat, with a few improvements to avoid problems. Ash'ab sent for the courtesan Risha' and once she arrived, he and Banan found for her in Perfumers Alley a residence that overlooked the market. They instructed the temptress to strut her swaying physique past the front of the mosque when men were assembling for the afternoon prayer. Her face covered by a black veil beneath which her eyes shone like stars, she set off. She had not gone more than a few steps before she heard someone whisper behind her: Ask the beauty in the black veil: What she's done to the pious saint Who had tucked up his cloak for prayer When she strutted past the mosque door? His prayers and fast were destroyed. By Islam's truth, do not slay him.

Turning around, she discovered a man scrutinizing her. Not an inhabitant of those parts, he was of cleanly appearance and dignified demeanor. "Follow me!" she instructed him. He responded, "My only condition is that nothing illicit should occur."

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She retorted, "May God disfigure you! Who would want you for anything illegal?" T h e man was embarrassed. Then, as his carnal soul triumphed over his reason, he trailed after her. They walked on until they entered the alley and reached the house. Ascending the stairs, the woman invited him, "Come on up." When he had obeyed, she informed him, "I have a face more beautiful than health itself, a voice like that of Ibn Surayj, music like that of Ma'bad, and Ibn A'isha's coquetry. Would you have me blend all this together for you in exchange for a sound blond?" "What's a sound blond?" he asked. She replied, "One dinar for a day and a night. If you stay on, I'll consider the dinar my dower and marriage fee." The man said, "It's yours if you're what you claim." She found him a seat toward the rear of the dwelling and removed her veil. When the man saw how beautiful she was, he became ecstatic. The courtesan rose, and he asked, "May I ransom your life with mine: Where are you going?" "To dress and prepare for the occasion!" T h e man shouted, "By God, there's no need for anything lavish or for special perfume. You're fine the way you are: tempting and fragrant." The smile she cast him before making her exit was the coup de grace. Then a servant boy appeared, greeted the man most graciously, and whispered: "Did she mention her condition?" The man replied, "No, by God. What is it?" The servant said, "Perhaps she forgot to tell you. It is, by God, that since she's more lethal than Amr ibn Ma'd Yakrub and more courageous than Rabi'a ibn Mukaddam, you'll have no chance of getting your way with her until she's so intoxicated that she can't think straight. If she reaches this point, you can have her." The man said, "That's simple and easily accomplished." Then the boy added, "There's one other thing." "What's that?" 'You must realize that you shan't have her until you strip naked and let her see you coming and going." The man replied, "I'll do that too." The servant left the man and departed. Then the woman returned, rippling with grace and swaying with charm. "Let's have your dinar," she said. The man brought out a dinar, which he tossed to her. She clapped her hands, and when the boy responded to the summons, she instructed him, 'Tell Abu-l-Hasan and Abu-l-Husayn to come right away."

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After a while, two distinguished old gentlemen with henna-tinted beards arrived and made their way up to the apartment. They were actually Ash'ab and Banan. The woman told them what had transpired, adding a wink so fleeting that her suitor did not notice it. Then one of the elderly men rose and delivered a pious oration, which the other one matched. When they asked the suitor about his intentions, he affirmed that he wished to marry the woman, and she agreed as well. The two witnesses invoked God's blessings on this union and then rose and departed. Not wanting to offend the woman by offering to pay for supper, the man took out another dinar and handed it to her, saying, "Use this for perfume." She replied, "Brother, I'm not the sort of woman who smears on perfume for a man. I perfume myself for my own sake, when I'm alone." So he said, "Use it for our supper tonight, then." "That," she answered, "yes." Rising, she went off to arrange for the necessary preparations. After she returned, as evening fell, she invited him to sup and drink with her. Once they were done, she picked up her lute and began to sing: They went to chase gazelles, and I Think surely hunting them's a crime. Dearer to me's their awesome sight Or a dove eating from my hand.

The man's delight was so great that he almost went berserk. "May I be your ransom," he exclaimed. "Who sings this?" She replied, "Several have. It's by Ma'bad, and Ibn Surayj and Ibn A'isha both have sung it." The man tried to coax her into cuddling up with him, but she evaded him and sang a verse that referred to the humiliation awaiting him. He did not understand the veiled warning: As if I saw the nude for whom Men's sandals and guards' staves are raised.

He said, "May I be your ransom, I don't understand this song, nor do I think it's frequently performed." She replied, "I'm the first to sing it." He asked, "Is it a solitary verse without a mate?" She said, "There's another one, but this isn't the time for it. That's my finale." Out of respect for her, the man fell silent, not wanting to argue. When the call for the evening prayer was heard, she put aside her

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lute. He rose to perform his prayers as best he could in his haste and lust. Once finished, he approached her, asking, "Will you allow me?" "Strip!" she commanded. Gesturing toward her own garments, she gave him the impression that she would follow suit. T h e man almost ripped his clothes apart in his hurry to get out of them. When he stood before her stark naked, she instructed him, "Walk to the far corner of the house and go back and forth, so I can see you coming and going." In that corner of the house, in a room that jutted out over the street, there was a mat on which the man stepped. Beneath the mat was a hole down to the market. Falling through this, the man found himself in the bazaar, as buck naked as the day he was born. The two aged witnesses, who were waiting there with their sandals readied for the nape of his neck, called on the people in the market to assist them. The mob left not a bone unscarred. While the man was being beaten by patched sandals and clenched fists, the courtesan's voice was heard from the house above as she sang: If the nude man had known what we intended, He would have battled us in the desert wastes.

The fellow told himself, "This, by God, is the right time for the verse." «—r Ash'ab and Banan practiced this scam assiduously until people protested and the complaints against them became widespread. This dispute reached the extremely pious governor of Medina. A man known for his unyielding morals and dour expression, he sent for these two miscreants and immediately ordered them stripped of their clothes and flogged thirty times. He also confiscated their ill-gotten wealth and added it to the public treasury. Ash'ab and Banan endured the beatings stoically but were brokenhearted by the disastrous departure of their fortune. Ash'ab asked for permission to see the governor, who granted this request. Ash'ab wept and pretended to weep, asking the governor, "May God reform you: Should we be stripped of both our clothing and our wealth in a single day?" The governor replied, "Enemy of God: You were denuding men of both in a single night." Ash'ab realized that the only hope for success was to make the governor laugh. Perhaps then, he would forgive them. So Ash'ab

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started telling clever anecdotes. The governor kept his head bowed. He scowled, showing not the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Ash'ab fell silent in despair. Looking up, the governor told Ash'ab, "If you had memorized reports from the Prophet as carefully as these anecdotes, it would have been better for you." Ash'ab retorted, "I've done that!" The governor commanded: "Let me hear the Hadith that you've committed to memory." Ash'ab cleared his throat and began, "Nafi' told me on the authority of Ibn Umar, from the Prophet, may God bless him and grant him peace, that he said: 'He who has two traits is considered by God to be pure and sincere.'" The governor said, "This is a fine example of Hadith. What are these two traits?" Ash'ab was at a loss. After reflecting for a moment, he answered, "Nafi' forgot one of them." The governor asked, "What about the other one?" Ash'ab said, "The other one? I forgot it." The governor's only response was to order Ash'ab whipped thirty more times.

The Tree of Earthly Rule

Egypt with its golden fertility, silver Nile, and Lazoghli Square 1

1 He would retire to bed early that night, after feeling the most intense despair upon reading coverage in the morning and evening papers of nominations for the new government, since his name had not been mentioned a single time. In reality, what hurt him the most was watching his daughter Shushu's face as she thumbed through the paper and searched in vain for his name and then observing his despondent wife, who sat like a statue, her hand resting on her cheek. He understood perfecdy what was running through each of their minds. His wife feared the malicious delight of their enemies and Shushu was sad because her fiancé had stopped visiting their house once the previous government, of which her father had been a part, had collapsed. On top of all this, there were the aromas of herb tea and incense wafting to his nostrils from the room of the cook's wife, who was about to give birth. The atmosphere was stifling. Mitwalli Pasha rose to open the window to fill his lungs with the moist night air of that gloomy autumn. It did not help much, and he sought relief in sleep's calm, comfortable hours, when he desired nothing, awaited nothing, and thought of nothing. Followed by the silent looks of his wife, he climbed into bed. Closing his eyes, he eased into a deep and delightful slumber. He did not sleep long, because he j u m p e d out of bed in alarm when the telephone rang. He quickly put the receiver to his ear, which was still covered by the skull cap of sleep. He heard someone say, "Bonsoir, Pasha. I'm * * * *. Would you agree to serve with us in the new government?"

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He could not keep from shouting: "The government! I'd be overjoyed, your excellency." The conversation ended at this point, and jubilant trills resounded behind him. He turned to find that his wife and Shushu had already whispered the news to the nanny and the servants, who now released trilling ululations into that still night. Since this outburst happened to coincide with the cook's return, he assumed that his wife had given birth. Shouting gleefully, he ran to ask the servants breathlessly, "What did she have? What did she deliver?" The nanny grasped his meaning and quickly answered, "Not her . . . not her. It's the pasha!" The man stared at the nanny in total bewilderment: "The pasha? The pasha gave birth?" The nanny hurriedly pushed the cook to the stairway, fearful that the pasha would hear, but he, his wife, and daughter had heard the cook. All of them laughed. The newly appointed government minister, who had left his bed without a robe, sneezed. Concerned for his health, his wife ordered him back to bed. She disappeared for a moment to return with a cup of the herb tea prepared for the pregnant woman and made him drink it to ward off a chill. Then she left him waiting for a minute before coming back this time with an incense burner from which rose the aromatic smoke of various types of incense. She shouted at him to preempt him from yelling objections at her: "So listen, Pasha! It's absolutely essential for you to be protected by incense of gum ammoniac, Persian gum, and afreet eye tonight. You know how many people envy and dislike us. . . . We've already had a hard enough time today, may it never happen again." She did not wait for a reply. Drawing close to him, she passed the censer over his head seven times. The minister's eye glared at the brass censer, for it reminded him of the Ministry of Religious Endowments. Oh no, certainly that was not the ministry in question. He remembered that the telephone conversation had given no hint as to the type of ministry with which he was charged. In his astonished and delighted bewilderment, he had forgotten to ask. Did it really matter? Any ministry would be most willingly accepted. His wife finished fumigating him—as if he were a bug-infested fruit tree. This made him think of the Ministry of Agriculture. No . . . no . . . he simply had to stop thinking about the different types of ministries. He was a government minister and that sufficed . . . oh joyous rapture. . . . He backed away from the censer. Then the cry of the pregnant woman, whose labor pains had begun, rang out. The pasha said sorrowfully to his wife, 'The poor dear . . . we drank her 'mughat' tea and used her incense. I'm afraid she'll miscarry."

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His wife replied as she left the room, "Better her than you." He smiled. Then he whispered as if to himself, "No . . . praise God . . . may our Lord deliver us both safely." Mitwalli Pasha did not sleep much more that night. The cock had barely crowed when he leapt to his feet. The household heard his voice and the noise he made opening and closing doors, and so they all rose too. He entered the bath to shave his face and to dye his mustache, which had begun to turn gray during his days out of power. He found the coloring formula he kept on hand and apparendy applied it rather liberally, for he had scarcely entered the sitting room when his daughter burst into laughter upon seeing him. He gendy scolded her and, resorting to metaphoric language, explained that when utensils left neglected on the shelf were returned to service, at the very least the dust on them had to be shaken off, so they would appear new and fit for service. He looked impatiently at the clock, but it was only seven. No . . . no, he could not go yet. A minister on the first day had to wait at least until ten, for fear of being thought overly eager for the position. Besides, they would have the honor of a visit to the palace before that. Moreover, the prime minister might convene an urgent meeting of the cabinet to draw up a plan of action for the ministers. There was no need now for him to labor under misguided assumptions about this meeting, the way he had the first time. It was customary for this session not to last a long time. There would be no discussion of programs, reforms, social or economic revolutions, or of the foundations of rule and their productive guidance. The focus, rather, would be on ways to prevent students from striking by gaining their support through incentives like intimations of easier examinations and lenient grading. Government in Egypt during the parliamentary period rested on two forces: the parliament for gaining ministerial chairs and the students for resting comfortably in them. These two forces could be wooed only with promises and grants. If these were actually honored, then anarchy set in and standards of behavior deteriorated. If money was not forthcoming, ruling and staying in power were impossible. None of this troubled him. It was not his place to object to anything. He had no problem with giving grants, if only someone else paid. None of this caused him any embarrassment, since today he set the standards of conduct for everyone. He had just finished dressing when the telephone rang to inform him that, as expected, there would be a brief cabinet meeting at eleven, immediately after they returned from the palace. His wife looked at him inquisitively and said, "I wonder whether the cabinet will make any appointments and promotions today?"

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Casting a final glance in the mirror at his pitch-black mustache, he replied, "There's nothing to prevent it. It's possible that the prime minister will raise his sister's son to the fourth level." His wife sighed and said, glancing at Shushu out of the corner of her eye, "May the same happen to you, when you raise your daughter's 'bridegroom.'"

2 By eleven-thirty, the anticipated events had taken place. The cabinet meeting dispersed, with each minister swelling up inside his government limousine en route to his ministry. Soon the vehicle of Mitwalli Pasha stopped in front of the Ministry of * * * *. Office boys and doormen stampeded toward the car to open the door. The minister descended through throngs of low-ranking civil servants. He attempted to walk in a natural, regular way to his office. Yes, nothing is more difficult for a minister on the first day than ascending the staircase of his ministry or proceeding through its entrance lobby in front of hosts of office messengers, doormen, and civil servants, all whispering to each other, "his excellency the minister." He hears this whisper and sees their respectful looks, when only the day before he was an ordinary mortal like anyone else. His movements and gestures are faltering and hesitant, since he does not know how to walk or what to do in order to be "his excellency the minister." Should he place a hand in his pocket as he walks or allow it to hang by his side? Should he walk quickly or adopt a deliberate, swinging gait? Mitwalli Pasha would never forget the words of one of his fellow civil servants, back when he had been one too: "The minister is known at once by the way he mounts the stairs the first day and from the way he strides across the lobby." The matter was easier for Mitwalli Pasha now, since he had already served as a cabinet minister. The problem did not trouble him too much. God help the minister who had never held cabinet rank before, especially those ministers in the parliamentary system with no previous experience in government posts, who entered the government at the ministerial level, and for whom leadership and management were only words in books, newspapers, and speeches. The very next day they found themselves playing major roles on the stage of government, wearing the embroidered costumes of power. Lights shone in their faces as all eyes were trained on them. Blinded by the lights, these novices would stumble across the boards of the stage, their only concern to get their motions and gestures right, while their attention was fo-

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cused on the prompter's box, which in this case was either his excellency the deputy minister, preoccupied by administering things, or his excellency the prime minister, whose will one sought to assimilate in everything. Mitwalli Bey entered his office, which was furnished in a most impressive manner. They had decorated it for this occasion with beautiful flowers in elegant vases. The minister sat down at his magnificent, huge, gleaming desk, on which everything was tidy and new, even the ink, blotting paper, and pen nibs, not to mention the charming little curios. The energetic deputy minister arrived to introduce the senior staff members of the ministry and the directors of its divisions. The pasha shook hands with each of them in turn, at times with obvious modesty, receiving some most graciously, and at other times with clear disdain, extending only the tips of his fingers, without there being in either case the slightest justification other than his own nervousness. When the civil servants departed, well-wishing members of parliament from the majority party burst in, occupied the velvet seats and leather chairs, and emptied the cigarette boxes on display there. Cups of coffee by the tens were served to them from trays, as if they were guests in a bridal tent. They laced their conversations with guffaws. Some of the multitudes on the sofas wore shiny white pressed turbans resembling beautiful popcorn glisteningly fresh from the shop. The minister realized that they would not leave soon, for the government was theirs. They were in their home, their rightful place. Finally his office manager rescued him by bringing in a thick bundle of files requiring his signature and seal. With a gesture of his hand, the minister evinced his desire to begin work. The honorable visitors took the hint and rose, apologizing for their departure on the grounds that they were busy, pressed for time, and obligated to pass by the other ministries. The minister took a breath of relief but had only a m o m e n t to himself before he heard in the lobby a commotion and chants: "Long live the new government! . . . Long live the beloved government! . . . We want to meet the minister!" His office manager ran in to say, "The students!" The minister said to himself, "Oh, I forgot the other force." He could not refuse to see them. The doormen had obviously been unable to control the tide, for the minister noticed that his door was shaking and moving under their pressure. He reluctantly gave permission for his door to be opened. The troops flowed in like a torrential flood. He felt that he was drowning in a sea of red student fezzes, a wounded man in a pool of blood. He could scarcely breathe, for thousands of them occupied every cranny of his office. They crowded in until they were standing on his velvet chairs, some on top of oth-

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ers. Students were even sitting on his desk. His shoulders almost buckled under the pressure of their bodies. It was total chaos. He could not protest, for it was their government too, rising and falling through their support, chants, and strikes. This house was their home as well and their rightful place. The minister spoke two or three words, welcoming them, encouraging their good opinion of the new government, guaranteeing that this government would always be at their service, ready to answer their requests. The students finally left, evacuating the room like an ocean pulling back in a powerful ebb tide. They left behind them a prodigious sight. Yes, the minister's elegant office, which had been readied and beautified for his arrival, was now transformed into a battlefield from which the occupying army had retreated. Chairs were overturned, velvet was ripped, tables were smashed, flowers had fallen, and mud from the streets had soiled the carpets and rugs. With looks of disdain and disgust on their faces, servants and messengers entered to repair the damage caused by these supporters and assistants of the new government. But this was not all. When the servants searched for the small elegant containers, the attractive vases, and the stunning ashtrays, they found no trace of them. The minister also looked for the beautiful pens and delicate curios that had been on his desk and discovered no vestige of these. The servants exchanged pained looks and then turned toward his excellency the minister with regretful embarrassment, but he responded with a smile, the sarcasm of which was hidden and cloaked by an air of noble tolerance: "Democracy! Democracy!"

3 On that same day, the residence of Mitwalli Pasha was also a raging tumultuous sea, for waves of women visitors created an uproar there as they congratulated the minister's wife. They came from different walks of life, but most of them were wives of civil servants, subordinates, or opportunists and those termed sycophants. Words and laughter rang out, and the sound of conversations blended with the ringing of glasses of fruit punch. The place was filled with the scents of costly and inexpensive perfumes, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. The visitors crowded around Khadija Hanum, the pasha's wife, rising whenever she rose and sitting down when she did. Her joy was so great that she paid no attention to them and had no idea what they were saying. She scarcely had time to sit, because the telephone rang so many times with calls from friends and associates.

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Each time, she repeated virtually the same phrases and uttered almost the same words: "God bless you, sister! . . . God willing, it'll be your turn n e x t . . . " and so on. The guests discussed the wife of Ragab Effendi, who had been the pasha's protégé in previous ministries. They were surprised by her absence, for she had been an inseparable fixture of this house, volunteering her services, entertaining the lady of the house, and cutting out some of Shushu's simpler garments. Why had this woman not appeared today? Why was she not to be seen among the visitors? This question was finally answered by a woman who had only shortly before been at the residence of the prime minister's wife. Ragab Effendi had been at the door taking the cards of wellwishers. She had also seen his wife at the feet of the prime minister's wife. The visitor had realized that this couple had advanced to become the protégés of their excellencies the prime minister and his wife. Khadija Hanum was not much vexed by this, for the places of Ragab Effendi and his wife would not remain vacant long. Here already was a woman running back and forth most energetically, brewing the coffee and making the fruit punch.This woman was the wife of a minor employee in Mitwalli Pasha's ministry. Even so, the departure in this fashion of former protégés was not without some impact. Khadija Hanum sought to conceal it by saying there was no difference between her house and that of the prime minister's wife and that what really concerned her was the welfare of Ragab Effendi and his wife. The telep h o n e rang again. The lady of the house rose to answer it, and the following conversation took place between her and the caller: "Congratulations, sister, on your cabinet post too!" "Aren't we going to visit the prime minister's wife?" "Naturally, sister. That's necessary." "What do you plan to wear, Khadija Hanum?" 'You tell me first what you're wearing. You know how gifted the prime minister's fine wife is at faultfinding." "I know. May you be spared her busy tongue!" «—rMeanwhile, Shushu, Mitwalli Pasha's daughter was with her fiancé Murad Abd Allah, an employee in her father's ministry. They were riding in his excellency the minister's limousine on their way to the shops of Fuad Street. Having requested the vehicle by telephone, the girl had gone to the ministry, where she had taken her fiancé away from his work, so he could help her pick out shoes. This plan had proceeded without a hitch, for she had remained in the car while the chauffeur

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went to request the civil servant Murad Abd Allah, whose section head had been only too happy to accede to the request of the minister's chauffeur. After dropping the couple in front of the shop, the vehicle had quickly returned to transport the minister to the cabinet meeting. Shushu walked along arm-in-arm with her fiancé, looking in the windows of the shops, her tongue never ceasing its chatter for a moment. It would have been easy for a passerby to observe the extent of the girl's infatuation with the young man. She walked with him from street to street, not merely for the sake of walking but from the sheer pride of having her young man on her arm. The cinema's influence on girls like Shushu had been far deeper than that of theoretical studies encountered in the course of her education. She had met Murad for the first time at Alexandria's Stanley Beach one summer, when she had just finished her final year of school. From that time on she saw in Murad more than just a fiancé. He was the youth opposite whom she would star in the role that every ingenue dreams of playing. She had learned this role not from books or tutors and governesses, but from what she saw on the silver screen. Murad, on the other hand, had graduated from university three years before, and it was plain that he had finished playing this particular role. He was now ready for a more serious part, to match his new outlook on life. This was perhaps the reason for Murad's gravity as he marched along, allowing his fiancée to appropriate his arm but showing no excitement. He had been eager to please her and had endeavored earnestly to win her heart, but his own h e a r t . . . it would be a mistake to say that he did not love Shushu. Doubtless, he liked her. He liked her, because he had to like her, just as he had to love her. His mind had decreed this and convinced him of it. The voice of his intellect had grown so loud that it had drowned out the sound of his heart whispering sweet memories.

4 By ten o'clock the next morning, Mitwalli Pasha was sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee, and listening to a quick presentation of the ministry's work and system. This briefing was delivered by the deputy at the minister's request. From time to time he would address questions to his deputy or make observations, some of which he himself felt silly or inane. All the same, the deputy minister was always quick to say, "Your excellency's idea is right on target." If this deputy had secretly scoffed at the remarks, he would have merited some respect. Unfortunately he was serious in what he said or at least was able to convince himself that he was. He finished his presentation, and it was Pasha's turn to say something or to respond in

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some fashion, to clarify his own point of view or the policy he would be implementing, if he had anything worth calling a policy. The minister had not uttered more than a sentence or two when he detected from the deputy's lips and eyes that this man already agreed, that he was committed to whatever the minister had said and would say. Perceiving this, the minister felt reassured about his deputy. It would no doubt make life easier. Yet he also felt vexed at being expected to bear sole responsiblity for what he said. All the same, subject to human frailty as he was, he had no particular dislike for this type of person who always responds to his boss, "Amen." These thoughts reminded him of his daughter Shushu's fiancé. Uncomfortable about swerving to an entirely different subject, he asked his deputy, "By the way . . . do you have any positions open at the fifth level?" The deputy inquired, "Technical or administrative, your excellency?" He had forgotten about this distinction but replied, "I think technical. . . . " The deputy's expertise and astuteness were so well honed that this inspired answer shot from his lips: "No doubt about it! If your excellency wishes, you can send for the head of the personnel office." He leapt from his chair to ring the bell and request the secretary to summon the head of personnel at once. In practically no time at all this official appeared. The deputy opened the louvered door and scarcely allowed the man to take one step into the office before demanding, "Naturally you have some openings at the fifth level?" The head of the personnel department began to turn his eyes silently and anxiously back and forth between the minister and the deputy minister. Addressing the deputy, he almost whispered, 'Your honor, you know we don't have any technical positions open at this time. . . . " The deputy asked him, 'Then don't you know how to find one at the fifth level quickly?" In a faint voice the personnel head replied, "Find one how?" Mitwalli Pasha was almost convinced that this door was closed and that there was no point talking about the subject any further, but the deputy minister, a problem solver, quickly said self-confidently and with full assurance of his power, "I'll tell you how. Naturally you have something administrative at the fifth level; transfer that to technical. Delete it from the administrative list. Understand? Shall we solve this problem or not? Go quickly and draft a memo covering this." The personnel head stood there for a moment without moving. He gazed at the deputy as if wishing a word in private. The deputy asked, "What are you waiting for?"

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The personnel head whispered, "Your honor, don't you remember? . . . How can we delete it from the administrative list, when it's needed for Sayyid Effendi." "Sayyid Effendi who?" "Sayyid Effendi Abd al-Baqi, head of the subsidies division. The man is going to retire at the end of the month. . . . He's expecting the fifth level now to improve his pension." "Go downstairs quickly and prepare the memorandum. Sayyid Effendi Abd al-Baqi. . . we'll discuss his situation later." The personnel chief left, bending to the order. The minister bowed his head to think for a moment. Then, looking up, he told the deputy, "The matter seems to present difficulties...." The deputy shot back, "Never . . . not at all, your excellency. The matter could not be simpler." He had barely finished this sentence when the telephone at the minister's left rang. When the pasha picked up the receiver, his secretary announced over the line, "Your home!" Then he connected the minister to the call. Shushu's voice resounded in her father's ear: "Papa, don't you dare forget about Murad's rank." He told her at once, "We're working on that now." "Don't you dare come home today until you've finished." "Never fear." "What does that mean his salary will be?" "Not now, Shushu! This isn't the right time. Be a good girl. We have much more important tasks than this confronting us here." "Matters of state?" "Naturally . . . naturally." The minister replaced the receiver and on turning to the deputy perceived from the man's expression that the deputy was accustomed to situations like this. The minister felt reassured. He wished to resume the conversation that the telephone call had interrupted and to discuss * * * * again. Looking at his deputy, he said, "Yes . . . what were we talking about?" The attentive deputy replied, "Your excellency was pondering the question of civil service r a n k s . . . . " Pretending to remember, the minister remarked, "Oh . . . if there is a position available at this l e v e l . . . " The alert deputy hastened to reply, "Have no fear, your excellency. There's no need for your excellency to worry about this. Leave it to me." The affair came to a halt at this point, and the minister saw no way to continue talking about it. He fell silent, his thought still preoccupied with this topic. He wondered in amazement what the deputy

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would do, since the name of the person to be promoted had never been mentioned. Could it possibly be the province of this astute deputy to sniff out the beneficiary as well, selecting him from all the other employees in the ministry?

5 What were the suppressed whispers inside the heart of Murad, Shushu's fiancé? What were these memories buried deep within his soul, which was ready to start a new life? The answer to these questions resided in a dwelling in the Rawda district of Cairo, the home of a small family of modest means. Its breadwinner was Sayyid Effendi Abd al-Baqi, head of the subsidies division. He had a wife who was no longer young and a daughter, Samira, who was a university graduate. Samira had been Murad's classmate throughout their years at the university, and they had graduated together from the faculty of arts. Murad had been able to obtain a position in the Ministry of * * * *, but she had found nothing. Her father was an honorable man, who had not learned the tricks of modern living. He would not tolerate dependence on the "good offices" of influential people. He would rather lose what he deserved on account of his work and effort than receive it as a result of humiliating and persistent entreaties. He always told his daughter what he considered to be his philosophy in a nutshell: "It's enough if we work sincerely. This is all that's demanded of us. Nothing in the world is better than this, even if no one rewards us for our labors or grants us our due." If this honest philosopher had known that his due was currently under attack by blind forces and was going to be plucked from his mouth and handed to the young man who had been his daughter's classmate, he might have changed his opinion and concluded that this world is crueler than he had ever imagined. He, of course, had not yet learned what fate (or more precisely the minister and deputy minister) had in store for him. Nor did Samira know anything about this. On the day in question she was concerned solely with the imminent demise of part of her life. That evening she locked herself in her room, turned on the light at the head of her bed, and took out a collection of cherished letters, which she always kept hidden. Her tears flowed as she started to read them one final time before returning them to their author. Yes, Murad had telephoned that morning, after a breakup lasting for months, not to apologize but to ask her to return his letters, since he had decided to wed the minister's daughter.

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Months before, at their last meeting, she had discerned from some comments he made, that he was considering an action of this type. She had observed an appalling change in him. He had forgotten about the principles they had pledged each other to honor. He had mocked the ideals they had sworn to uphold. For this reason, they had quarreled and separated. But she had not suspected he would proceed so rapidly in selecting this road to follow. Was this really Murad? Was this the Murad who had written her these letters? Samira drew o n e from the bundle and began to read these lines in a low, trembling voice: Dear Samira! Our eternal love must endure as long as eternal Egypt does. Don't you dare forget this word that we shouted aloud yesterday for the first time as we crossed the Urman Gardens by ourselves on returning from the service commemorating our martyrs from the university. This was the first time we used the term "love." You had long wished to consider our relationship a friendship or spiritual kinship. I had accepted this description, since I was pleased by anything you offered me and did not dare tell you frankly the true nature of the emotion I felt for you. No, Samar, it was something stronger than friendship, for I could not bear to see any friendship arise between you and other male students. I almost took offense and was ready to cuff my friend Fahim when I saw him walking beside you one afternoon, talking to you all the way to the tram stop. Since Fahim is a student leader—when he strikes we all strike, what he shouts, we all shout—I was afraid this might sway you. For your sake, Samar, I have passed long, sleepless nights, while jealousy tormented my heart. Whenever Fahim spoke to you, I imagined that he liked you and paid more attention to you than to other women students. My affection for him turned to hatred and my admiration to enmity, the moment I ascertained that what I feel for you is love . . . powerful, violent love . . . a love that knows how to sacrifice everything. Yes, Samira! We spoke a great deal about sacrifice in connection with the martyrs. We said that their hearts must have been enormous and their love for their country profound, since they sacrificed their lives for its sake. I screwed up my courage and told you, "I feel this way about you. I'm ready to sacrifice my life for you." You turned toward me and blushed profusely. I felt an indescribable happiness. After that, neither of us could conceal his true emotions. I write to you, Samira, at a time when I—like you—need every possible minute for studying, since the final undergraduate examination is only two months away. But I wish to record our words on paper, so you will not forget them. For my part, you can be certain that as long as I live I shall never forget even one of your words. You are my faith, Samar: my faith in myself and in life, my faith in our mission as we begin our struggles on the battlefield of life.

The Tree of Earthly Rule We discussed this at length yesterday and the day before. We said that Egypt is our lifeblood and that we should dedicate our lives to Egypt, not to selfish ambitions. In this manner, we will be worthy of those comrades who sacrificed their lives for Egypt. I shall never forget your tears when you scattered the bouquet of your flowers over their commemorative monument. You said you had deprived yourself of the cinema for several months in order to save enough to buy these flowers. I did that too, last year. This is the reason we hit it off immediately. We must place our energies, our very lives at the service of our ideals. This has been the topic of endless conversations during our morning and evening meetings. Don't you remember? We spoke of the future. I asked you what your dream for life was and what you would do if a wealthy and powerful man proposed to marry you. Actually this has been my nightmare: to see you snatched up shortly after graduation by one of those men. But you gave me a scolding that delighted me, since you told me it would be disgraceful for modern youth to consider such things. We have a duty to enter society with our hands not extended to scoop up its luxuries and enjoyments but stretched out with bricks and stones to build the future of our nation on a foundation of elevated principles and high-minded ethics. Truly, my Samira, we young people, what are we if not Egypt's future? Be on guard lest we disfigure the image of the Egypt of tomorrow. Our mission is to plunge into society to reform whatever has been corrupted by greedy materialism and personal self-interest. We must not allow ourselves to be swept along by the current of arriviste profiteering. It is our duty to extricate our country from the mire with our strong, youthful arms. You asked me the very same question, inquiring what I would do if offered a bride who would fulfill every material dream for me. You will surely remember that I responded to you with nothing more than a calm smile. There was scarcely a need for me to try to convince you with lengthy arguments that I am simply not this type of man. Certainly not, dear Samar! It's inappropriate for us to think ill of ourselves even for a moment or to lose confidence in our principles for a second. For us, the youth of today, belief in our character is a belief in the future of our nation. It would be a crime for us to doubt this future. Never doubt me, Samira, and God forbid that I should doubt you. You are my faith, as I mentioned. I will repeat this for you, so the passing days do not erase it from your memory: You personify my belief in myself, in life, and in our mission for our dear homeland. You are mine forever, and I am yours. You are my wife without whom I am incapable of living, the only bride I could ever imagine taking. Beware of forgetting that we pledged to marry after obtaining our degrees. We had the tiny crescent moon for a witness as it rose over this sacred pact. So cry out with me once more: "Our eternal love must endure as long as eternal Egypt does."

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Samira folded this letter and thrust it into the bundle with the others. She did not try to read further, for the contents of the other letters did not extend beyond the range of these words and ideas. The girl wiped away her tears and placed the packet of letters into a large white envelope like a shroud encompassing cherished remains. Even so, it did not take long for her feelings of grief and sorrow to change into resentment and rage, as her feminine instincts triumphed over all else. Had this not been the case, the most suitable response would have been for her to laugh sarcastically, now that she had witnessed the fate of this eternal love and the demise of these ideals. A woman's broken heart outweighs everything else, and for this reason Samira concentrated all her thoughts on revenge and a swift reaction to this rude blow. The riposte would cost her only a single word, since Fahim, the former student leader and current attorney, had asked her father's permission to marry her and was still waiting for an answer. She had put him and her father off, claiming that she wanted a career and that she was destined for a life of struggle and effort. In reality, all she had been doing was trying to gain time and breathing space, in case her lover returned to her after their split. She had not lost hope, since he had not yet announced his engagement to the minister's daughter and had not broached the subject of returning the letters. Then today, matters had come to a head. Murad had broken all his vows, and it was therefore incumbent upon her to violate her own. Since the direction he had chosen in life was now clear and since it was apparent that he had jilted her for the daughter of a powerful man, whom Murad would use to ascend the ranks of society rapidly, it would be degrading for her to linger at society's bottom level, gazing up at him. She too would need to rise to the t o p . . . . If only she could win a minister's s o n . . . . But how could she arrange that? Murad had accomplished it by relying on his cleverness and youthful good looks. He had succeeded in discovering the strings that pulled Shushu's heart. How could she as a woman conquer the heart of a man who would satisfy her ambitions for her? This had been the subject of Samira's thoughts ever since she learned of her catastrophe. Nothing tormented her as much as her burning desire to return Murad's favor in kind. What she feared most was that she might marry a man of lower rank than Murad. This thought killed her. Her ultimate concern was to be able to say to Murad, "I too have married—a young man just as good as you. In fact, he's superior to you in class, rank, and influence." This was the new field of competition between the former lovers. Nothing on Samira's horizons, however, suggested an early victory. In the final analysis, there was no alternative to contenting herself with the attorney and

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former student activist. Who could say? Perhaps he would successfully scale the peaks as well. Whenever he visted her and discussed his hopes with her, he claimed that he would. He tried to tempt her with his prospects for making his mark under the new government. He had strong ties to Minister Zayd Pasha, a man of great influence in the cabinet. This formidable minister was well aware of the services Fahim had rendered to the new government before it assumed power. He had organized strikes most efficiently under orders from the party. He had enticed students to join this party with promises—asserting that once in power this government would lower scores required to pass the examinations—and with money he received from the party for this purpose. Even the chants in the demonstrations were arranged by him, as he picked people with strong voices to lead them. The day the government assumed power, it was he who suggested to the students that they should swarm into the ministries to shout greetings to each minister, as a way of demonstrating patriotic fervor and of convincing foes that this government was more popular than others. All this was known to the cabinet's brains, who was Zayd Pasha. He had promised Fahim, the student leader, a share of the spoils and a cut of the booty. Fahim did not yet know whether this would mean an excellent civil service position or a seat in the Chamber of Deputies. Samira would listen to such talk without becoming angry, without smiling sarcastically, and without feeling compelled to register her disappointment in this young man, whom she had imagined to be strongly motivated by patriotism. He had no doubt been that way once, before student activism became an activity directly linked to party politics, a j o b that was almost a career, a vocation with a bankroll and policies, and a tool in the hands of party leaders. Samira was not annoyed by this. She did not brood about its dangerous implications or the abyss between it and their former idealism. Instead, she was pleased by it, for she saw relief in it from her predicament. She was convinced that her new dream was on the verge of being fulfilled. The next time he outlined all this for her, she was quick to present Fahim with her views, telling him firmly and enthusiastically, "I'd prefer for you to be in the Chamber of Deputies."

6 Six o'clock, Friday evening, was the time set for Murad and Samira to exchange the letters they had written each other. The place chosen for this meeting was the commemorative m o n u m e n t at the university. As the clock struck six, Murad strode around the monument, as impatiently as on previous occasions. Yet what a difference there was be-

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tween the reasons for his impatience, between his former emotions or thoughts and his present ones. . . . Now he feared her tardiness would cause him to miss another appointment—at the minister's residence. He was afraid that she might have changed her mind, that she would not come, and that he would remain subject to the threat of those accursed letters. He also feared his own emotions. The firebrand of boyish love had been extinguished, but why dig around in the ashes? He needed to keep his feelings and thoughts focused on the future, not on the past. Moreover, this was a most embarrassing and confusing encounter. What should he tell her about his forthcoming marriage? Should he say nothing and sidestep the issue or should he explain and justify his actions? Under these circumstances, perhaps it would be best to keep the meeting brief and to abbreviate the discussion. Yes! This was how he must conduct h i m s e l f . . . to put a speedy end to the meeting. He held in his hand the envelope into which he had thrust the few letters she had written him. He resolved to present her with the envelope at once, to avoid a long conversation. It was five minutes after six when he heard behind him footsteps that he recognized as hers, for his ears still remembered the sound of these steps and would have been able to pick them out from thousands of others. When he turned to face her, their eyes met, and he encountered an icy stare. She too, as it appeared, had prepared herself for this meeting, although her slight pallor betrayed her and expressed her condition eloquently enough for him to feel certain that he was in the presence of a different girl, one he had never seen before. A nod of her head was her cursory acknowledgment of his greeting. Her hand immediately proffered the envelope of his letters. Everything indicated that she also intended to avoid anything that might suggest weakness or a desire to prolong their conversation and to indulge in profuse criticism. He presented her with the envelope containing her letters, which she accepted gratefully. She was starting to leave when he took her hand in his and asked, "Do we part friends?" She took her time in responding, since it is painful for a woman to be forced to exchange love for friendship and to be required to accept her man as a friend and not a lover. All the same, her pride imposed on her the reply, "Why not?" Her voice had none of the resonance of the wholesome water that springs from truth. Instead it had a tone of defiance. How could Murad have been oblivious to the damage he was inflicting on her pride? She would have forgiven him the insult if only he had said, "Let us part after sprinkling dirt on our love that has died."

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A woman can live with a love that is dead and buried but cannot abide seeing it transformed into something different, not even into one of the noblest of sentiments . . . as long as it is not love. She can tolerate a dead love, because she can place on it a daily wreath of tears. What can she do with a mutation of love? Murad dug himself a deeper pit while intending only to demonstrate his friendship for her as he remarked, "Rest assured that I shall always take an interest in your progress through life." She had been waiting for this opportunity to announce defiantly and arrogantly, "You can rest assured that my progress will be no less solid than yours." "As you know, I will be the first to congratulate you." 'Yes, you can congratulate me on my engagement to Fahim. Perhaps you've heard that he's been named a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies. It won't be difficult for a man like him to become a minister." She spoke quickly, as if intent on telling him this for fear of losing the opportunity. After making this revelation, she felt better. The only part of this statement that attracted Murad's attention was one phrase, which made such an impression on him that he was forced to reflect as he repeated it in a whisper: "Chamber of Deputies!" This route actually was an easier and shorter one than the civil service. Samira perceived that she had aimed, fired, and scored, that she had achieved the desired result: to make him aware that he was not the only one successful in life. She sensed that she could leave him now with her head held high. She extended her hand to bid him farewell, and he shook it. At this moment they both happened to glance at the commemorative monument, and these fiery words lit up their minds with shimmering letters: "Our eternal love must endure as long as eternal Egypt does." The first half covered their eternal love, and it was obvious to them how long that had lasted. The second part. . . . They were conscious now for the first time that they had begun to doubt the truth of those principles and ideals that they and their classmates had believed so firmly. Could these have been childish notions? Might they merely be sentiments of irresponsible youth, as some people suggest? All the same, they had believed in these ideals and had been convinced of their truth at one time. Young people had died, sacrificing their blood for the sake of these principles, and here was the m o n u m e n t commemorating them. Were these words only pretty phrases suitable for repetition inside schools and universities but unfit for use outside those institutions? Were eter-

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nal Egypt, the immortal homeland, sacrifice, the public welfare, and so on, fictions of the imagination? Yes . . . life with its realities had taught them about special interests, personal gain, representative assemblies, civil service positions with their ranks and levels, and ministerial pomp. . . . Wasn't this life? Anything else could be dismissed as child's play, youthful fantasies, and juvenile dreams. Who had taught them that this was life? Had it not been the opinion makers, government leaders, and political bosses? Did not all these people live according to a creed founded on the slogan: "the splendor of ruling and the enjoyment of life"? Was this not their commemorative monument? The young people inside the walls of their university have a commemorative monument that drips blood. It tells them each morning, "I represent sacrifice for the sake of eternal Egypt." They believe in it and continue true to their faith until they graduate and find themselve outside the walls. Then they observe a life that has for its central pivot another monument, one erected by leaders and influential people who have constructed it of pure gold. From it drip opulence, sloth, and ease. It whispers to them every morning and evening, "I am the life of self-interest." Which of these two should they follow? Which of the two monuments should they honor? To which cry should they listen? If only the external monument would leave them at peace until they graduate, granting them a little time to live with the illusions of the stone monument inside the cloister. Yet it pervades even that sanctuary and storms the walls, making their ears ring with the sound of gold pieces. It teaches them far too early how principles are sold and purchased for gold. Perhaps this is a "preparatory" lesson deemed necessary in universities so that young people will graduate to life with some experience of reality and some acquaintance with the facts of existence, lest they be destroyed by a shock of discovery, should they emerge with any shred of conscience left. Murad and Samira were unable to think about all this or to pay it any attention, for their pure hearts had died and their youthful consciences had grown old. The only thought passing through their minds as they gazed at the commemorative stone was that it had witnessed the farce of their love: their comical chants, strikes, and pointless enthusiasms. They had deprived themselves of cinematic enjoyment for months to save up the price of a bouquet of flowers for it. If only they had n o t . . . but how could they have known how asinine this stone was compared to the gold monument that looms high beyond their campus, superciliously overseeing the ocean of Egyptian life?

My Donkey and Hypocrisy

T

HAT SUMMER WHEN MY DONKEY SAW ME PREPARING TO GO TO

the beach at Ra's al-Barr, he asked, "Are you traveling there by yourself?" Embarrassed about leaving him, I asked him to accompany me. It would have been disloyal to let him broil in the heat of Cairo, while I went off to a summer resort. Thus, like me, he took up residence—in the room next to mine—as an honored guest in a cottage belonging to one of my friends. The donkey enjoyed the sea air with the rest of us and accompanied us to our tent on the beach every morning. Like us, he watched the throngs of men and women vacationers come and go in their splendid beach outfits of every variety. This parade resembled nothing so much as a motorized window display crossing the sand before our eyes. Since I enjoyed lying silently on my long, comfortable beach chair, I instructed my donkey to be still. We were there to rest, not to talk. He acceded to my request and did not say anything until, one day, a man we knew came to the beach. This friend's body had grown flabby, and his belly bulged out like a container of kerosene. He was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. "My, you're slim!" I exclaimed. "What slenderness!" Then the donkey could not keep from whispering to me, "Do you really think he looks thin?" I replied in a voice loud enough for the delighted man to hear, "Of course I think he looks thin. Why shouldn't I?" As he studied my friend's body and physique from head to toe, the donkey muttered to me, "Why doesn't he look that way to me?" I told him furiously, "Because you're an ass." 65

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His whispered retort was, "Why not say it's because you are a hypocrite?" Satisfied that he looked splendid, this friend sauntered off to join forces with my host. The two of them set out for a walk along the shore, after abandoning the attempt to persuade me to join them. I d o n ' t like to walk. When I was alone with my donkey, I yelled at him, "I'm a hypocrite?" "Not so fast. Take it easy. I didn't mean to insult you." "Please understand, donkey, that this is not hypocrisy but courtesy." "I understand. It's courtesy, but courtesy is a lesser form of hypocrisy. One is a colt and the other a donkey. All the same, please keep in mind that I don't disapprove of hypocrisy. I once compared myself to you carefully, asking, 'What's the difference between us donkeys and you men?' We eat beans, and you eat beans. If we like them mixed with straw and bran and you like them with oil or butter, that's only a variation of temperament, not what we should term an essential difference. The basic distinction between us is really that you know how to be hypocrites, and we don't. So I have indulged in a dream, promising myself that one day when the opportunity arises, I will beg and entreat you to instruct me in hypocrisy." "Amazing! Who taught you this sarcastic style?" "I'm not being sarcastic. I'm speaking in earnest. I am firmly convinced that if I can learn hypocrisy and introduce it to the donkey clan, we will turn into creatures like you. I believe firmly in this principle and have been secretly working for some time to implement the plan. Don't obstruct my wishes and hopes. Take whatever I have, but give me hypocrisy." "What's come over you? Have you gone mad? Have the pure sea air and our host's tasty food gone to your head?" "My head's fine. What I'm asking you to do will cause a revolution in the history of my species, but you begrudge us this knowledge and are stingy with it. I won't insist or trouble you again, now that I've made this one request." 'Your complaint against me is peculiar. What am I begrudging you? Is it some precious, cherished thing that I consider too good for a donkey like you? This is the first time I've heard that hypocrisy has a value to be coveted." "Well, I've heard that hypocrisy is of the utmost value in world markets and that all the finest forms of hypocrisy are practiced here in Egypt, just as we have the finest forms of cotton." "You seem to have gleaned your information from experts." "I've also been told that hypocrisy has long fibers." "What are you saying?"

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"Yes... it's like cotton. Don't you think so? Perhaps the reason for attributing the excellence and superiority of hypocrisy to its long fibers is that these allow it to extend in two directions, to the individual and to society. For example, a man may embrace an opinion contradicting that of his group. When the group protests against this, he may retire silentiy to his home. This is what happens in every other country. But here, something different takes place, for I've been told that some individuals who advocate free thought when accused of apostasy do not simply protect themselves by falling silent but go out the next day flaunting a set of amber prayer beads and wearing a green turban. O t h e r people who have a reputation in society for using alcohol and for inebriation d o not merely protect themselves by silent repentance but go a r o u n d claiming to lead movements for the promotion of piety. Women who secretly have love affairs proclaim their virtue in public. Politicians created by God with one face fashion a multitude of countenances with which to greet every new government that takes power and each ministerial crisis that arises. Clans choose different members of the family to affiliate with each of the different political parties and ideologies in much the same way that God allots different destinies and fortunes to each of His creatures. Subjects d u p e their leaders at the expense of the state, and officials dissimulate with the people while betraying the public interest. Ladies who wish to have f u n and amuse themselves tell m e n that their activities support a worthy cause. Religious authorities make a big fuss in the newspapers about morality and beat the d r u m against vice when their secret intent is actually to gain publicity for themselves through these demonstrations of concern. Devout m e n order people to be chaste while exempting themselves and their relatives from this duty. "These are some instances concerning the individual. T h e other side, society, also has its own f o r m of hypocrisy. To cite o n e example: I understand that Egypt is the only country where a criminal released f r o m prison is greeted by music and piping, as if h e were a pilgrim returning f r o m Mecca. This society detests the thief, the criminal, the scoundrel, and the libertine, b u t when fortune smiles on any of these a n d h e gains power or makes his mark, society quickly smiles o n him too and welcomes him as a glorious hero. Even when society knows the shocking history of this millionaire and the despicable past of that politician, this does n o t prevent people f r o m carrying such m e n o n their shoulders. "Society dissembles with the individual, and the individual dupes society. Neither knows which side originated the hypocrisy, and consequently it's said that hypocrisy unites them. We d o n o t know which side provoked the other. We know only that hypocrisy stretches be-

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tween the two, binding them together with its sturdy threads. This explains the reference to hypocrisy's long fibers. What do you say? Have I gained a sound understanding of this subject?" "I see that you're an ocean brimming with information. I'm astonished that you are asking me to teach you hypocrisy when you have such an exhaustive knowledge of it." "There's no cause for astonishment, for you know that theoretical knowledge is one thing and practical implementation something else again. Every country studies the history of the French Revolution, but it's not easy to instigate a similar one in your own l a n d . . . . I have studied the history of your hypocrisy, but it's difficult for me to produce something comparable for the society of my species." "I don't see what's so hard about that. It's extremely simple. I, for example, am your master, whom you fear and respect. You are dependent on me for the fulfillment of many of your needs and wishes. Inspect my face. Don't you find it handsome?" "Not at all." "Don't look with your physical eyes but with the eye of self-interest." ' T h e only eyes I know are the two on my head." "Gouge those eyes out if you want to learn hypocrisy." "I need to gouge out my eyes and blind myself?" 'That's a condition." "What will I use to see things then?" "Use your other eye: the eye of desire." "So, if I wish to introduce hypocrisy to the society of my own kind, I must order all donkeys to gouge out their eyes?" "Immediately." "And our society must be transformed into a mass of blind asses?" "Precisely." "Do you suppose the donkey nation will accept this?" "Why not? We human beings have." "Allow me to tell you . . . " "Hush. I know what you're going to say. There's no need for insulting remarks." At this moment my two friends approached, returning from their walk, and I gestured for my donkey to be silent. Winking at the beast with my physical eye, I recited to my flabby friend: Welcome to this slenderness: Trunks, short sleeves, so belliless.

Wedding Night

A

T TWO A.M. THE LAST JUBILANT TRILL RESOUNDED FOR THIS

auspicious marriage and, after they were sprinkled with salt to ward off the evil eye, the bride and groom were boisterously escorted to their chamber. The door closed upon them, they found themselves alone at last. They had crossed the threshold of that moment different from any other, a moment that gleams like a magnificent pearl in the crown of time for each person on this earth whether king or vagabond, a moment that had required many sacrifices and for the sake of which friends and acquaintances had assembled, family and relatives had joined in festive celebrations, tables had been erected, and glasses had been clinked in toasts, a moment causing joy and high spirits to enliven heads, dancing to grow hot, and songs to resound, as those present had swum and floated in bliss. This moment—the pinnacle of the soiree, the centerpiece of the party, the focus of the evening—had arrived: the time when the bride and groom are finally alone together. What a moment it is! Every husband, no doubt, remembers his uncertainty when searching his head for a first word to address to his bride once they were by themselves. Should he start with a serious or a jesting r e m a r k . . . or a romantic one? Each wife surely remembers her feelings when waiting for the first word from the lips of her groom. The bride tonight, however, did not seem to be awaiting anything. Once the door of the bridal chamber was secured, she left her groom and went to the vanity, where she seated herself and put her lovely head in her hands. When he observed this, the groom approached, asking her, "Are you exhausted, darling? I think the wedding's tumult has upset you."

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She did not reply. The groom could not see her face, which was hidden by her hands, but soon observed a teardrop slip between her fingers and fall on her white wedding gown. In a voice throbbing with affection, he inquired, "Are you crying, Sona?" The only response he heard was a faint sob. He hurt for her and was certain he understood the reason. She was her mother's only child and had lost her father a few years before. Separation from a dear mother like this, one who had been everything to her, would not be easy. Perhaps this thought had been haunting her throughout the party, for she had seemed absent-minded and glum. Her eyes downcast, she had spoken and smiled little. Bending over her now, he placed his cheek next to her head and told her, "Don't cry, my dear Sona. I'll be a mother, father, husband, and brother to you. I'll keep you from ever feeling that you've lost something or been separated from someone." As if preparing to speak, she moved her head away from his cheek, but tears overcame her. He quickly remarked, "Don't talk! I know what you wish to say. Cry to your heart's content. This is natural. I fear it only for the sake of your beautiful eyes. Weeping at a time like this cleanses the soul. Soon you'll feel refreshed and your face will be a sun that shines brightly after a charming light rain." She trembled as if a battle were raging deep inside her. Then summoning her courage, she said tearfully, "I want to be frank with you. Will you allow it?" "Of course, my Sona. Naturally. . . . Tell me frankly whatever you feel. We're married now, aren't we? Neither of us should hide anything from his mate." 'Yes, it's my duty to inform you—I hope you won't be hurt or angry—that I love someone else." She said this rapidly and forcefully. Then she burst into tears. Her words reverberated in the bridegroom's ears like an exploding grenade. The surprise stupefied him, and he felt neither pain nor anger. Indeed, he was no longer conscious of himself, his surroundings, or the time that passed before he gained enough control of himself to return to his senses . . . until he was aware of the implications of what he had heard and could think about what he ought to do. He was a sensible, self-possessed man of about thirty-six. Through holding a responsible post, he had learned to weigh matters carefully. No sooner had he brought himself under control than he asked in a calm tone mixed with bitterness and polite censure, "Don't you think this candid confession comes a bit late? What kept you from announcing this during our engagement or at least before the marriage contract was concluded?" "This wedding had to take place to satisfy my poor mother. . . . Whenever I tried to convince her to break off our engagement, I

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found the idea made her utterly miserable. Her one hope and longstanding dream was to see me the wife of a man like you. I didn't have the courage to assail her hopes, for she's weak, sickly, and getting on in years. God knows how earnestly I endeavored to suppress my emotions and to stifle my love and how I wished to make myself understand that the past ended with this marriage. I imagined that my heart had responded to the appeal of my intellect. But tonight, when the matter was concluded and everything became a reality, I heard the screams of my heart echo through me, almost drowning out my existence. Then I knew for certain that I could not fool myself and that it was not right for me to continue deceiving you." She said this while sobbing and weeping. The bridegroom bowed his head and thought for a time about her confession. Then he said, "Blameless, sensible conduct. . . . Rest assured that for my part I am most ready to assist you in whatever you decide to do. You're right. You mustn't betray yourself. You should listen to your heart. So long as your love is true, no one else will have a chance with you. From this moment I set you free and place myself at your service. Let's think the thing through together. . . . First of all, how are we to escape from this impasse? Suppose I divorce you tonight, what will happen? That would disgrace you in an unacceptable way and engender endless rumors and talk about you. It would also be a rude shock to your mother, whom you have already sought to protect from a milder and more innocent blow. What shall we do? Help me think it through." 'You're right. If you divorce me tonight, that will cause a scandal." "Let's look for another solution. Think carefully." "I'm thinking. . . . " They each sat down to reflect. The groom put his head in his hands. Finally, standing up, he shouted, "I've found a solution. Perhaps it may work out for the best, but it will require patience from you and skillful acting from me. I will divorce you in a month or two, after I've given people, and especially your mother, the impression that I'm gruff and ill-tempered and treat you badly. In this way, we'll set the stage for your mother to accept the divorce with litde discomfort. She may even grow exasperated and urge you to seek a separation before that time. Once this has been accomplished, she will place her hopes and dreams on the man your heart has chosen. What do you think of this solution?" "It's amazing!" As she said this, she attempted to restrain her tears. Wanting to blow her nose, she found nothing at hand but the edge of her gown. Before she could act, the groom quickly said, "Wait! Wait. Take my handkerchief. Don't soil your dress. Save if for your next wedding." Accepting it, she observed, "You're a fine man. I'm sorry. What have you done to have me ruin this blissful night for you? What fault

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of yours is it that you're stuck with a bride like me? You probably attached great hopes to this marriage.. . ." After lowering his gaze for a moment, he said, as if to himself, "Don't remind me. . . . I mean, don't attach too much significance to that." "I'm dreadfully sorry." "Don't b e . . . . I'm fine. In any case, you're not responsible for what's happened to me. This is just my luck. It's true that I placed all my hopes on this marriage, but only because I've always been stingy with my emotions and heart. My career has absorbed me. There has been littie time for recreation in my life. I haven't shared much of myself with women. I've squirreled away in my heart all my love, reserving it for the woman destined for me. I imagined what it would be like to spend my free time with her and how I would share my affection, emotion, love, and sympathy. Over the years I have hoarded all of this for her—like the coins saved by an avaricious man. But fate decreed that my treasure be decimated as those of stingy people are occasionally, because fate is pleased to mock those of us who focus all their interest on a single goal. Fate lies in wait for them until they near their target. After toying with them, it suddenly reduces all their efforts to nothing." "It's my fault. I'm a criminal." "No, the matter absolutely does not concern you. I resemble a person who saves up all his money to purchase a spring only to find after the closing that there are restrictions on its use or that it is legally someone else's leasehold. Is the spring at fault in this case? The sin is in the hoarding and stinginess. I wish I had adopted for my motto: 'Cast your bread upon the waters.'" "Your words slice into my soul like a knife. What I can do for you. . . . Who knows? Perhaps fate will reward you with a better bride. The unknown may harbor the wife of your dreams. I'm not worthy of you." "That's sweet of you. So . . . S a n i y a . . . Ms. Saniya. Excuse me. I no longer know what to call you." "Amazing! Call me what you have been." "When you mother's present, of course, but when we're alone I don't have the right. . . ." "Why not?" "I've lost the right to take such liberties with you. From now on, you're—as I've mentioned—free of any tie to me. I don't know what we should do. Your mother's here; we'll be forced to stay in the same room. Listen: you can have the bed, and I'll take the f l o o r . . . there beside the door in that far corner. Go o n . . . . Climb into bed. You're in great need of rest tonight, after all these upsetting events."

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"You'll sleep on the floor?" "There's no other place." "That's true, unfortunately . . . but forgive me, I beg y o u . . . . I've turned your wedding night into this less than charming vision." "What's wrong with my wedding night? I'm content with it. Is every bridegroom granted one like it? You can be sure I'll remember it fondly." "You're trying to absolve me of responsibility for what's happened. At any rate, this is not an appropriate time for a debate. Let me prepare a cozy spot for you to spend the night, since you are, doubtless, exhausted by this unhappy surprise. I see two mattresses on the bed. I'll make up one on the ground. Then we'll flip to see who gets which. What do you think?" Smiling, he replied, "Agreed. I can count on being unlucky." They both rose at once and helped each other carry one of the mattresses to a corner of the room. Then she made the bed on the floor and placed pillows on it. When she had finished, she asked for a coin. They agreed that heads would win. After tossing the coin in the air, she emerged the winner. He told her, "Didn't I tell you I knew my luck?" "I didn't throw it right. Let's flip again." "No, n o . . . please. Be true to your principles: candor, truthfulness, and forthrightness. You won, and I lost. There's no room for trickery and no need for evasion." She accepted grudgingly, and he left the room so she could undress and slip into bed. When he returned, he removed his suit and retreated to his mattress. Extending an arm of soft marble to the switch of the lamp beside her, she asked deferentially, "Shall I turn off the light?" "If you wish. I hope you sleep soundly and have a happy future with the man your heart has chosen. I'm sure you've made an excellent choice, although you haven't said anything about him. . . . " "He's an officer. A first lieutenant!" "And a handsome young fellow, naturally, at least ten years my junior. It's futile to try to compete. It's pointless to resist," he whispered to himself. "What did you say?" she asked. " N o t h i n g . . . . Turn out the l i g h t . . . . Good night." «—* During the days that followed, the husband performed the role selected for him extremely well, gently goading his mother-in-law into believing that he was not the model husband she had wished for

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her only child. The one problem still presenting intractable difficulties was that of the shared room, which united him and his counterfeit wife in a way that could not drag on from day to day. He could not sleep in the same room with her like a stranger, for the lecherous beast intervened, bellowing from denial and groaning with desire. The groom felt her hot breath scorch his face. Any movement of hers was enough to drive the sleep from his eyes. If she coughed, he would get up to drape his blanket around her. If the moon's reflected rays crept through the window, he would tiptoe to her side to contemplate her magnificent face washed in its light. Then he would let down the curtains to prevent the glare from disturbing her. If she rolled over on one side, he did too. If she rose for any reason during the night, he pretended to be sound asleep and tried to control his unruly breathing so she would not realize that he was awake. Asleep in bed, she was a constant temptation. Awake, she was an incitement to the perpetual agitation inside him. Everything about her conspired to deprive him of sleep, shatter his nerves and willpower, and render him as resdess in bed as a feather: the scent of her body, her sweet sighing while she slept, her whispered, intermittent snores, the amazing way she slept stretched out on her stomach, her hair dangling down yet revealing a naked throat, her pillow clasped to her breast. . . . No man of flesh and blood could withstand this torture. He endured it one night, two, then three and four. The week was almost over, and he lacked the strength to endure more. What could he do? The only places to sleep in the house were the study, the salon, their bedroom, and another occupied by his mother-in-law. Should he spend the night in the dining room? What would the servants and his mother-in-law say about this conduct by a bridegroom? His mother-in-law would never leave them, since she could rely only on this one daughter to provide shelter. He thought of nothing except trying to be patient a little longer and hastening the completion of his assignment. Day by day he increased the vehemence of the ill humor that he pretended to display. Out of a desire for her daughter's well-being, the mother-in-law pretended not to notice. The daughter left something to be desired in performing her role. She did not manifest any anger at her husband's assumed character, for she knew that once he was alone with her at night he would apologize for all the ill-treatment of the day. She ended up taking a child-like delight in this playacting and would almost laugh instead of pretending to be angry. He would wink at her to encourage her to frown. She even made the mistake of defending him at times to her mother or to visitors, when criticism was directed toward his character. The words, "By God, he's unjustly accused!" would slip from her lips.

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Then one day the husband thought of a way to compensate for his sleepless nights. He would repair to the home of a longtime bachelor friend to relax and nap each afternoon. He told his mother-inlaw and wife that business affairs unexpectedly required him to be absent. He started staying out till ten and occasionally midnight. There was no harm in this, since it could be incorporated into his imitation of a scoundrel. He came home once at two A.M., since he had been invited to a friend's birthday party. It had been an innocent evening of music, song, and jokes. To his astonishment, he found his wife waiting for him—awake and frowning in bed. The frown was not theatrical but born of real anger. When he apologized to her and explained the reason, she fell silent but did not seem convinced or content. After some weeks had passed, she asked him one day to take her to the cinema. He found that his mother-in-law applauded the idea: "Yes, son, take your bride and have some fun together the way young couples do." Since he thought it his duty to appear boorish and ill-mannered, he replied sarcastically, "All I need is to take your daughter to the movies?" "What's the matter? Isn't she witty and beautiful? She's a bride fit for the finest groom." "That's what you think." "Shame on you, son." "In any case, I don't have time to waste on entertaining your daughter." At this point his wife, her face flushed with anger, interjected, "You have time to waste on staying out till after m i d n i g h t . . . . " "That's my affair." "I'll never go out with you in my life . . . never ever." She left him and rushed off to her room. The mother-in-law bowed her head in sorrow and pain. He, however, went about his business in his customary way. The scene made as little impression on him as if he were an actor leaving a stage where he has been beaten, stabbed, and wounded. He returned that evening to find his wife in bed, her face pressed against a pillow soaked with her tears. She did not move when he entered. He would have thought that she was sleeping, except that he heard a faint moaning and sobbing. Going over to her he asked, "What's the matter? What's wrong with you?" She raised her head from the pillow to turn her tear-streaked face toward him but did not reply. He commented sympathetically, "I haven't seen you cry like this for a long time. Is it for him, again?" "Who?"

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"The lieutenant." "What lieutenant? . . . Oh " She said this as if correcting an oversight. Then she quickly added in a bitterly critical tone: "No, don't try to change the subject from your mistreatment of me . . . your repeated abuse. I can't take any more from you. This is too much. No woman can endure this from a man." "What have I done, folks?" "Do you deny that you caused me to suffer today?" "It was just acting, of course." "That's a thread-bare excuse. You've started using playacting as a veil to conceal your hatred for me." "Glory to God!" "You try to see as little of me as possible. Do you deny that? . . . You leave early in the morning when I'm still asleep and don't return until lunch. Then you go out again and I don't see you until ten, eleven o'clock, or midnight. I ask you and ask myself: What is there about my face that repels you or in my person that drives you away?" "Is this conceivable?" "Do you swear you're not avoiding me?" "I swear that this has never crossed my mind." "At first you were charming with me, very affectionate and full of compassion. . . . " "I'm that way still. . . . I haven't changed." "Yes, occasionally, when we're alone in this room, you are nice to me, but when we're with others . . . " "Of course. In front of other people, I can't be nice. . . . That's the plan." "What plan! . . . Don't you realize it's turned into a bad joke?" "All the same, there's no alternative." "I enjoyed your acting at f i r s t . . . but now I see you're in earnest. It seems to me that you're not acting anymore." "Practice makes perfect." "It would have been better if you had not perfected this role . . . so I would not be tormented by doubt. Every word from you transfixes me and draws blood. You need to be a little more careful. It no longer seems like acting. Every tender phrase has vanished.... Why not perfect your part in ways that please me too? When my mother was present you used to call me Sona and occasionally 'my Sona.' What's happened? Why don't I hear that from you now?" "There's been a change in the plan . . . because time's running out." "Running out?"

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"Don't you know? Today we've reached the end of our seventh week. We only have a few days left before we separate." "So quickly? Are you sure you haven't counted wrong?" 'Trust me! I don't make mistakes in math. Every day that's passed I've counted precisely." 'You count the days till you're free!" "Me?" "So there are only a few days left till we part. . . . You must be very happy. . . . Tell me what you'll do after that. Where will you live?" "I don't know. I haven't made any plans yet for my future." "I certainly hope you'll be happy. . . . I wonder how you'll remember our days together, as good or bad?" "Good, of course." "Will you still cherish me?" "Always." "Thanks." "Go to sleep now with a peaceful mind. You've stayed up later than usual." He pulled the covers over her and tucked her in. The palm of his hand accidentally brushed her face. Like a cat snuggling up to its owner, she rubbed her cheek against his hand. He felt the warmth of that smooth, velvety cheek. Then he drew his hand away gently, turned out the lights quietly, and retired silently to his mattress.

«—• The remaining days passed swiftly in a bizarre, frightening atmosphere. She spoke little, rarely smiled, and appeared depressed. Her face was clouded by repressed sorrow. If he addressed her, she replied with a look that shook him to his depths, as if it were an eloquent poem. His mission had been hard on him. He struggled with himself to persevere with his ill-treatment of his wife when her mother was present. The stage was set finally for that decisive proclamation to be made without upsetting the mother too much and without damaging the wife's reputation. The final night arrived. The husband deliberately stayed out late so that fatigue would have forced her to fall asleep. But he found her awake, lying on her back in bed, the lamp's light shining full on her pale face. She seemed to be staring at the ceiling. He commented, "How odd! Aren't you sleepy yet?" "I was waiting for you to come home." "If I had known, I would have come home early."

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"You knew." "Why this depressed tone and sad face?" "There's nothing for me to be cheerful or happy about." "To the contrary . . . tonight you ought to be joyful and gay. Tomorrow you'll be free to marry the man you love." "You're just saying what you f e e l . . . . " "Please pay no attention to my feelings. Since our first night together in this room, I've only been concerned about your feelings, your situation, your problem. I promised that and think I've lived up to my promise." "Yes . . . you've been an honorable man." "Praise God." There was a deep silence. Words struggled to escape from her lips, but she did not dare release them. Finally, she gained courage and asked, "Has the time finally arrived?" "I believe so." "Would . . . would you want to know my feelings now? Or would it be in your best interests to ignore them? Rest assured that the last thing I want is to upset you. I suspect it will be better for you if I withdraw my words and ask you nothing. Let what's in my heart remain suppressed. I shouldn't impose any further on your generosity." "Speak freely and be perfectly candid, always." "If you divorce me, I will die." She said this quickly and then hid her face in her hands, leaving not the shadow of a doubt that she was in fact speaking the truth. Her voice was that of truth itself, should it be granted a tongue to speak. Her husband sat down on the edge of the bed, grasped her hand, and said, "Listen, Saniya! It's hard for me to forget that you loved someone e l s e . . . . On our wedding night I saw the evidence of that love on your face with my own e y e s . . . . " "I know you will never forgive me for that. I want you to punish me as you see fit. But I beg you to believe me when I say that my feelings for that individual were merely those of a child who had not yet experienced love." "I certainly do not doubt you at all. . . although I'm sure you understand my p o s i t i o n . . . . " 'Yes, I respect your position . . . and understand what's running through your m i n d . . . . I know the question that your good manners restrain you from asking. But I swear there was never any embarrassing bond or dishonorable relationship between me and that person. All it amounted to was that he was our neighbor when we lived in alAbbasiya and like any girl I was dazzled by that military uniform and bearing. He would greet me and I would answer whenever we met in

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the street. He called me on the telephone at times, but I never went out with him. We were never alone together. I declare that to you and swear to it with every oath. The time will come when you realize that I am telling the truth." "I see the truth in your eyes. That's enough for me. But I'm afraid of something else . . . the truth of your feelings for me. Are you certain of them?" "Totally." "How can you be so sure?" "You're perplexed because you've never been in love. But I'll tell you what it is. It's not that momentary splendor that dazzles our eyes, not a temporary jolt that convulses our heart. It's something that takes shape slowly, like an embryo. Like knitting, it weaves a single thread at a time, tying one knot after another. In this way a strong bond is formed between two hearts. No matter how much you doubt my words, I will never be able to give you up. I need you . . . with all your good and bad characteristics. You're a necessity for me, your mere presence in this room . . .just hearing you cough. I can't fall asleep when you're gone. Your return gladdens me, even if it's after midnight. It makes me laugh to see you search under the rug in the morning for your socks and for your shoes under the furniture; not to mention your face splattered with soap when you're shaving . . . the way you cut yourself with the razor or forget your handkerchief when preparing to go out, your reliance on me to remind you to take your briefcase that's lying against my table, your sweet, innocent smile when I stretch and yawn in the morning, your pretense of anger and your theatrical yelling when my mother is present, your discussion with me of your work as though I understand the details of i t . . . or the way you suddenly remember that I'm not really yours and become quite formal. Then, forgetting again, you relax and flirt with me, humoring me and praising my new dress. What about your eating habits that I've mastered and learned.. . . Bread should be heated and browned. Rice is eaten with vegetables. . . . Even the way you sleep. . . . I know the hour of the night that you'll be on your left side. How could you ask me to give up all this? These are trifling, silly things, but they are the delicate and sturdy loops in the knitwear of conjugal love." "Knitwear! What an expression! Don't forget the long needle required, if you please. . . . It's dangerous, particularly in your hands." She laughed delicately and then said in a serious tone, "You'll never have anything to fear from me." He bowed his head for a moment. Then raising it he said, "Sona, let me have some time to think."

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"I haven't heard the name Sona for ages. Why are you so afraid of me?" "Not of you but of my treasure. The stingy man's treasure that I've hoarded in my heart. Go to sleep now, Sona. In the morning we'll think about this, and maybe we'll find a solution." As he always did, he tucked her in, turned off the light, and retired to his mattress in the corner of the room. He had scarcely reached it and pulled back the spread, when he heard the sound of Sona hopping from her bed. She groped her way to his pallet and slipped under the covers beside him. She snuggled up to him, saying, "You're my husband before God, the world, and my heart. You'll never escape from my arms." She embraced him and hugged him. He found himself playing the part of her pillow that she always clenched to her breast in bed. This was their wedding night, and perhaps it was the first time a bride and groom forswore the nuptial bed in order to embrace each other on a pallet on the floor.

Expelled from Paradise

"T .I_jet's go to Paradise." "After a long life, God willing." "Now!" my jovial companion exclaimed one evening as he ushered me into a Cairo tavern. Inscribed in green on the door was: "Paradise Bar." After offering me a chair at a table that appeared to be reserved for his exclusive use, he sat down too. Glancing around the room, he saluted his cronies and the proprietor with a look and the angelic maidens and youths of the establishment with a smile. He clapped his hands to call for a drink and recited from the Holy Qur'an, "God the Exalted said, 'This world . . . is . . . enjoyment.'" 1 "Kindly supply the words you left out of the verse." "My heart won't allow it." The steward brought some glasses, and my friend encouraged me to take one. I told him, "My cup is overflowing with sins. There's no need for me to add wine. If you want to treat, I wouldn't mind some supper." He bowed to my request and ordered food for me. As I began to eat, he sipped f r o m his glass. T h e n he observed, "I'm happy when a man knows his sins. When we know our sins, we learn our limits. When we learn our limits, we stay within them and refuse to overstep them. You, just now, refused to transgress your limits. I'll tell you a story that you can rest assured is not a product of my inebriation. It actually h a p p e n e d in this very place. If you d o n ' t believe me, ask anyone here. But you well know that I've never once misled you."

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Full of food, my mouth could not utter a reply, and so I merely nodded my head in assent. Then my friend proceeded to recount this tale: I don't remember whether I've ever told you about the worthy shaykh whose presence was a blessing to the people of our rural community: Shaykh Alish, a man born with two eyes reserved solely for regarding the heavens. It seemed to us that when he was born, they must have placed him in a crystal container and sealed it, so our human atmosphere would not influence him and not a germ of evil would infect him. He was a man with no knowledge of sin, misconduct, transgression, or rebellion against God. Whenever we saw him, he was either prostrate in prayer or floating through God's empyrean realms, unconscious of himself and his surroundings. He did not discriminate between people and vermin and harmed neither man nor gnat. His only worldly possessions were a string of stone prayer beads, a razor with which he shaved his head, an ancient turban, his tattered clothes, and a flowing beard. This is how he lived, chewing on grass occasionally like a ruminant. He would nibble at other times on whatever morsels of food charitable folk had dropped in his lap without his noticing or observing it. He never asked anyone for anything. This shaykh, who sought no enjoyment from the world, died one day when not yet forty. I happened to be in the village at the time. I and some other men saw his corpse with our own eyes. He was lying in his accustomed spot, stretched out on the bare earth. His turban had fallen off, revealing a shaven head that gleamed like a shiny stone. His rosary had dropped by his side, and the handle of the razor was visible where it protruded from his sash. His beard, which had trembled only from his continuous repetition of God's names, was still. People were overwhelmed by compassion for him and agreed to build him a tomb. By the time I left the village a mausoleum stood over the body of Shaykh Alish. I contributed my share to this effort, since my heart was profoundly affected and my soul humbled. Then I returned to Cairo, and my weakness returned to me, may God destroy it. My feet led me back to my usual spot in this tavern, for we are only human. To rise above our carnal souls is vouchsafed us only at rare intervals. Some days later, from my perch here, I heard a fracas. Turning around I noticed a shaykh of seedy appearance at the table behind me. The tavern's stewards, who had surrounded him, were arguing with him, deriding him, and trying to make him understand that he was in the wrong place and that it would be best if he left peacefully. After following the course of this dispute, I fixed my eyes on the shaykh. But what a terrible sight it was! No . .. it wasn't a figment of imagination, intoxication, or insanity. It was Shaykh Alish himself, his flesh, blood, turban, de-

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crepitude, prayer beads, and razor. I rubbed my eyes and ordered a cup of strong coffee, which I hoped would help clear my mind. Then I asked the tavern keeper to test my faculties and requested one of the belles of the bar to pronounce judgment on my sobriety. Although at first they both looked suspiciously at me, eventually they yielded to my persistent pleas. I did not part from them until they had each confirmed and attested that I was in my right mind and fully rational. Then, approaching the shaykh, I shooed the waiters away from him. With a trembling voice I asked, "Shaykh, what is your name?" Imagine my surprise when he replied, earnestly, candidly, and firmly, "Alish!" It was his voice and his accent. I almost went crazy. I continued to quiz him, "Shaykh Alish from * * * *." He told me the name of our rural community, leaving not an atom of doubt in my soul. "A resident of the mausoleum to which I c o n t r i b u t e d . . . . " "Yes." "How have you left your tomb and come here? I saw you with my own eyes, when you were dead." "Yes. I really died. I wanted to enter paradise, but they threw me out." "Paradise? Is it possible for a man to be this confused? Pious shaykh, can't you tell the difference between the paradise in the sky and the Paradise Bar on Imad al-Din Street?" "No. I'm not confused. I actually ascended through the sky and knocked at heaven's gate. Then the guard prevented me from entering. He proclaimed that I am not one of its citizens and advised me to knock on the gates of hell. Shocked and saddened, I complied with this order and tapped at the fiery door. Its sentry also stopped me from entering and announced that I was not one of its denizens either. Perplexed about my status, I shouted plaintively to ask for guidance and to request some decision concerning my fate. Finally, they told me that there was no place for me in heaven, because the world is a battle between good and evil—a contest held in each person's soul between virtue and baseness. When good is victorious, the person enters the realm of goodness, paradise. If evil conquers, he enters the kingdom of evil, in other words, hell. In my case, there had been no battle and consequently no victory. I had not confronted evil or struggled against it. In their opinion, I could be likened to a person who runs off the playing field or flees from an examination. Thus it was impossible for them to reward or to punish me, since I had not exposed myself to the vicissitudes of life in order to sort my soul's good from the dross. In their eyes, I was a swindling deceiver who had

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chosen the easy way to claim a prize without taking any of the risks. Their predicament was finally resolved by this decision: the abrogation of my first life, which was now considered null and void, and my expulsion from heaven, so that I could live once more on earth with the identical body, spirit, and essence as before, submitting myself to that most difficult examination of confronting evil and struggling against depravity. Afterwards they would know what has and has not been revealed in me. They cast me back to earth with my same clothes and appearance. I landed in Cairo, still consumed by sorrow and regret at losing paradise. Unconsciously, as if crazed, I chanted, 'Paradise! . . . Paradise!' Then a passerby shoved me in here, exclaiming, 'Here's Paradise!' I entered and once more found people intent on expelling me . . . till you rescued me, kind sir." I was amazed by the shaykh's tale and felt sorry for him. So I told him, "Never mind, blessed shaykh. What happened to you would not happen to just anyone. It is, rather, a miracle reserved for God's saints to be allowed to live twice in this world." I gendy raised him up and respectfully seated him at my table. I asked, "And now, what do you intend to do with your new life?" "Confront evil. If you wish to be of service to me, my good man, direct me to evil." I laughed a little and replied, "That's easy. Even if personally I'm not an outstanding guide for this path, I can at least introduce you to evil in some of its trivial manifestations." I clapped my hands to attract the waiter and told him, "A bottle of champagne for his excellence the shaykh." The garçon stared blankly at me. Then regaining his composure, he hastened to obey my command. In no time at all, he had returned with a bottle resting in an ice bucket. When he loosened the silvery fastener, the cork shot off as if fired from a cannon. This attracted the attention of the belles of the bar, who cast amazed and astonished glances in our direction. They followed our progress with smiles and then with restrained and barely audible laughter in appreciation for this unique scene from the history of our age. "To your health!" I raised my glass and gestured to him to imitate me. With a trembling hand, he picked up the glass and sipped from it as cautiously as if consuming poison. It never crossed his mind that I had indeed made him swallow a poison that would permeate his new life and bring with it many consequences. I did not pay any attention to the matter until the shaykh had consumed his third glass and become intoxicated. He soon began chanting religious hymns and songs in praise of the Prophet. Then counting his prayer beads, he rattled off the descriptive names of God with a drunkard's loud voice and slurred diction. This singing was naturally the only kind he knew once

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inebriation moved him to break into song. I did my best to silence him for fear of a scandal and out of respect for the lofty status of religion contrasted to that of the bar in which we found ourselves. The shaykh allowed himself to be persuaded and quit singing these sacred things. Looking to the right and left, he noticed a graceful damsel. After clearing his throat, he demanded, "Give me this heavenly maiden." I gestured to her. She approached and sat down. I asked her to flirt with the shaykh. She teased him and toyed with him until what little remained of his sanity vanished. While he was at the crest of this dizzy exuberance, he was inspired to ask my name. When I answered evasively, he responded, "Why should I ask you? Do you think I don't know who you are?" "You know me?" "Naturally. You're Ridwan, the man who brought me into this paradise with its black-eyed beauties." He guffawed and turned to embrace the bar girl. Midnight came. Then the clock struck one. The tavern was deserted, and the owner wanted to close up. At this point, my intoxication fled and reason returned: What was I to do with this miracle-working shaykh? Where should he reside and live? To take him home with me seemed inconceivable, but to return him to his rural hamlet and put him back in his tomb was also out of the question. What was I to do? Where should he spend the night? I pondered the matter for quite a while. Then I asked myself, "Why should I worry about him? What concern of mine is this saintly shaykh? Has anyone appointed me to be his guardian? Have they expelled him from heaven for me to carry him around on my back?" God finally guided me to the stratagem of slipping the woman some money in return for extricating me from my predicament. She would keep him company while I left in peace. Afterwards it would be up to her to grant him shelter or to cast him out. I executed my plan, and the noble prostitute saved me. I went off home and stopped patronizing that tavern for a week, from fear of running into the shaykh, who might cling to me and force me to keep him company and to spend the evening with him or to take responsibility for him and his future. After a week had passed, I still would not risk a trip there, preferring to telephone the proprietor. The moment he heard my voice he shouted, "What's this disaster you've brought down upon us?" "Which disaster?" "Your friend the shaykh! He doesn't want to leave the bar by day or night. Whenever we suggest it, he yells at us, 'I'll never go! A believer shouldn't be expelled from paradise twice.'" "What have you done to him?"

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"Nothing. We got him a box so he could shine shoes. We shaved his beard off, obtained a servant's floor-length shirt for him to wear, and put him to work in the establishment. He cleans it by day and shines the patrons' shoes by night." "A brilliant idea!" I exclaimed with total sincerity and unrestrained admiration. But this did not stop me from deliberately avoiding that bar for a further period until Shaykh Alish could fully assimilate his new identity and completely forget that night, so that encountering him would not create any problems for me. c—p Three years passed during which I never set foot in that tavern, not because of any plan on my part, but because of a decree of fate, or as you might say, of the government. Envious backbiters had gone to my new boss, that cursed know-nothing, and had unjustly accused me of doing little work, of being lazy and addicted to drink and to rowdiness, and of frequenting saloons. Imagine my astonishment when one morning I received an order from the Ministry transferring me to a remote area of Upper Egypt. I remained there until God and an effective campaign allowed me to return. No sooner had I settled into my new j o b at the agency than I felt a longing to return to my former life. I headed off energetically one evening in the direction of this bar, having totally forgotten about Shaykh Alish and his misadventures. When I entered and cast my eyes around the place, I did not find anything the way it had been before. It had all changed: my favorite table, the women, the wine stewards, the barman, even the manager. Nothing remained the same, except the tavern's name: Paradise Bar. I stood bewildered for a moment, not knowing where to sit. Then I noticed a good-time girl who had climbed up on the bar. She was alone and puffing on a cigarette. Like a cloud encircling the moon, the smoke billowed about her round white face. I headed for her, paused beside her, and ordered drinks for us. Using time-honored expressions appropriate to the circumstances, I began to flirt with her. Then a shoeshine man interrupted our conversation by whispering near me, "Shine your shoes, Bey." Flinching, I glanced at him and suddenly remembered Shaykh Alish. I asked myself what I would do if the shaykh appeared with his box and what I would say if he took hold of my shoe to shine it. Should I allow or reject that, from compassion and respect for him? She suddenly raised her glass to her lips, looked toward the door, and said anxiously, "I won't stay with you long. I'm afraid he'll arrive and see me with you. He's extremely jealous."

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"Who's that?" "Alawi. . . Alawi Bey." "Alawi Bey! Who is he?" A look of disbelief appeared on her face. Turning to stare at me, she exclaimed, "Amazing! Haven't you heard this name? All of Imad al-Din Street knows who Alawi Bey is. This must be the first time you've entered one of its bars or cabarets." "That's true . . . for more than three years." "It's about his usual time to come. I advise you to move away from me the moment I give you the signal. If you don't, I won't be responsible for what happens to your nose or ears, when he takes his razor to them." "God help us," I murmured in a tremulous whisper as I gazed toward the door. I considered moving my glass away from the woman immediately, without waiting for the last moment, in hopes that God would compensate me in some other coin than her company, which was so fraught with danger. Yet I did not want to appear cowardly in front of a woman, who perhaps had only been joking and teasing me. I strengthened my resolve a little and resumed our chatty flirtation. Suddenly she looked toward the door, like a cat instinctively sensing movement. She turned her back on me and drew her drink away from mine. I realized that her companion had arrived. Indeed, I felt that the whole bar had suffered an electric jolt. All at once, with that man's arrival, silence reigned over everyone present: customers, waiters, and even the proprietor in his raised booth. Cautiously and politely I raised my eyes to examine this person they called Alawi Bey. I discovered an elegantly dressed man, with a short mustache and gleaming hair, diffusing the scent of expensive cologne. When he addressed the barman in an imperious tone, I thought I recognized the voice. I managed to get a clear look at his face, and astonishment dumbfounded me. This Alawi Bey was none other than a new version of Shaykh Alish. I did not know what to do then: to speak to him or to slip away before he noticed my existence. I wondered whether it would please or annoy him to encounter me. In any case, I was not in a position to initiate anything. Then the force of circumstance quickly intervened. He wished to take a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, and his hand unintentionally struck me. As he turned toward me, our eyes met. He stared at my face for a moment, trying to refresh his memory. Then his lips spontaneously released a cry that stunned those present: "Ridwan!" Opening his arms wide, he gave me a long hug of delight, like a child who has made a big discovery. He kept repeating, "Ridwan, my friend, Ridwan." Before I could say anything, he grabbed my hand

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and led me to a table at the edge of the room, as if wishing to be alone with me to monopolize the joy of finding me. He clapped his hands to summon the garçon. "A bottle of champagne! " 'Just like that?" "Let me repay you some of my debt. Where have you been all this time? I looked everywhere for you, but suddenly you had disappeared. Now that I've found you, let me return your favor ten times over. " "I'm not sure whether I really did you a favor." I said that almost to myself, casting my confused eyes over every part of this being who had once been known as Shaykh Alish. The change affecting him could certainly not be termed development or transformation. It merited an entirely new label. The face was his, and the voice too, but the tone in which he spoke, the way he drank, the manner in which he caroused, the mind with which he thought, and the soul with which he felt—all these I observed for the first time. My scrutiny did, however, reveal something I had seen before: the edge of his razor. This time, partially obscured by his floppy silk handkerchief, it protruded from the breast pocket of his suit. He did not allow me to savor my astonished contemplation, for he raised his glass and said, "To Ridwan's health!" Lifting mine, I exclaimed, "To Alawi's health!" He downed his drink in a single gulp and then turned to tell me, "I can see that what you're really thirsting for is information about your new friend Alawi." "Naturally." Pointing to the shoeshine man, who was patrolling the establishment with his box, Alawi said, "I started like that." The more involved he got in our conversation, the quieter his voice became, as though he was offering a confession or revealing confidences. For three or four months he had carried around a shoeshine box. In the meantime he was learning to pick pockets, to gamble, to confront violence with bravado, and to care for bar girls. When he had accumulated some money, he discarded his box and long shirt. He bought a clean suit and became a gentleman. At the same time, his link to the prostitutes who needed his protection made him seem indispensable to them. Soon he realized that this was a comfortable occupation. The number of women seeking his hand and protection increased, and this information spread through various circles. The extraordinary feats people observed him perform with the razor also made them leery of angering him. His influence extended to most of the bars and saloons via their women, customers,

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and waiters. By this time, he was a regular at most of the places of entertainment, ordering whatever he wanted without anyone daring to object or to ask for payment. Indeed, he was the one who demanded donations and retainers from the proprietors in return for keeping the peace. At times he overstated his requests and progressed to threats and intimidation. Some owners submitted, and others sold their businesses to escape from him and destitution. This was the case with the previous proprietor of the Paradise Bar. . . . Such was Alawi and his life, which he recounted quickly and tersely. After that, he turned to ask me, "Now what's your opinion?" Anxiety over my response bridled my tongue. How could I offer any criticism when he was drinking and the razor was in his pocket? All the same, I replied gently, "You landed on earth to confront evil, if I remember correctly, and to contend with depravity...." "What did you say?" "Don't you remember that they threw you back to earth so you could contend with evil?" "It's strange I forgot that. My new life and vocation have absorbed me so completely I didn't realize why I had come back. . . ." "Haven't you encountered evil? Haven't you witnessed depravity?" "Where?" he asked as if lost or stumbling in the dark. I shot a glance at the three bottles he had emptied into his belly while we were sitting there. Carefully considering his condition, I detected no influence of the alcohol on his thinking. He was therefore saying exactly what he felt. The current had swept him along so totally that he had been oblivious even as to the direction he was heading. What a rout! He had shown no resolve or backbone in the fight. Shaykh Alish, along with his turban and rosary, had been annihilated by a delicate nudge from the shadow of depravity. Without being aware of what he was doing, he had raised the white flag of surrender, even before sensing the presence of an adversary or a battle. The man kept his head bowed for a long time. Then with a faint voice that rose from the depths of his soul, he observed, "Wealth, power, and pleasure are mine to command . . . but what a wretched creature I am." "Has your conscience begun to trouble you?" "My conscience? Now I know what that is. If you'll listen carefully . . . I'll tell you." "Yes. Tell me everything. I feel responsible. . . . " He interrrupted me by clapping loudly to summon a waiter. "Another bottle!" he shouted. The proprietor signaled the steward to pretend not to notice and to lend a deaf ear. Alawi clapped his hands a second and a third time

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without any response. He emitted a deafening scream that shook the room. Then the proprietor come over to ask him, "Alawi Bey, aren't three bottles of fine champagne enough? This is a lot!" "What's a lot are your two ears that can't hear my requests. I'll show you that one of them will suffice to hear me." In the wink of an eye, he whipped his razor from his breast pocket and launched it at the proprietor. Fortunately, I had anticipated my friend's moves and with all my force had shoved the proprietor out of the path of the blade. He saved himself, and the razor sank into the wood of his booth. The bar was in tumult, but from fear of Alawi, no one moved. Whether out of terror or an overactive imagination, those present seemed nailed to their seats. Alawi rose, walked slowly and grandly to the booth, and plucked his glittering blade from it. Folding his razor, he thrust it behind his handkerchief. He was returning to our table, but I took his arm and gently requested that we leave the bar to continue our conversation in the fresh air of the street. He yielded out of respect for me and left. With suppressed anger, he whispered, "No one can expel me by force from this paradise." "By force, no . . . you left of your own free will," I replied in a flattering and ingratiating tone, since I was fearful of his outbursts and hoped to calm his anger. When we were strolling down the street, I asked him to proceed with his tale and to tell me what he had resolved to. Glancing at a gold wristwatch, he replied, "I can't now. Tomorrow if you want. . . . We'll meet in the same place." "This same bar? . . . Is that possible after what took place?" "What? . . . This happens every day!" 6—F I was not able to meet him at the appointed hour, because I was invited to the wedding of a relative in the country. I journeyed there and stayed a few days, during which time I saw something amazing: the tomb of Shaykh Alish had become a shrine that hundreds of people from neighboring villages visited. On market days they brought candles and tokens honoring various religious pledges. They acclaimed his numerous miracles in freeing people from disease and in answering their needs. I observed a woman hold her ailing child up to the window of the mausoleum so he might receive a blessing by touching the metal. From the depths of her heart, she cried out, "Shaykh Alish! Saint of God, inhabitant of paradise! One glance. . . . Reach out. . . . One glance. . . . Reach out!"

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I heard a man shake the door of the mausoleum, shouting, "Shaykh Alish! O you with the shaven h e a d . . . take my hand and cure my headache." I observed that and heard it repeatedly from many different mouths. I asked myself, "Who could tell these hopeful, devout throngs that Shaykh Alish is to be found exclusively on Imad al-Din Street and that the person they think a saint of God with a shaven head is nothing but a pimp who now uses his razor to shave noses and ears from other people's heads?" If I had said that to them, they would have stoned me and yelled: "Kill the infidel! Destroy the infidel!" The most amazing aspect of the matter was that many of these invalids who visited the tomb really were cured. Some of my relatives whose word I trust assured me of that. I thought about this a little, and my amazement left me. These people were the ones curing themselves, without realizing it. Men do not care to believe in the powers they possess hidden deep inside themselves. Their imaginations inevitably invent an external force to which they can attribute the miracles that they themselves perform. I tried to imagine the state of Shaykh Alish—or Alawi Bey—if I told him about these miracles that flowed from the apertures of his mausoleum to crowds of people . . . while he was awash in alcohol in bars and taverns. . . . But I thought that I had better refrain from telling him and maintain a total silence about this, out of sympathy for the worshippers' pocketbooks. If Alawi found out, he would go to the village and capitalize on this mine that would never be depleted. The sin to which I had introduced him was bad enough. It still weighed on my conscience that I had prodded him to follow the road of perdition that first night. I should not goad him toward any new sins. I would allow his name to remain a source of compassionate blessing for mankind, while his body proceeded toward hell. I returned to Cairo and went that evening to the Paradise Bar. The proprietor welcomed me and thanked me for my attitude and intervention the night when Alawi had gone wild and thrown the razor. He told me that he had intended to inform the police, taking a chance and exposing himself to Alawi's revenge. He knew that Alawi, who had assistants too, would not leave him in peace if he informed the police. Alawi would wreak vengeance even after years in prison, if he were imprisoned. But the proprietor had chosen to restrain himself and to overlook the incident, because he had known Alawi for some time and realized that Alawi was easily angered and quickly calmed. It was best to remain on good terms with a man like that. He had, however, observed a bizarre change in Alawi over the last few

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weeks. H e was n o t the only o n e to notice it. T h e bar girls, who were especially sensitive to Alawi's state of mind during this period, had made a point of asking whether Alawi had spoken to anyone after that night. The proprietor told me h e was astonished that Alawi had not set foot in that tavern since he left with me. I tried in vain thereafter to locate Alawi. I searched for him in all the bars and cabarets. Finally o n e of the servants at the bar told me he had once noticed a person resembling Alawi in f r o n t of a coffeehouse, which h e described for me, in the Sayyida Zaynab district. I went to that coffeehouse and discovered Alawi sitting by himself, staring at nothing in particular. I approached him, b u t he did n o t notice me until I placed a h a n d on his shoulder. H e came to with a jolt. Looking at me, h e asked, 'You? What brings you here?" "What about you? Why are you here?" "Sit down," h e said, placing a chair for me beside him. H e summ o n e d the waiter and ordered a cup of coffee for me. After looking down for a long time, he raised his head and remarked almost in a whisper, "I must tell you. . . . " "Everything in your soul." "Yes. I won't hide anything about myself f r o m you. . . . I ' m in love. When I say this, you should realize that an awesome milestone has been reached. . . . I, who of all m e n have been most linked to and most knowledgeable about women, who more than most m e n has enjoyed and controlled all types of desirable and beautiful women. . . . What has befallen m e has transformed my existence, planting in my heart emotions that I experience for the first time. T h e girl is someo n e you would be amazed to think of as inspiring love, particularly in a man like me. She's small and skinny, with a pale complexion and n o makeup. She knows nothing about the arts of seduction and wears only simple, basic clothing. She's a teacher in a girl's primary school in this district. You might well ask, 'How did you meet her?' I reply that it was by chance. She was in a cinema with some of h e r pupils watching a cartoon feature. When the film was over and she was leaving with the children, a boorish young man blocked her way and made disgusting advances, which she did n o t know how to evade. I intervened and rescued her. T h e n I respectfully escorted h e r and the children back to her school in perfect safety. She thanked m e with a voice I shall never forget. It made as great an impression on my soul as the drops of dew that eventually split a rock. I had never heard a voice so warm, gentle, and modest, not even a m o n g the angels of paradise. From that moment, I've felt a n e e d for this voice as great as the desert's for rain. I have been coming every day to wait for the times

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she enters and leaves the school, so I can meet her and wish h e r a good day, trying to give her the impression that I reside in this district. I leave, having filled my heart with her voice. I survive on this m a n n a for a few hours until I feel the n e e d for h e r voice again. This is my entire occupation now, an all-engrossing preoccupation. In fact, she's the light that has illuminated the farther reaches of my soul, encouraging m e to grope a r o u n d its gloomy antechambers in order to learn what good and evil reside there, what virtue and depravity, what treasures and serpents. O h . . . paradise isn't there in the heavens. It's n o t on Imad al-Din Street. It's here in the heart! Perhaps that's where hell is too. For days, I've lived in hopes of marrying her. Without this lamp I can see nothing and discern nothing. I can't even distinguish fair f r o m foul. Without this hope, I would c o n f r o n t an abyss vaster than the m o u t h of hell. I've managed to lengthen my conversations with her and have discovered that she's betrothed to a cousin, who is also a teacher, although in a secondary school. From her comments and thinking, I have gleaned ideas about a pure life, noble sentiments, and lofty ideals. H e r o n e concern in life is to turn out model specimens of refined humanity. She speaks of her fiancé as an assistant in her mission. I feel insignificant and despicable when I listen to h e r . . . like a filthy fly hovering over a pasteurized drink or sacred silk. What should I do, then? Before m e stretch two paths. I can attack and attempt to win her, n o matter the c o s t . . . . I might succeed, since she holds n o suspicions concerning m e and knows nothing about me. I have gathered f r o m her comments that she trusts me a bit and feels comfortable with me. It would not be difficult for me to develop this into affection and inclination, and perhaps . . . love. Or, I could rescue her f r o m me and allow her to proceed along her righteous path with h e r model fiancé, h e r pure life, and h e r sound goals. If I intervene in h e r life, I may wreck and destroy it, since I ' m nothing but an affliction for her. What offense has this woman of a pure past and smiling f u t u r e committed that she should discover o n e morning, s u r r o u n d e d by her peers, colleagues, pupils, and superiors, that she has married nothing b u t a hoodlum, whose specialty is shaking down prostitutes and cabarets? If I leave her alone and deprive myself of her, I will have wrecked and destroyed my life. What should I do? I ' m really perplexed. I throw myself down in this coffeehouse every day after meeting her and o p e n the d o o r in my soul to this struggle: Should I advance or withdraw?" He bowed his head and sank into a prolonged silence. I did n o t wish to speak first and kept still. I toyed with the handle of the coffee cup until he finally raised his h e a d and repeated, "Shall I advance or withdraw?"

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I could only say, "Here is the great battle between good and evil. You must now wade into it." «—p Some days passed without my seeing Alawi, for he had disappeared from every known haunt. Then I finally received a letter from the remotest parts of Upper Egypt. It was signed by Shaykh Aliwa, who informed me that he had opened a Qur'anic primary school in that distant region, which I had mentioned more than once during my conversations with Alawi in the bar. He had dedicated himself to instruction of the new generation of impoverished farm children. He would teach them the difference between good and evil, virtue and depravity. The razor had returned to shaving the hair of his head, as a token of asceticism. The turban and rosary had reappeared to assist informed piety, true godliness, useful work, and praiseworthy toil. The lamp that had illuminated his heart must remain lifted high above any defilement. He had left it on its pure path and had pledged to follow its example by pursuing a comparable course. He would be satisfied by its glimmering rays, like those from a distant star. . . . That was the end of the battle. «—• My jovial friend concluded his tale by inquiring, "Now that you've heard the story of the man who was called Shaykh Alish, Alawi Bey, and Shaykh Aliwa, what's your verdict on him?" While sipping the coffee that followed the tasty meal to which he had treated me, I answered, "Let's leave the verdict on him to the heavenly angels. This time he'll ascend with a brimming folder, which will warrant a detailed examination and a lengthy reckoning before they issue their judgment as to his ultimate admission or everlasting expulsion from paradise."

Note 1. Cf. Qur'an 13:26, "This world, compared to the world to come, is insignificant enjoyment."

The World's a Stage

F

OR THOSE WHO BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION, THE WORLD REALLY

is a stage. According to this theory, the number of souls is finite, like the limited number of actors in a repertory company. Change comes through the infinitely and endlessly varied roles that are performed in this grandiose theatrical production of ours. If we tentatively accept this claim of reincarnation, we can sketch the resulting world in a way that merits reflection. It is easy to imagine souls making their entrances onto the stage of the world and exiting from it, as if this were an actual theater. Removed from this earth with its sun and moon, there would be a concealed location where we can picture an angel, who acts as "regisseur" or stage manager, giving cues to the "projector" lights that rule this stage . . . to the sun for its golden rays to dominate the globe first and then for the moon's pale silver ones. There is no harm in envisaging the angel's daily routine here as he studies the tablet on which are inscribed the roles and fates of the actors. He summons the thousands of souls who are ready to appear on stage and receives back the thousands of exiting ones. There is also no harm in pushing our inspiration further and allowing it to invent the story of one of these returning spirits.

Astonished and confused, as though suddenly roused from a profound slumber, the soul whose adventures we narrate makes his appearance after exiting from the earth. He rambles on in this manner: "They say I died! Am I really dead now? My wife is shattered by her

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hideous grief. She screams that I'm dying, that I'm dead. Tell me, gentlemen, am I actually dead?" Absorbed in his work, keeping his eyes trained on the tablet in front of him and the ledger before him, not glancing toward this spirit, the angel merely shakes his head and mutters to himself, "You're all like this. You don't want to believe you've died. What can I do for you? I haven't time to convince you or to offer proofs and evidence to your honors. Come here, you. . . . What role did you play on earth this time?" "I was a physician. I had a wife. Oh . . . my wife is surely dying of grief for me now. The poor dear!" That doctor, or his spirit, forgets his surroundings as he starts to remember in minute detail the life they assure him has ended. He was a surgeon who graduated from medical school with top honors. Life had smiled on him. He was one of the minority who always achieve their hearts' desires. He was good looking, pleasant company, the object of interested glances from every female nurse or student. Yet he believed that there was one woman who would most certainly captivate him totally: heart, mind, and body. She would inevitably show up one day. He wanted her, and there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that he would win her, for fate had trained him to expect that he would obtain everything he desired. He had yearned for success in his profession and had achieved that. He had craved money and prosperity and had gained these from his career and from a family inheritance. Next on his wish list was meeting a wife to whom he would dedicate his life, with all its exertions and achievements. He discovered this ideal mate one day when a patient came in for an appendectomy. The moment he set eyes on her, he felt s t i r r e d . . . . Is it true that spirits really can commune directly? How was it that their souls communicated at first sight? It was impossible for him to consider performing the operation himself—opening her body with his knife. His heart could not tolerate that. He apologized to her and to her family, using various excuses, and referred her to another surgeon, who he claimed was more expert. She did not realize the significance of this refusal until the day he unburdened his heart to her: "I was created to be your husband, not your surgeon." This spouse became the most important thing in his life. No two creatures ever agreed, blended, and merged to form a single being so totally as that couple. One day his wife said to him, "Amazing! Is the pain in my finger real or imaginary? How has the physical discomfort leapt from yours to mine like this, darling?" He replied, "What's really remarkable is that you should voice thoughts exactly like mine. The day you came to ask me to slice into

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your body, I felt the scalpel cutting through my flesh. As your surgeon, I would not have been given an anesthetic, unlike you. Think of me performing an operation on myself without being anesthetized, while you—the actual patient—felt no pain." This happy couple lived together for years, all of them delightful. They did not have any children, but that did not detract from their mutual devotion. Indeed they developed an antipathy for children to prevent any cloud of regret from casting a shadow on their love. They were in harmony, each completing and complementing the other, with no need for a third. Then the ill-omened day arrived. As usual, he rose early to perform an operation. Sensing that it was a dangerous day, his wife, like an astronomical instrument predicting an eclipse of the sun, prophesied a disaster. She begged him to stay home with her that one day, but he refused to neglect his duties. His patients were waiting for him. She feigned an illness, and he indulged and humored her until he gracefully discovered the deception. After giving her a lengthy kiss, he escaped from the arms entwined around his neck, leaving her behind him in the frozen pose of a statue. By the time he returned at noon, the poison was already at work in his body. His surgical gloves had ripped during an operation, and the infection had spread into his bloodstream through a cut on his finger. In an attempt to save his life, professors of medicine and celebrated scientific authorities gathered around his bed. Standing behind them, his wife died and lived anew with each breath that her beloved spouse took. But the time had come to end his life's role with this scene, and he slipped from his body the way an actor slips out of a costume. Taking his last breath, conscious though he was of his wife's suppressed groans, the glint of her stream of tears, her shaky but patient stance, and her painful attempt at a smile, he imagined that he saw reality indistinctly in the darkness beyond the threshold of life. Yes, the truth was that life is not reality. He had the sensation an actor does, when after living a role and forgetting his personal concerns, after bringing the audience to tears and weeping himself, he finishes the final scene. He realizes then that the curtain is falling, turns, and glimpses people and props in the darkness backstage. He relaxes and raises a hand to wipe away his tears before stumbling off the stage, fearful of his companions' mockery or of his own. Yet the spectators' tears remind him of his recent ones and encourage him to cling to his role, since emotions have a reality of their own. In exacdy this manner, the expiring physician thought he should smile at his bereaved wife and whisper to her that the whole affair was a fiction and a fraud. But how could all their love have been fraudulent? No matter what happened after this life or play, the tears themselves merited respect. Their love was too exalted for anyone to mock. This

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love was a reality. What bound him to his wife could not be shed with the costume, not even if all the angels in heaven insisted. Thus the dead soul left earth's stage and slipped out of the body that had been his costume. He was a naked spirit when he reached the angelic stage manager but felt no major difference between his earthly state of only a few moments prior and his current condition. Where was that death they had been discussing? What change had he suffered? Here he was, still madly in love with his wife, his sole hope being to meet her. He could not, because he was dead, or so they said. Then he saw her and her despair. He wanted to stretch his hand out to her, to converse with her and comfort her, but his voice would not carry to her, and his hand did not obey his will. He had no physical limbs at present to execute his commands. His body seemed a separate entity that he could no more control than if afflicted by a nightmare back in bed on earth. Now he was a will floating in air with no body to command, a consciousness drifting in space with no effect on anyone else. Except for this, he was still himself. Nothing had changed. Who could convince him that this was death? Perhaps it was a profound sleep, a fleeting dream, or a short-lived nightmare. He turned once more to tell the angel, who was hard at work: "I don't feel dead." The angel looked at him askance and replied, "Whatever you want." "I want to return to my wife." "Tell that to Azrael, if you please." "Azrael! Are you joking?" The exasperated angel retorted impatiently, "I don't have time to jest, sir. Oh! If only Azrael knew! There's an angel who is never inconvenienced by a complaint about his countless deeds. He just grabs a bunch of souls every day and immediately washes his hands of them and relaxes. I'm obliged to put up with his souls, to endure their stupidities, and to listen to their foolish prattling. My good sir, didn't Azrael seize hold of you? How can you expect me to send you back to your wife? If I returned every spirit my colleague seizes, what point would there be to capturing souls?" "Personally, I don't see any point to it. I was enjoying total bliss with my wife. Why should you interfere and separate two lovers?" "My good sir, we can't leave you in this role—this body, I mean— as you want and hope, because we require your spirit for another job." "Another job?" "Naturally. . . you'll need to assume another body in order to play another role. Do you suppose this was your first or last part? You

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have previously inhabited hundreds of other bodies and played hundreds of other roles." "Me? I've been something besides a loving husband and a surgeon in * * * *." The angel smiled sarcastically and peevishly, deploring the ignorance of the spirit. Silently he began to leaf through his giant ledger. Stopping at a page, he looked over it for a moment and then said, "Listen, mister: Before being a married physician, you were a drunken thief who killed a dancer in a nightclub to steal her jewelry and then died on the gallows." "Me?" "Wait. Prior to that you were an ordinary soldier killed in battle, a child who died of diphtheria, a woman who passed away in childbirth, a religious man who lived to an advanced age, a prince who was poisoned, an Indian sorcerer bitten by a viper, a young woman who killed herself for love . . . " "Stop. Stop! I'm not crazy enough to believe nonsense like this. I'm a surgeon. I have a wife whom I love. If I don't go to her, she will certainly catch up with me. I will never believe I was just playing a role." The angel smiled calmly at him and replied, "You always say exactly the same thing—you and the others. You can't understand that it was only playacting." "Playacting? Her love for me and mine for her? . . . Our wedded life that made any other form of existence seem inconceivable? No. No!" "You remain under the influence of your p a r t . . . till you go to the sea to wash off that face paint and to wipe away your makeup. Only then will you be ready to take on a new role." The angel gestured to one of his numerous assistants. Understanding the significance of the signal, the creature stepped forward to lead the doctor's spirit away but, stopping to look toward the entry's threshold, reported to his boss, "Azrael has sent us a woman's soul." He had scarcely finished speaking when the wife's spirit appeared at the doorway, and no sooner had the surgeon's spirit seen his wife's than he shouted gleefully, "Didn't I tell you she would certainly follow me?" The two lovers darted toward each other. The wife said, "Oh, my darling husband, I couldn't stay on there after you departed. It was an atrocious night. I found myself alone without you. I called to you in the darkness. By dawn I could not restrain myself anymore. My nerves were shattered. So I wolfed down all the pills I could find, hoping to attain everlasting sleep, eternal repose, or to catch up with

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you. Now my d r e a m has come true. I've f o u n d you. How are you? Tell me: So far as I can see, you're the same. How could they have told m e you had died? I believe I'm n o t dead either. I was yearning for death. When they called the doctor and an ambulance after I took the pills, I sensed that they were whispering the word 'death,' but where is death? Where is that death they mentioned?" T h e angel's patience was exhausted. H e burst out: "Phooey! May God curse this job!" Blinded by joy to everything except each other, the two spirits started chattering together like schoolchildren, paying n o attention to what went on a r o u n d them. T h e angel realized that there would be n o e n d to their discussions if they were left undisturbed. So he signaled to his assistant to lead them away to wash off the traces of their roles in the Sea of Forgetfulness. T h e assistant h e a d e d toward them to escort them away, but they fled skittishly f r o m him. Turning toward the angel, they shouted, "Do you want to separate us here too?" "That's necessary." "We beg you . . . please let us stay together: forever, everywhere, at every time, in every world. What difficulty would that cause you, gracious angel?" "It might complicate our work," he said in a voice that sounded conciliatory. So the couple urged him: "We beg you. Someone as resourceful as you will never be at a loss for a stratagem. Keep us together always. Never separate us." "I'll see. I'll see.. . . Perhaps I can arrange it for you. But first of all go bathe in the sea." "Thank you," the two souls said warmly and joyfully. They submissively set off at once with the assistant to the Sea of Forgetfulness. T h e r e they f o u n d a prodigious body of water with a beautiful shoreline, reminiscent of famous beach resorts. T h e water was teeming with swimming spirits. This sight enchanted them, and they rushed laughing toward the sea, as happy together as they had been on earth. Whispering endearing names to each other, they leapt into the water. A white wave, like a soapy spray, washed over them. T h e n they sensed that something was slowly a n d gradually ebbing away. Each of t h e m asked over and over again in amazement: "Who am I? W h o is the person beside me?" T h e bathers who left the sea did so in compliance with orders f r o m the angel's assistants. T h e couple stayed in the water until the aide assigned to them gestured for them. T h e n they emerged f r o m the sea as blank slates without a single trace or letter remaining f r o m their past lives. T h e assistant

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brought them back to the angel. It was time for them to appear before him to receive their new parts. The angel asked, "Do you know who you were and where you have been? Do you know the person beside you?" Each shook his head: no. Then the angel, lifting his giant ledger, remarked as if to himself, "All the same, I promised to unite you once more in suitable roles. So you can be an athletic aviator . . . and you a romantic young woman. Assistant, toss them back onto the stage called earth." «—• Everything was set for him to become a pilot. He appeared on earth, the child of a middle-class family with sound values. In his youth, he was wild about sports. As he matured and attended different schools, he developed various inclinations and drives, some in conflict with others. In spite of his many other interests, circumstances ultimately guided him to flying. He studied it and then joined an air transport company. She grew up to be imaginative and temperamental, pampered and petted, in a prosperous family with permissive standards. The father was preoccupied with himself and his diversions, while the mother was naive and weak-willed. The girl was crazy about dancing and boisterous modern life. He belonged to one social echelon and she to another. It was not easy to bring them together, for he did not frequent the society she did. All the same, it was destined that they should meet, and so it happened. He was piloting an airplane one day, and the small door separating his cabin from the passenger compartment chanced to be open. He noticed a young woman reading a magazine in one of the seats. The moment he saw her, he trembled, and the whole airplane and all its occupants shook too, for he suffered a momentary loss of concentration. The passengers felt uneasy, and the girl raised her long lashes. His eyes met hers. Astonished by these events, the radio operator glanced at the pilot who sat next to him, only to discover that the man was shouting over the roar of the engines: "I know her! Where have I seen her? When did I see her?" Once he landed the aircraft at their destination, he j u m p e d from the plane and followed the girl. He accosted her as if he already knew her, but she did not scold him for taking this liberty and was not annoyed with him. On the contrary, she felt relieved, happy, and secretly a little reassured by this young man.

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He began with fervent sincerity, "I apologize for being reduced to repeating the line young fellows use today: 'Where have I seen you before?' You have my word for it that I'm not just using this question as an excuse to speak to you. When I caught sight of you, I sensed at once that I know you and have seen you somewhere. Wait. Could we have met once before . . . in a sea?" Smiling, she replied, "It's possible . . . at one of the beach resorts." " P e r h a p s . . . . I'm afraid the plane's lurching disturbed you when I trembled. . . . " "No . . . it's just that when a plane lands I usually get a headache. But I have something I take for it." "One pill should be enough." Suddenly an alarmed expression appeared on the young woman's face. She whispered, "Pills! I beg you. Don't mention that word. I despise nothing so much as pills. Perhaps you'll think me crazy, but ever since I was a child, the sight of pills has been enough to terrify me. Don't hold it against me. There are things about us we're unable to explain." "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I certainly didn't mean to upset you." "I know. It's not your fault. This is simply one of my quirks for which there's no justification. Doesn't it happen at times to many people? Don't you ever find yourself hating something for no reason at all?" 'Yes, yes. I too, when young, would become faint if anyone mentioned surgery in my presence. My family attempted in vain to discover the cause of that. But this condition disappeared as I grew older. Afterwards the word didn't have any abnormal effect on me." "You see . . . we're alike in many ways." "That's my good fortune."

From this first conversation, they felt that something was drawing them together, and it was not long before they were married. But as time passed, each of them realized that their paths were diverging. He would come home from work, tired, only to find the house vibrating with the sounds of the rumba, fox trot, or hokey-pokey. He would remonstrate with her gently: "Isn't it enough that I'm forced to listen to throbbing engines all day long?" She would reply peevishly, "Engines? That's all you know about. You're not romantic." When these differences in their interests became pronounced, he indulged himself in the hope that motherhood might curb her

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frivolity and so fathered two beautiful children for her. But maternity did not triumph over temperament. On the contrary, her character vanquished motherhood. The worthy husband soon discovered that his wife's evenings were absorbed by parties and soirees. Matters progressed as preordained until one day the husband found his wife entertaining a young man he did not know. She claimed that this was a childhood buddy, a veritable foster brother. The couple had a quarrel, which the pilot allowed to end peacefully, out of consideration for the children. Yet he realized then that this woman was the cause of all his suffferings in life. The nights that followed were rosy with sensual pleasures for the flirtatious wife but white from insomnia and black from worry for the unfortunate husband. He no longer performed well on the job—due to his lack of sleep and deteriorating health. He heard ominous rumors at the firm, where people were grumbling about him. There were whispered comments about his wife's conduct that made his noble brow clammy. Worries tormented his soul, and doubts gnawed at his heart. One night he surprised her in the embrace of a young fellow. She was scared and stammered that this was her dance instructor, who was teaching her a new step. The husband went berserk, got his revolver, and fired a fatal shot that felled her. The alleged dance instructor did a fox trot leap down the steps and fled like a fox escaping from a chicken coop. Hearing the shot, neighbors screamed. A policeman approached, blowing his whistle. Coming to his senses, the husband realized the extent of the scandal he had created, pumped another bullet into his head, and fell down dead. Raising his eyes from his weighty ledger, the angel noticed that two quarreling spirits were entering his work place. One was lambasting the other: "Fool! I swear you're a fool! You shoot me for such a trivial reason? How narrow-minded you are, my dunce of a husband. But what should one expect from a man like you? All your life you've been a dunce!" "Hush, woman! There's no call for impudence! But it's not your fault. The mistake was mine. I was certainly out of my mind to kill both of us at the same time. What's the use? What have I accomplished? You're still with me here. What a disaster! Oh, what a calamity!" The angel felt obliged to intervene. He yelled at them to be quiet out of respect for their location. Then the husband—or to be more precise, his spirit—went up to the angel and begged vehemently, "Heavenly angels! Infernal demons! Afreets of the jinn! Separate me from this woman!"

Satan Triumphs

S

OME PEOPLE BEGAN WORSHIPING A TREE. A PIOUS MAN, WHO

believed devoutly in God, heard about this. Picking up an axe, he set off to chop down the tree. When he approached it, the devil appeared between the man and the tree and shouted, "Stay where you are, man. Why do you want to cut down this tree?" "Because it's leading the people astray." "Why should you worry about them? Let them go astray." "How can I? It's my duty to guide them." "It's your duty to grant people the freedom to do what they want." 'They're not free . . . not while they're listening to Satan's whispered suggestions." "Do you want them to listen to your voice instead?" "I want them to listen to God's voice." "I won't allow you to cut down this tree." "I must cut it down." Satan grabbed the man by the throat, and the ascetic caught hold of Satan's horn. They wrestled with each other for a long time until the struggle concluded with the pious man's victory. The ascetic threw Satan to the ground, sat on his chest, and taunted him: "Now you see my strength." The defeated devil complained in a broken voice, "I didn't think you were this powerful. Let me go. You can do whatever you want." The ascetic released Satan, but the effort he had expended in the fight had left him exhausted. So he went back to his cell to rest for the night.

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The following day he took his axe and went off to chop down the tree. Jumping out from behind it, Satan shouted, "Have you come back today to cut it down?" "I've told you: I must do this." "Do you think you'll be able to beat me again today?" "I will continue to battle with you to advance the cause of truth." "Then show me how strong you are." Satan took him by the neck and the ascetic grabbed the devil by the horn. They wrestled and fought until finally Satan fell at the feet of the man, who plopped himself on the devil's chest and asked, "What do you say about my strength now?" "It certainly is amazing," Satan replied in a troubled, trembling voice. "Let me go and do whatever you want." Releasing the devil, the ascetic returned to his cell and stretched out, for he was weary and exhausted. The next morning he took his axe and went to the tree. Satan appeared to him and shouted, "Won't you give up, man?" "Never! This evil must be eradicated." "Do you think I'll let you?" "If you try to stop me, I'll defeat you." Satan thought about this for a while and realized that he would never triumph over this man by physical combat, for nothing is more powerful than a person fighting for principle or belief. The only way Satan would be able to defeat him would be by subterfuge. Pretending to befriend the ascetic, Satan advised him in a sympathetic tone, "Do you know why I don't want you to cut down this tree? I oppose that only because of my compassion and concern for you. If you chop it down, you'll expose yourself to the wrath of the people who worship it. Why should you bring down such misfortunes upon yourself? Leave it alone, and I'll give you two gold coins each day. Use them to defray your expenses, and you can live in peace, comfort, and security." "Two gold coins?" 'Yes. Every day. You'll find them under your pillow." The ascetic bowed his head and asked, "Who will guarantee that you'll be true to your word?" "I pledge it to you. You'll see that I keep my word." "I'll give you a try." 'Yes. Try me." "It's a deal." Satan extended his hand to the man, and they sealed their pact with a handshake. The ascetic returned to his cell. When he woke each morning, he thrust his hand under the pillow and pulled out

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two gold coins. But one day, a month later, his hand found nothing under the pillow. Satan had cut off the allowance of gold, and the ascetic was furious. He rose, picked up his axe, and went to chop down the tree. Satan confronted him on the way and shouted, "Stay where you are! Where do you think you're going?" "To the tree . . . to chop it down." Satan scoffed bitterly, 'You'll cut it down, because I cut off your gold." "No. I'll do it to destroy a temptation to sin and to light a torch for the people's guidance." "You?" "Are you making fun of me, accursed one?" "Excuse me . . . you look funny. That's all." "Are you the one to talk, you wily liar?" The ascetic pounced on Satan and grabbed his horn. They wrestled for a time, and the battle ended with the ascetic under Satan's hoof. Cocky and arrogant, the victorious devil straddled the man's chest and asked, "Fellow, where's your strength now?" A cry like a death rattle emerged from the throat of the vanquished ascetic, who said, "Tell me: How were you able to defeat me, Satan?" The devil replied, "When you were angry for God's sake, you defeated me. When you were angry for your own sake, I won. When you fought for your beliefs, you beat me. When you fought for yourself, I triumphed."

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N THE LIFE OF EACH MAN THERE COMES A MOMENT WHEN HE suddenly feels like a lid without a dish. Woe to anyone who awakens to this feeling only when past his prime, for such a man will drop everything, obsessed by this tyrannical thought: the search for his other half. The hero of this story was such a man. A diligent and ambitious person, an accomplished engineering graduate, he had studied first in Egypt and then abroad and had always stood out among his contemporaries. Work had been his entire life, and his eyes had been trained exclusively on future successes. In fact, he had made such rapid progress that he had attained the rank of director of works. Till almost thirty-five he had been consumed by his engineering career, but then, all at once, he was surprised by this critical moment. T h e lid, who had been concerned entirely with his own survival as he sped across the earth, smashed against that amazing moment as dramatically as if it had been a wall. After coming to an abrupt halt, he whirled around a few times and fell on his back. His belly reverberated with a suppressed moan, as if whispering, "You're nothing but a lid!" When the engineer eventually returned to his senses, there was only one thought in his head: marriage. His friends were astonished by this word's appearance in his mouth, for they had never heard him utter it before. What had happened? They themselves had frequently broached the subject with him, only to encounter a discouraging disinterest on his part. Whenever expressions like "wife," "the other half," or "life partner" had been used in his presence, his response had made it clear that he did not think this topic concerned him. It was not one he understood.

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He would occasionally smile in amazement at the extravagant descriptions and hyperboles men employed for marriage. He had a clear and distinct feeling that he was complete the way he was, that he truly was a unit—not a half, a third, or any other fraction of one. Who could convince him, an engineer who had studied arithmetic, algebra, and higher mathematics, that he was less than a unit, that he was only a half, and that there existed, somewhere, another half without whom he would never be whole? Who had coined this question of human arithmetic and for what reason? For whose b e n e f i t ? . . . No, no . . . he did not think, for his part, that nature was so enamored of mathematics that it would transform men and women into numbers and fractions to be added and subtracted. He had said such things in the past, but now he was telling his friends, "You're right. Life is arithmetic. Human existence is a mathematical problem. I'm a fraction. I am a half. Please add me to the other half." There remained a giant dilemma: how to discover that missing half. Should he leave the matter to chance or was it his duty to take the initiative? Did fate write in chalk on the blackboard of existence, adding halves to each other or was it up to the divided number to escape from the fingers and chalk of fate in order to march rapidly across the blackboard in search of the remainder? For days on end, the engineer bombarded married acquaintances with the same question: "How did you meet your wife?" Their answers varied. Some said, "I saw her during a soirée at the home of relatives or friends." Others replied, "I found her at a charity benefit, liked her, and made inquiries about her." Still others mentioned, "She was at the beach. I followed her and learned her address that way." Some who were uncomfortable with modern methods, a minority in this era, believed in destiny or luck of the draw and whispered to him, "By God, Umm Shalabi, the matchmaker, is a blessing." Although perplexed by the diversity of these strategies, old and new, the engineer did not reject or refuse any of them out of hand. Indeed, he embraced all of them. He would not hesitate to pursue any path that might lead him to his other half. With his eyes opened wide, he prowled soirées, city streets, the river's banks, and the markets, but alas this woman was too short and that one too tall. The first had a nose he found objectionable and the second an unappealing mouth. Even if he overlooked external appearances, who would reveal the woman's inner qualities to him? He enlisted all of his friends and their wives to help him in the hunt, since he had no relatives in Cairo. His kin were country folk and not the sort of people who

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would understand what he was looking for in a woman. Moreover, his tie to them was not close enough to give them the right to interfere in his affairs, since they were only distantly related. His own parents had died shortly after his graduation from university. So he was dependent on his acquaintances, and most of them were uncertain whether to take him seriously now. Their assistance was usually minimal and transitory. The lack of enthusiasm and resolve characterizing people around him was magnified when they noticed him hesitate to select a bride, fail to reach a decision, and spurn, on various pretexts, every girl they offered him. Yet, in truth, he was not stubbornly looking for excuses. His mind had conjured up a picture of a woman with a complete set of characteristics and traits and had led him to believe that the woman portrayed was his missing half, for whom no substitute was acceptable. He did not wish to select anyone who did not correspond to the model in his head. For a long time his quest was in vain, and his effort for naught. O n e evening, as he sat looking up at the sky despairingly, he said, "Fate, I'm exhausted. The decision is up to you now. I'll close my eyes and stretch out my hand. Bring forward any woman you want." First thing the next morning he sent for the matchmaker Umm Shalabi. Yes.. . why not? Since he had abandoned his ideal models and images (resigning himself to whatever destiny had inscribed for him and surrendering control for fate to write on the board whatever it wished) what point was there in considering an alternative to her? Was Umm Shalabi not a representative or instrument of fate? Who could say? Perhaps she was the piece of chalk in its hand, since there was no other way for fate to impose its heavenly mandate in an affair like this. The chalk made its appearance in the form of an enormous, heavy, rotund, corpulent woman, reminiscent of an elephant. Would a bulk less massive than hers fill the hand of destiny or suit its fingers? The engineer bridegroom presented his request and described the object of his desires as best he could. The woman departed. Days vanished before she finally reappeared, bringing with her a large handkerchief—concealing photographs of maidens of every description— and a ledger with the names of their families. He was overwhelmed by a new perplexity. How could he choose and whom should he select? The matchmaker confided to him that there was a girl who would be an ideal match for him, but that—what a pity—a fine suitor, one not easily rejected, had stepped forward to ask for her. "A match for me? Where's her picture?" The engineer immediately assumed that this girl was his mate, his missing half, and his dream, and that it was his duty to snatch her away from his rival. Where was her photograph? The matchmaker told him that the family

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had categorically refused to provide a portrait of the girl, who was exceptionally beautiful. The engineer dug in his heels and shouted, "I must see a photo!" The matchmaker reflected for a time and then cast him a sly look, since a person of her ilk can always dream up some stratagem. She had noticed a picture of the girl on the wall of their parlor. She would visit the family to tell them about him and, while their attention was distracted, lift the picture from the wall to bring to him. She rose immediately and departed, leaving the engineer prey to the feeling that this was the woman, the very one, and that he had finally found her. What secret reason was there for this feeling? Could it have been the mystery surrounding her? Although he had never seen her, an inner voice began to ask: What was she like? Would he win her hand? Confident that the photograph would match the image in his mind, he brooded about this, all evening long. As night fell and he prepared to retire to bed, he discovered that sleep was impossible for him. Rising, he turned on the small electric light at the head of his bed and found a book to read in order to calm his rebellious nerves. His eyes fell on a page that recounted an old story about a man from Sind. He had also been searching for the woman of his dreams. His had been an agonizing and fruitless quest until someone advised him, "Don't despair. Keep on looking for a mate, even as far as China." Without delay, the man set off by sea for China. The ship foundered in the middle of the ocean, and he, along with a few others, survived by clinging to a plank from the vessel. They landed they knew not where and went for several days without finding anything to eat. When they were at the brink of starvation, one of them said to another, "Come. Let's make a pact with God to forswear something for His sake. Then perhaps He will have pity on us and save us from this calamity." One said, "I'll fast two months every year." Another offered, "I'll pray two prostrations every hour." It went on in this manner until everyone except the man in search of a bride had made some pledge. Then they told him, "Say something!" At his wits' end, all he managed to blurt out was, "I'll never eat elephant meat." They shouted at him: 'Jesting at a time like this!" He replied, "By God, I didn't mean to jest. Ever since you began, I've been trying to think of something to offer God, and that was all I came up with." A few moments later, one of them suggested, "Why don't we scout around, going in different directions to look for food. Whoever

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finds something will inform the others, and we'll all meet back here at this tree." So they followed different paths, until one of them came upon a small elephant calf and waved to the others. They all swarmed together, surrounded the baby elephant, and got the better of it. After roasting its flesh, they started eating. They told the man in search of a bride, "Come eat with us." He replied, "Have you forgotten I gave that up for God's sake, only a short time ago? I will never cheat on something I have pledged God, not even if it means dying of starvation." So his friends ate without him. As night fell, they all retired to the various locations where they slept, his being the base of a tree. Only a short time later, an enormous elephant, which had been tracking the people, appeared, trumpeting loudly enough to level the surrounding vegetation. One of the men exclaimed, 'The hour has come." They gave themselves up for dead, reciting the Muslim credo, asking God's forgiveness, praising God, and prostrating themselves face down. The elephant came to each in turn and smelled every man from head to toe, leaving no part of the body unsniffed. Then it lifted a foot and set it down on the man, crushing him and leaving him like paste on the earth. T h e elephant approached one after another, following the same procedure as with the first, until only the man in search of a bride was left. He sat erect, watching what was happening, as he asked God's forgiveness and offered praise to the Almighty. He declared, "May God destroy the person who gave me this ill-omened advice and encouraged me to leave my homeland in search o f . . ." He did not finish his sentence, because the elephant was heading straight for him. The suitor threw himself down on his back in anticipation of death, and the elephant began to sniff him in the same way it had each of the others. Then it smelled the man a couple of extra times, or even more. It had not d o n e that to the others. The suitor's spirit had virtually evaporated during this examination, he was so terrified. Then the elephant wrapped its trunk around the man and lifted him into the air. The man assumed the animal wished to kill him in some novel way and begged loudly for God's mercy. With its trunk, the elephant raised him to a seat on its back. Then the elephant shot off, galloping at times and striding along at others, until the break of day. It was already light when the elephant lifted the man down from its back to deposit him on the ground in front of the portals of a magnificent palace. The elephant r e t u r n e d the way it had come, while the man lay where he was, out of his wits from terror and alarm. By the time he returned to his senses, he was inside the palace. Coming to, he found himself in a cozy bed, clad

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in new clothes. Beside him stood a girl as beautiful as the full moon. She was the daughter of the lord of the palace. While she busied herself with looking after him, he gazed at her and whispered, "From death to life? And what a life! It's she . . . she!" Yes, she was the woman of his dreams for whose sake he had u n d e r g o n e the vicissitudes of travel, seafaring, and all the other dangers. He subsequently married her, and she was the most excellent wife, companion, and partner. The engineer finished reading this ancient tale and mused, "Umm Shalabi. . . this elephant in human form. . . . Who knows? Perhaps she too will carry me tomorrow to that family whose daughter I will discover to be the object of my quest." Morning came. Then it was noon, and the matchmaker arrived, carrying inside her cloak a picture in a frame. The engineer grasped it eagerly and examined the image carefully for some time. Then he started saying, as if to himself, "Yes, no problem . . . in fact I wanted my wife to look like this." U m m Shalabi gently retrieved the picture from him, saying that she would be in jeopardy if the family discovered it missing before she returned. Since the girl appealed to him, he also had his work cut out. He had to go to the family to present his request before they settled on another suitor. If he wished, she would make an appointment for him with the girl's father, at the man's earliest convenience. He agreed, "Yes, make haste. God's choice is the best." In less than a day's time, Umm Shalabi returned, out of breath, to invite him to visit the bride's father that very afternoon. She instructed the engineer to take pains to arrive punctually at the appointed hour, without any delay or tardiness, since the family was satisfied with the first suitor and saw no reason to keep the door open for additional ones now. The matchmaker had exerted her utmost efforts to convince them to meet this exceptionally qualified engineer, reminding them how difficult it is to say what destiny really intends. It would not hurt them to grant him a short interview. She had schemed and plotted to open the closed door for him. All he had to do was to convince the girl's father, who was a dignified army pensioner as meticulous in his calculations as he was stern in his rulings. The engineer told the matchmaker, "Have no fear! At precisely five o'clock I will be there." True to his word, by half past four, he had pulled himself together, gotten ready, and donned his best clothes. Standing before the mirror, he placed a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. When he noticed that it hung down limply, he decided to conceal all of it except the tip, in the interest of an elegant moderation of pretension and an understated display of pride. Content with his appearance, he descended to the road, en route to the bride's

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house. He walked down the street, gleeful and joyous, for calm had pervaded his heart and dissolved his anxiety. Fate had selected his life partner, and he had only to accept her gratefully. But alas for man. . . . How limited he is! There are puzzles he is powerless to decipher unless the key falls on him from the heavens. There are turning points in life when he can choose the right path only with a shove from the hand of fate. These notions were running through the engineer's head as he came to an intersection at Sulayman Pasha Square. Then he suddenly felt a thrust from the rear so violent and crushing that it threw him to the ground an instant before something that might have been wheels rolled over his body. This was all he grasped of what transpired. When he regained consciousness, with no idea of how long he had been out cold, he found himself cozily situated in a hospital bed, his body almost entirely swathed in bandages. He heard someone whisper, "Don't move." Turning his eyes toward the voice, he observed a physician, a male nurse, and a female one, all in white hospital garb. He discovered from them that he had undergone a surgical operation, that his rib was crushed, and that he had been in the hospital for several days. His condition had been critical at first, but he was now in stable condition and beginning to recover. The invalid wished to solicit more information, but the doctor cautioned him against investing energy in the slightest gesture or effort. He permitted his patient only the briefest of answers to the questions of the policemen who came to ask about the accident. He told them that he had seen nothing, not the car that struck him, its color, or its driver. Closing their file on the case, they left him. After reflecting on his condition for a moment, he contented himself with whispering to himself, "A shattered rib! This is what I've achieved. I'm truly shattered now, since I've lost the woman who was to complete my life." Then he thought back over his last day in one piece and how he had been walking to the bride's house. What had happened on that front? Was the girl still destined for him, or had the original suitor won, while he was down like a fallen horse on the racetrack? How might he learn what had happened? If he could at least send for U m m Shalabi, he would find out from her. . . . But what was he to do about this doctor who prevented him from speaking or moving? He would have to bide his time for another day or two. What bad luck it would be to lose her because of this accident. Woe to the malefactor who had run over him. . . . He would never forgive that driver for the blow to his rib or for that other blow: the loss of his missing half, after he had finally discovered her. Happening to glance around him, he was astonished to see expensive bouquets of roses and other flowers in vases, elegant vials of

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cologne, entertaining books in gilded leather covers, costly boxes stuffed with sweets or filled with cigarettes, along with every other treat one might present to a cherished and pampered invalid. How amazing! Who was this concerned about his comfort and cared so much for him? With a gesture of his eyes, he asked the doctor the source of these gifts. The physician merely answered quickly with the intonation of a person mentioning a fact known to all: "The lady." The doctor then turned to give his subordinates their final orders before he departed. Immediately thereafter all the medical staff left the room, abandoning the patient to astonished confusion: The lady . . . who might she be? The nurse returned with a glass ampoule and a syringe, which she filled to give him an injection. He waited until she had finished with her task before asking her about the "lady." The nurse was a chatterbox and burst into a description of the most beautiful and generous lady she had ever met. She provided the engineer with a trove of details that only increased his wonder and amazement. This beautiful lady came every day to inquire about his condition. Each time she brought beautiful flowers. She tipped the nursing staff generously and begged them to take special care of him. During the first, critical hours, she had telephoned repeatedly in the middle of the night to ask about the latest developments. She had come for the surgical operation, waiting in an adjacent room to reassure herself as to the outcome. She had insisted on consultations with specialists before the operation to set her mind at rest. She had paid for all of this herself, without any hesitation. Indeed, the most amazing thing was that he was in this hospital in an excellent, first-class room, which was fully equipped with anything he might need for his treatment, refreshment, comfort, and relaxation, and that she had borne all the expenses for it. For his sake, in this hospital money flowed through her fingers like water. She had only one concern and thought: saving his life, regardless of cost. She repeated this every day, whenever she came, to any doctors or nurses she met. The nurse concluded her account by remarking matter-of-factly, "Of course . . . she's your wife. It's natural that she's concerned about your condition and is ready to sacrifice everything. God willing, I'll soon give her the happy news of your recovery." She sped from the room, leaving him to ask himself in stupefaction, "My wife?" He worked on solving this riddle until he hit upon an idea that seemed almost credible. Perhaps this lady whom they assumed to be his wife was actually the bride whose hand he had been going to request. Perhaps she had learned of the accident and of what had happened to him on his way to her. The intense impression that made on her might have motivated her to all this sincere con-

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cern for h i m . . . . If this were true, then she was his long-sought partner. Yes, how generous her soul was! How happy he would be with a woman like her! But then, why had she taken upon herself all the costs of his care? Did she consider herself to be his wife already, merely because he had been going to seek her hand? If this was what had transpired in her soul, then that was enough to make her his. He also would consider her his spouse from that time on . . . no, from the moment he had fallen under an automobile for her sake. What a dear wife! . . . Her image in his mind was currently a bit muddled and confused, but he remembered some of her features from the picture in the frame. In any case, he had to see her soon to thank her at least. He waited until the nurse returned and then told her, "I want to see . . . my wife." The nurse replied that the lady had not come yet but promised to bring his wife in the moment she arrived. As he waited, the invalid counted the minutes and then the hours. Finally it was night. Then another day passed, and a third and a fourth. He heard nothing from the nurse but expressions of astonished disbelief. She too was amazed by the lady's disappearance now, after she had been visiting the hospital twice a day. The engineer fell prey to sorrowful distress and bewildered malaise. How could he explain, to the nurse and the others, this amazing behavior by his presumed spouse. He preferred to remain silent and to refrain from mentioning her in their presence. For days he brooded, trying to unravel for himself the truth of this mystery... until one day the physician let slip a remark that illuminated the matter a little. He told the patient during an examination of the fractured rib, 'Your condition is excellent now. You will be able to prop yourself up with a pillow behind your back, to talk as much as you want, and to read all these books, newspapers, and magazines that the lady sends y o u . . . . " Like a drowning man who has come upon a floating timber, the invalid shouted, "The lady? Where is she?" Smiling, the doctor replied, "Now her mind is totally at rest, since I assured her last week that you are out of danger." "But I . . . I mean . . . has she been here?" "No. She told me last time that she no longer thought it necessary to come in person, since you're out of danger. Now she telephones every two or three days to ask about your condition." "Could I get someone to telephone her for me?" "Certainly. Give the number to the nurse, and she'll do that right away if you want." "The lady's number is known here, of course." "I think not. She's always the one who rings us. All the same, you know the number, don't you?"

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"Oh . . . naturally . . . of course." He laughed to mask his predicament, and the physician departed, leaving the patient to stumble through an even thicker fog. Who was this lady who showed such affection for him when he was in danger and then deserted him as carelessly as if she did not know him, once his crisis abated and his condition improved? How could he contact her now, when the paths to her were blocked? He summoned the nurse and begged her to search the hospital office and everywhere else for the lady's address and telephone number. He had her believe that this wife was intentionally concealing her residence from him and behaving in this manner toward him for personal reasons. Even so, the nurse was unable to locate an address or telephone number for the lady. All they knew in the hospital was that she had been coming to inquire about him. In spite of all her visits, she had not left any trace behind her. Ultimately the invalid could think of only one way. The moment he hit on it, he cried out with the joy of a man delivered from a crisis. Turning to the nurse, he said, "Listen! I beg you. If the lady asks about me again by telephone, tell her I've had a relapse and won't live more than two hours." The nurse hesitated, but he convinced her by pressing a bank note into her hand. She agreed to risk this lie for a brief time. Two days passed, and then the nurse rushed breathlessly into the engineer's room, exclaiming, "She called!" "Really? She called?" His heart virtually leapt from his chest as he said this. The nurse confirmed that the lady had just phoned to ask about him and that the desired reply had been given. Stunned, the lady had thrown down the receiver. She would be there in a few minutes. The invalid was beside himself with happiness. Without conscious deliberation, he stretched out his hand for a bottle of cologne and splashed some on. He instructed the nurse to show the lady in the moment she arrived and to remember that he was expiring. The nurse departed to await the visitor. Soon the patient heard the two women approaching. He closed his eyes halfway, lay motionless, and pretended to be at death's door. His alleged wife arrived but remained at the threshold as if nailed there. She gazed at him, the color draining from her face. Then the man, who was playing dead, almost died in earnest. Who was this woman? She was not the girl in the framed photograph. After preparing himself and adjusting his mind for the sight of a woman he had not met but with whose image he was at least somewhat familiar, he found himself confronted by a new woman whom he had never seen before in his life and of whom he knew nothing. In a single moment, the entire fantasy that he had con-

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structed collapsed. This woman was not the bride whose hand he had been going to request. Her care and concern did not stem from the reasons he had marshaled, deduced, and derived. This woman was a stranger to him, to his mind, and to his thought. He had certainly never seen her before. He had never encountered her in reality or imagination. Who was she then? Where had she sprung from? What secret reason did she have for her care and concern for him . . . for her anxiety about him during his crises . . . for volunteering to pay all of his expenses? This riddle surpassed all the others. But, this woman whom he did not know and whom he had never seen before—how beautiful she was! He had once imagined the kind of beauty he desired in his woman but had never been able to dream of a beauty like hers; that would have been beyond his powers. How charming her face was when drained of color in her grief for him. . . . Was he really awake? What was this he saw? How amazing! A silvery tear glittered like a drop of dew in each of her large eyes. The beauty seemed incapable of bearing the pain any longer. She rushed from his room, brushing the tears from her eyes with crimson-nailed fingers. The nurse chased after her. The invalid did not make the slightest movement or utter even a whisper, stunned as he was by what he had seen. He did not return to his senses or regain his willpower until the nurse returned alone to implore him most earnestly to abandon this farce and to permit her to tell the beautiful woman the truth, before matters got out of hand and the hospital administration learned of the affair and disciplined her. The lady was insisting on consulting the physicians and on doing everything possible to save him from death. The nurse did not wait for him to answer or reply. She helped him sit up a little, placed a pillow behind his back, whipped out one of the picture magazines to put in his hand, and announced that she was going to tell the lady the truth and to bring her to see him the way he really was. As she left, he lay back, like a child with no willpower or control, ready to accept whatever happened to him or was imposed on him. With a distracted mind and wandering eye he began to glance through the pages of the magazine. Then, by chance, his eye fell on a picture he recognized. Amazing! It was a photograph of the bride whose framed portrait he had seen. Yes, it was the same girl wearing a white wedding gown. Beside her was a young man in tails. The caption read, 'Joyous Nuptials." So she had married her first suitor. She had done the right thing. He did not regret losing her much now. Impatiently he directed his gaze toward the door. He held his breath. Then the nurse entered, gently pulling the beauty into the room. The nurse settled the lady in a chair beside the bed and departed

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immediately. All this took a fleeting instant. No sooner did the engineer become conscious of the beauty's presence than the two of them found themselves alone, face to face. It was not easy for either of them to find words to begin a conversation. At first they sank into a profound and embarrassing silence. Then the beauty broke the silence with what seemed a deep sigh: "Phew! Praise God you're well! I almost fainted just now when I thought you were dying." He gazed at her, at her mouth in particular, as she spoke these words. He seemed not to believe that this statement was addressed to him. Then pulling himself together a little he asked, "Is my life important to you?" "Very." "There can be only one explanation for all of this: that I've died and been transported to eternal paradise. You are the angelic maiden charged with my care. But where are the trees and fruits of paradise or the heavenly stream Kawthar? Why do I see this bed, the nurse, and the hospital?" "No . . . luckily you are still alive. If you had died and entered eternal paradise, I would have entered prison." "Prison? What's the connection?" "The time has come for me to confess my crime to you, sir. I'm the one who struck you with my car. Naturally I'm extremely sorry. But that's fate . . . it's stronger than we are, stronger than our volition or plans. I was speeding and was at fault in that, no doubt, but I was driven by my desire to purchase a silk dress I had seen that morning. I feared another woman might beat me to it. When the wheels passed over your body, I didn't stop. I sped away at full speed, not from callousness or cowardice, but from the intense fear that overwhelmed me. I fled from your body as it lay stretched out on the earth as if fleeing from a ghost. I went home at once, out of my mind, and when my mother saw me, my agitation terrified her. I told her what had happened, and she advised me to tell my father everything. He's a member of the judiciary. When my father heard the story, he was also perplexed about what we should do. Volunteering information about the accident would mean exposing me to judicial action, if the victim died, as my father told me. If we withheld the information, then conscience would torment us for the rest of our days. His sense of honor as a judge prevented him from advising anyone, even his daughter, to attempt to evade justice. But his affection as a father also prevented him from pushing his only daughter into prison. He concluded his deliberations by leaving me freedom of action, after he had fully explained to me the probable consequences of my actions. Then he began to reprimand me for my insanely fast driving. He finally suggested

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that I should at least keep track of the victim's condition and take steps to aid his treatment and recovery. If the victim recovered, my penalty would be limited to a fine. For this reason, I started inquiring at different police stations about the victim of a traffic accident that afternoon in Sulayman Pasha Square. . . . Finally I found you." T h e engineer listened to her account as if very gradually falling f r o m the clouds until he reached the ground. Once she had finished her story, he looked at her and exclaimed, "What a wicked criminal you are! You shattered my rib, m a d e me lose my fiancée, and dispersed my dreams. For all of this, you'll pay with nothing more than a fine." "Because you've recovered, praise God." "I've recovered! What value is there to my recovery? I'd be better off dead now than alive. Was all this affectionate care that I've received from you, this tear falling from your eye, this loss of color, not for my sake or caused by concern for me but out of fear that you might go to prison? Listen, young woman, or lady, or my alleged wife . . . " "Wife?" "Naturally. . . . What did you expect them to think here when a lady like you showed such concern for a man like me? They necessarily assumed you were my wife. It never crossed their minds that you were my assassin." "Don't claim I've killed you, because here you are now in perfect health." "I wish with all my heart that I might die so you would go to jail." "Do you hate me that much?" "Have you told the government that you're the culprit?" "Not y e t . . . . I thought I'd wait until you recovered." "What if I had died?" "I would have gone and surrendered myself to the police." "Are you certain that the court would have sentenced you to prison if I had died as a result of the accident?" "That would have been most likely, because I have a record." "You . . . have a record?" "Yes . . . of automobile accidents. Once last summer, on the road to our country place, I ran into a donkey carrying firewood. Then, six months ago I ran into another donkey, this one loaded with sugar cane on the road to the pyramids. . . . " "Do you specialize in hitting donkeys?" She looked at him as he lay there swathed in bandages and laughed. Not getting the joke, he proceeded, "Criminal, you must hear the aggrieved victim's view of your crime. Would you rather have my verdict or the court's?"

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"Yours." "I sentence you to imprisonment. . . . " "You want to imprison me?" "In the arms of matrimony." She looked at him and smiled, as if a condemned convict so satisfied with the verdict that she would not appeal or contest it. « - T

By the first anniversary of their wedding, the engineer had realized that fate had truly known how to guide him to his dish, his partner, his missing half, his ideal wife. He believed that fate at times employs stratagems even human beings could not devise. Would a man like him have conceived of meeting his spouse in this manner one day? People bandy about the word "destiny" in ordinary conversation, but it actually refers to a manifestation of the amazing artistry of fate in arranging the lives of human beings. The evening that they celebrated their first anniversary, he whispered to his wife, "Eve was obliged to appropriate one of Adam's ribs so she could come into existence. You were obliged to break mine, so I could find you."

The Life of a Literary Character

A

FICTIONAL CHARACTER'S ARTISTIC STRENGTH SHOULD NOT be j u d g e d solely by the life pulsing within the story but by the character's ability to transcend the extant literary work to assume other forms in people's minds. In Romeo and Juliet, for example, the characters are powerful e n o u g h to create for themselves in the soul of the reader a new life differing from the one portrayed by Shakespeare. I have brooded about Juliet for a long time, telling myself, "She was not Romeo's first love." Toward the beginning of his play, Shakespeare made it clear that Rosaline was Romeo's original sweetheart. You have only to refer to the brief dialogue between Benvolio and his friend the famous lover [Act I, Scene II] to learn what Romeo's true feelings were at that time.

T h e story recorded by tradition and immortalized by Shakespeare's genius is [well known,] but I would like to suppose that the apothecary who gave Romeo his vial of poison did not believe the young man was in earnest, that he did exactly what the friar had done and gave R o m e o a sleeping draught with only a temporary effect. W h e n R o m e o came to, he was surrounded by people attempting to guard his life and to prevent him from thinking of death. T h e y had disarmed him and were standing vigil with him. They commissioned the friar to stay as close to R o m e o as his shadow and to cleanse the youth's heart of its sorrows through lengthy counseling. After the first black days had passed, R o m e o regained some of

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his serenity, accepted his calamity, and surrendered to his destiny. The specter of death left him and glinting self-confidence flowed back into his soul, for nothing rules over us more decisively than time. Once we pass the threshold of its enchanted castle we become oblivious to things we once thought unforgettable. The story of this romance fascinated a certain woman—as it did all the ladies of Verona. Like the others, she wished to make overtures to the young lover for whom the whole city had become a living barricade to separate him from the death that would have reunited him with his beloved. She felt the most intense regret for her earlier rejection of him and coolness toward him. Might he still retain, buried so deep inside his heart that he was not even conscious of it, some of his past admiration for her? That was her greatest hope now. If she blew on those ashes, then who could say . . . perhaps a coal beneath them would ignite. If the fires of his former love for her should flare up, how proud, indeed how happy she was destined to be. . . . Romeo for whose sake Juliet had died, would become hers, her property, since he would be madly in love with her. This was Rosaline's dream . . . and when a dream that a woman has mastered masters her, she does not relinquish it until it becomes a reality. Rosaline hastened to Romeo. In the guise of a sincere friend whose comforting sympathy Romeo needed during his hours of sorrow, she allowed her affection to show itself like fingertips caressing his cheek. She passed days and nights beside him evincing boundless sincerity and displaying an apparently hopeless love for him, until in the course of time she won a measure of his affection, which began to increase, expand, and become more animated with every passing day, until it almost approximated love and longing. Finally Romeo married Rosaline. «—rA year after their marriage, Romeo became a father. Like an ox that turns a waterwheel by plodding around it, he began to feel hampered by the cords attached to conjugal life. Each day resembled the previous one, containing the same moaning, shouting, crying, silence, and commotion. Rosaline began to think of Romeo as a husband like any other—not the fabled lover or legendary hero. While he was dressing quickly one morning, she cast a critical eye over him. His clothes were anything but dapper and his hair was unkempt. Almost to herself, she scoffed, "Is this the Romeo for whom Juliet died?" He turned on her angrily and retorted, "Let Juliet sleep peacefully in her tomb."

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"Why do you stare at me so crossly?" "Because I'm fed up with this talk about Juliet. . . . All you can think of is Juliet. . . . Juliet: I hear this name from you a hundred times a day." "Why should that anger you . . . unless it reopens wounds in your heart?" "My heart is none of your business." "Who suggested that I want any business with it? Do you still have a heart? It seems to me that ever since Juliet died, you've had no heart." "Don't talk about it then!" "All I'm doing is asking myself why you're still alive. What purpose does your life serve? The greatest mistake you ever made was not dying with Juliet. Your true worth lay in being Juliet's lover. Except for that, you count for nothing among men. You're triviality incarnate, as well as stupidity, lethargy, and foolishness." "So we've descended to name-calling and insults." "I don't care to insult you. The fault is mine. My mistake was in marrying you. I was right about you the first time—when I rejected you. Juliet, may God forgive her, deceived me. She had me seeing you through her eyes, but she was myopic. Her senses were dull and so were her wits." "Malign me as much as you wish, but don't abuse a dead woman buried beneath the dirt." "You defend her. Didn't I say that you still love her?" "I'm not defending her. I'm standing up for what's right. We must respect the dead." "How passionate you sound when referring to Juliet. In my presence, your heart is a dead volcano. When I gaze down its mouth, I find only a frosty void . . . a sack fit to hold nothing but my household rubbish. Yet when the ghost of Juliet crosses our paths, smoke suddenly starts to rise." "This smoke you speak of does not originate from my heart but from my life with you . . . for that's become an inferno." "Hush! Away with you! Scram! Leave me alone, impudent rogue—or, rather, craven coward, content to live with a woman you don't love." "I have assured you repeatedly that you're mistaken. You're imagining things if you assume I don't love you." "You're lying. You've never loved me." "Once I loved you violently." "Once . . . in the p a s t . . . long, long ago. Before you caught sight of her, naturally. Before you knew Juliet. Yes, it's always Juliet. You see? You're not willing to forget her."

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"Why torment yourself this way, Rosaline? You're the one who is never willing to forget her. Take this handkerchief. Restrain your tears, and allow me to confide the innermost secrets of my heart to you." "You're a liar! I don't believe a word you say. I shan't believe a thing. You will claim that you love me—as you have told me often enough during the last year—that the past is dead and buried, and that my love has taken root in your heart. Yes, and what a plant it is! . . . Like a flower that springs from the soil of a grave. But this is poppycock. You're merely a husband who wants peace in his home at any price, even if it costs him an enormous lie.. . . No, I'm unable to believe that you love me and have a living heart with space in it for me. All your love is for Juliet. Juliet is your immortal love. Juliet! That woman who snatched you away from me. That sneak thief who stole you from me! Living or dead, she has never released you from her embrace. She is a permanent fixture here in my house. Actually it's her house and our bed her nuptial couch. I can't chase her away. . . this damned thief, this infernal meddler, this cursed woman . . . cursed!" "Alas! My wife! . . . My wife's gone mad."

Romeo left the house and set off roaming the streets. He told himself, "Yes, I should have died when Juliet did . . . not for the sake of love but for peace of mind." This discussion with Rosaline was repeated and rehearsed many times a week, as Romeo tried in vain to convince her of this truth: that he loved her, not with a raging, rebellious passion, but with an affection of a totally different character. His love for Rosaline was completely unlike his burning infatuation with Juliet. This new love was lasting, calm, and conjugal. It was not the transitory fever of a sick body, but the genuine, natural warmth of a healthy one. It was impossible for Rosaline to see this truth, since her eyes were fixed on that one page of her husband's past: the stunning leaf devoted to Juliet. It was hard for her to understand that this page could not have formed a lasting part of a man's life. Rosaline made herself and her husband miserable, because she did not comprehend that Juliet was a dream of Romeo's youth and that people are unable to continue living in dreams once day breaks.

Show Me God

O

NCE, LONG AGO, GOD GRANTED TO A GOOD MAN WITH A

clear conscience a son. This child was intelligent and articulate, and the father's most enjoyable hours were those they spent together, conversing like a couple of friends. The differences of age and generation vanished then as if an imaginary silk curtain had been raised. They saw the world in almost exactly the same way and understood each other well. Their comprehension of the realities of existence and of the essences of things seemed identical. Looking at his son one day, the man remarked, "I thank God for you. You're a blessing to me." The child replied, "Father, you mention God frequently. Show me God!" "What did you say, son?" asked the man, his mouth agape, his mind blank. This request was a strange one for a child to make. Not knowing what to reply, the father bowed his head for some time. Then he turned toward his son and inquired as if of himself, "You want me to show you God?" "Yes. Show me God." "How can I show you something I haven't seen myself'1" "Why haven't you seen Him, father?" "I never thought of it until now." "What if I ask you to go see Him and then show Him to me?" "I'll do it, son. I will." The man rose and set off immediately. While walking through the city, he asked the people he met how he could achieve this goal. The city folk just laughed at him. They were too busy with worldly

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concerns to look for God. Then the man approached the religious authorities, who harangued and debated him, using memorized texts as well as formulae they had copied down. Learning nothing from them, he left in despair. As he walked sadly down the streets, he wondered if he would be forced to return empty-handed to his son, unable to fulfill the lad's request. Finally he met an aged man who advised him: "Go to the outskirts of the city, and there you will find an elderly ascetic whose petitions have always been honored by God. Perhaps he will be able to help you." The man went at once to the ascetic and explained, "I have come to request your help. I hope you will not disappoint me." The ascetic looked up and said in a deep, kindly voice, "Tell me what you seek." "Honored ascetic, I want you to show me God." The holy man bowed his head. Grasping his white beard with one hand he asked, "Do you understand what you're saying?" "Yes. I want you to show me God." In the same deep, kindly voice, the ascetic answered, "Man! God cannot be seen with our human organs. He cannot be perceived with our physical senses. Can you fathom the depth of the sea with a finger fit only to gauge the height of a glass?" "How can I see Him then?" "Only if He reveals Himself to your spirit." "When would He do that?" "When you win His love." The man threw himself to the ground and rubbed his forehead in the dust. Taking the ascetic's hand, he begged, "O pious ascetic, ask God to grant me some of His love." The sage pulled his hand away gently and chided, "Be more modest, man. Ask for only the tiniest bit." "A gram of His love then." "What greed! That's a great deal. . . too much." "A quarter of a gram, then." "Be modest. . . more modest." "An atom of His love." "You're not strong enough for an atom of it." "Half an atom?" "Possibly." The ascetic raised his head toward heaven and asked, "Lord, please grant him half an atom of Your love." The man rose and went away. Days passed. The man's son, family, and friends tracked down the ascetic to complain that the man had not returned. He had disappeared. No one knew his whereabouts.

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The ascetic anxiously set off with them. They searched for some time until they encountered a group of shepherds, who told them the man had lost his mind and gone up into the hills. Proceeding in the direction indicated, the group found the man standing on a rock, staring at the sky. They hailed him, but he did not respond. The ascetic approached him and said, "Listen carefully. I am the ascetic." The man did not move a muscle. The child addressed his father apprehensively, asking in his affectionate little voice, "Father, don't you recognize me?" The man did not react in any way. His family and friends tried to gain his attention by shouting at him from all sides, until—shaking his head dejectedly—the ascetic advised them, "It's no use. How can a man hear the words of mere mortals when his heart contains even half an atom of God's love. If you cut him in two with a saw, by God, he would not notice." The child began to cry, "It's my fault. I'm the one who asked him to see God." Turning toward the boy, the ascetic remarked, as if to himself, 'You see? Even half an atom of God's light is so powerful that it can devastate our bodies and disrupt our minds."

The Letter Carrier

I

T WAS AT THE SEASHORE THAT I MET THIS STRANGE FELLOW who carried a bag like a letter carrier's. Everything about him suggested laziness, indolence, and stupidity—even his rubbernecked gaze into space like the confused, global stare of an imbecile. He sat slouched on the beach, a weary person exasperated and annoyed with both himself and the world. I conjectured that this person's vocabulary was limited to the word, "Phooey!" Approaching him, I remarked gently, "If I guess correctly, you're a mailman on vacation." 'Vacation!" the man snickered with suppressed anger, not turning toward me. "Why not?" I asked. "Aren't you at least entitled to one day off a week?" "I haven't had a single day's vacation my whole life." "How unfair of the post office! Doesn't it have some system of holidays?" "It's a delivery service that allows no holidays, sir." "What are you saying?" "Imagine, dear sir, that I rise each day at dawn with the birds and take my bag, which is filled to bursting with as many letters as there are grains of sand . . . one for each person on earth. I have to make my rounds, delivering to everybody, fairly and squarely, till the end of the day, when the bag must be empty—only to be filled again the next morning with new letters for distribution to people, one by one, fairly and squarely, and so on and so forth. T h e days never end, people never disappear, and the bag is never empty. The only thing that's

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exhausted is my patience. But what can I do? I need to work. If I take a day off, the letters will pile up, leaving me twice as many to deliver. Then I really wouldn't know what to do." "Amazing! Doesn't the agency have any other carriers besides you?" "There's no one else. I'm the whole agency." "Is this an oversight or the result of poor administration?" "I don't know. I've complained repeatedly about the heavy work load, but my cries have gone unheeded. Consequently I've ended up, as you can see, indifferent and disillusioned." "Can you deliver all these letters in one day?" "I deliver them as best I can. A man should not be expected to do more than he's able, and no one has ever taken me to task for an error. I certainly must have made a lot of mistakes. The important thing is to return with an empty satchel at the end of the day." On saying this, he opened the bag, as if remembering its existence. I noticed that there really were as many letters in it as grains of sand. So I asked him in alarm, "When are you going to deliver all of those? It's almost noon now." "Don't worry about me. I'll do what I do every day." He held out a hand to a nearby fisherman who had been casting his net since dawn without catching anything. The postman thrust ten letters into the man's pocket, and the fisherman pulled in such a copious haul of fish that—overcome by astonished delight—he started to dance. In the distance, a group of fishermen were futilely trying to coax a single fish from the sea. Pointing toward them, I asked my friend the letter carrier, "What about those men?" Glancing in their direction he replied peevishly, "They're too far away. As I mentioned, I'm exhausted. Why should I hunt down each of them to deliver his letter. I gave their mail to the fisherman beside us." "Do you always treat people's mail that way?" "Of course... . Am I crazy enough to run after each one of God's creatures and make my joints ache and my lungs gasp for breath? I hand the people I meet the letters of those I don't. This way, I can relax, at peace with the world." At that moment an ill-tempered old hag with a repulsive voice passed by us. She took a lottery ticket from her garments and yelled at a newspaper vendor to see if her number was in the paper, haranguing and bullying him in a tone more commonly reserved for curses. Beyond her, gazelle-like maidens in beach attire raced across the sand. Waving silver arms and holding tickets for the same lottery in their tender hands, they too wished to learn their luck. As the old woman reached the amazing mailman, he pulled a thousand letters

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from his bag and thrust them into her pocket. On checking her ticket against the newspaper, she discovered that she held the number for the grand prize, worth thousands of pounds. Her ugly voice let rip a rapturous scream of triumph and victory. Losing control of myself, I yelled at him, "Fear God, man! Use your sense of sight, if not your sense of justice. You graciously receive this gray-haired crone, who does not even deserve a pleasant reception from the tomb, and grant her this good fortune when only a few steps beyond her are these beauties—redolent of youth—who rejoice in life as it rejoices in them. Your eye doesn't even glance at them. Your face casts them no welcoming smile." Shoving me aside, he snapped, "Hush. Please be still. If I were required to discriminate between young and old or between ugly and beautiful and to differentiate between deserving and undeserving folk, I would never finish my day's work." "Doesn't each person have a letter just like his brother's in your custody? " "I told you I can't do the impossible!" he screamed at me. "Have mercy on me. No one on earth or in heaven will show me any pity or try to see my side. In heaven they complain, 'Your negligence has made people angry at us,' and on earth, you yell, 'This one got something the other didn't.' I'm the one who is blamed. My eyesight and reasoning have been impaired by the crushing work load, generation after generation. Praise the Lord, people! If my eyes make out your figures, and I distribute the contents of my bag every day, that's the most I can do. To those who approach me, the ones I encounter, I give what I can get my fingers on and pull out of the bag, anything that's at hand regardless of the reason. For me to distribute it all fairly and squarely, to give each person an amount comparable to his brother's, would be a task requiring more running than my legs can bear and a greater effort than my stamina can tolerate. Accuse me of laziness, injustice, or negligence if you want, but I'll never do more than you see now. Anyone with a gripe can broadcast it far and wide. The complaints lodged against me every day are as numerous as these grains of sand." This remarkable letter carrier deserted me and the beach, leaving me afloat in my thoughts and adrift in my reflections, until the cries of delight from the lucky fisherman and the joyous cackles of the victorious hag brought me to my senses. Scrambling to my feet I chased after him, shouting like a madman: "Postman! Wait. . . . I forgot to ask you. . . . Give me some of your letters. Dole out something from your mailbag for me." But he had vanished. In despair I sank back down on the beach with nothing to fill my hands but sand. Remorsefully, I lamented, "I'll

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be damned! Luck was here beside me with a full bag, randomly distributing good fortune. But philosophy—may God destroy it—distracted me from my own interests and kept him from giving me some. My time with him was wasted in talk. All I got from meeting him was words. If I had not held out my thoughts to him, he would have extended his hand to me, and today I would be a Rothschild, a Rockefeller, or even the wealthiest man in the whole world.

I'm Death

F

ROTHING SEA AND BREAKING WAVES, LIKE A PEARL NECKLACE

encircling the throat of a bronze nymph, surround one of the boulders at Sidi Bishr. Holding a book in his hand, a young man straddled the crest of that rock. He was not reading but was, instead, studying the infinite horizon and the depths of the sea. Although he was obviously listening to whispered calls and suggestions, it was impossible to determine whether these issued from the lines of his book, emanated from the distant glow of the sky, or rose from the fathomless abyss. He heard murmured messages on every side and grasped their significance and implications. Then the decisive moment came. The youth rose as if summoned and threw himself into the water. Almost immediately, swimmers and sunbathers at the beach realized that someone was drowning. The crowd on the shore grew agitated and excited. Shouts rang out and an alarm was raised. Lifeboats were quickly launched, and the more adventuresome and skillful swimmers dove into the waves. Yet it seemed that none of these measures would succeed. People watched the pitiful body in the distance as it quivered and thrashed about in its final moments. Only arms beating against the waves could be seen. By the time rescuers reached the unknown man, he would have sunk beneath the surface. With pounding hearts, onlookers followed his tragedy. There was much weeping by women who were tenderhearted or who wished to appear so. Mouths murmured prayers for God's mercy on him. All were certain that he was doomed. No one harbored any hope that the victim would survive. Then, through that gloom, a cry of joy suddenly resounded. People turned to look. A girl clad in a swimsuit and rowing a small,

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brightly colored rubber boat had emerged from behind the boulder. Stretched across the prow of her vessel was the boy's body—like a load of purchases she was carrying home. From far out to sea, she called jubilantly, "Here he i s . . . . Hello. Hello." The spectators observed that the body in front of her was still pulsing with life. The crowd on the beach cheered the girl, and a school of swimmers and lifeguards headed toward her. After taking the young man from her, they administered first aid. The girl walked proudly through the mob that formed around her. In response to questions about the facts of the case, she explained that she had seen it all from the beginning. While rowing her rubber craft near the boulder she had observed the young man spring to his feet at the summit, cast down a book and hurl himself into the water. Paddling furiously, she had sped toward him. By the time she had reached him, the waves had almost swallowed him up. Seizing his arm, she had pulled him—exhausted and almost unconscious—into her boat. "So suicide, then? . . . Why did he want to kill himself?" This was the question haunting every lip. The official inquiry might uncover the secret, for suicide was a crime that necessitated an inquiry by the district attorney's office. The victim's life was no longer in danger. He regained consciousness when first aid was administered. Soon, fit as ever, he surrendered himself to the district attorney's deputy. Present in the hearing chamber as a government witness was the girl. After she had finished testifying, the investigator asked the young man: "What reason did you have for trying to kill yourself?" The youth did not reply but turned his gaze toward the young woman, starting with her head and finishing with the heel of her shoes, but not in a way that suggested admiration of her beauty. Suppressing an indignant huff of anger, he inquired, "What right did she have to prevent me from killing myself?" The deputy hesitated for a moment. By the time he had mustered a response, the woman had already blurted out: "If you saw me drop my handkerchief in the street, wouldn't you lean over, pick it up, and return it to me? If you have the right to do that, don't I, when I see you drop your life in the sea, have the right to lean over, pick it up, and return it to you?" He replied forcefully, "No, my good lady! Our situations are exactly opposite. Your handkerchief did not drop by chance. You let it fall in hopes of having it returned to you. But if someone saw you discard it, whether in the street or in the sea, and then interfered and intervened to return it to you, would you consider him within his rights?"

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The girl proclaimed defiantly, "But the handkerchief..." The deputy muttered something under his breath then and shouted, "Spare us all these handkerchiefs! This is not the type of discussion we can include in our reports. We are investigating an attempted suicide. I have asked you, young man, a straightforward question: What reason did you have for doing this? You should answer this question precisely without skirting the issue. Now!" The man responded, "Record the typical reason frequently cited in the newspapers: destitution." The deputy asked, "Have you forgotten that when asked your profession for the police report you stated that you own real estate and live off the income of the rental units you inherited from your parents?" "In that case, say the cause was feeblemindedness." "Has it escaped you that you admitted in the police report that you earned a masters in philosophy from the university?" 'Tell us, Mr. Attorney, what business of yours is it whether I wish to live or die." "Amazing! Don't you know that suicide's a crime?" "I know that suicide expresses a desire for relocation from one world to another, just as a summer holidaymaker relocates from Cairo to Alexandria. Don't you read in the obituaries every day: Soand-so passed from this world to the next? Think of me as a vacationer who, having wearied of all the vacation spots in the entire world, thinks ofjourneying from this existence to the next one." 'Just like t h a t . . . without a passport, ticket, or visa?" "Are formalities necessary even for this?" "Of course. . . . Do you imagine the divine plan to be such anarchy that you can voyage from one world to another on a whim, as a stowaway? Stowaways are reckoned lawbreakers... and all the more so a stowaway bound for the next world." "Then consider me a lawbreaker for traveling without a visa or a permit.. . but you have no right to question me about my motives for the trip. It could have been for a change of climate, to flee from creditors, to join a loved one, or to avoid a bore." "Allow me to remind you that the reason for travel is always demanded in requests for emigration or for resident alien status. So there is all the more need for this in a case of migration from one world to another." "Fiddlesticks! How inquisitive people are! Liberty has vanished here on earth." The young man looked down for a time and placed his head in his hands. The investigator waited patiently out of pity and concern

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for the youth, who finally sat up and turned his eyes on his interrogator to ask, "Are you going to insist on this?" The attorney replied, "Yes. There must be a response to our question." Preparing to rise, the young man said, 'Then write that the cause was temporary insanity. That's all there is to it." Feeling constrained to settle for this response, the investigator ended his inquiry and closed his report. Then he gave permission for the youth and the witnesses to depart. The boy had barely reached the street when the girl was on his tracks, remarking, "I hope you're not angry at me anymore." He turned on her and replied, "My anger will never die so long as I live." "Do you think I've harmed you that badly?" "Had it not been for your reckless intervention, I would now be in a better world." "My reckless intervention?" "Goodbye, lady. Goodbye!" He moved away from her and leapt off the curb in order to cross the street quickly. An enormous truck caught him by surprise and its wheels would have crushed him if not for a yank from the girl's hand, which pulled him back to the safety of the sidewalk. He threw a fiery glance at her, and she understood its meaning. In a tone redolent of concern and regret she said, "Forgive me. . . . I didn't think what I was doing." Shaking his head with vexation he remarked, as if to himself, "It's no u s e . . . . As long as you're beside me, I'll never meet death face-toface." She asked almost apologetically, "What would you have wanted me to do?" With an explosion of rebellious exasperation he answered: "Enough, enough! A disaster has taken me by surprise. That's all there is to it. How did I get mixed up with a creature like you? You spoil my thoughts and deeds by messing around with my plans and by intervening between me and my destiny. Inform me: How can I flee from you? Tell me how I can escape from you and find my death?" The girl was unable to conceal the laughter that rippled through her. Even so, she composed herself and, pretending to be in earnest, commented, "A disaster that's overcome you? Why don't you think of me as your guardian angel?" "You? If you were, I would have been able to give you the slip and achieve what I want." "What you want? To die?"

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"Yes." The young woman cast him a searching look and then remarked, "I didn't know death had enthusiastic fans like those for tennis, ping pong, and rowing. I must confess that I really was in error when I prevented you from practicing your favorite hobby, but the matter is easily resolved. It will be possible to correct my mistake right away." "How?" "Here you are, the boulder is still out there, and the sea hasn't dried up yet." "I should throw myself into the sea again?" "While I sit on the summit and read your book. I'll hear you plunge into the water but won't raise my eyes from the page until I'm finished with it, reading slowly. Afterwards, I'll glance in your direction and ask God's mercy on your soul. Satisfied? . . . Let's go." "Yes. Let's go." He said this with a powerful, decisive, and challenging voice. Off he headed toward Sidi Bishr with the woman, who was equally determined and enthusiastic, at his side. Suddenly becoming aware of her presence, he whirled around to remark, "I'm going to my death. What business of yours is this?" "I'll deliver you to death just as I saved you from it." "Let's go then!" On arriving at Sidi Bishr beach and looking at the boulder, the woman said, "I have a suggestion. Let's forget the rock scenario. Instead, let's put on swimsuits and go out to the buoy." "But I don't know how to swim." "What harm is there in that, since you want to drown?" "You're right. What happens then?" 'Then you slip off the buoy and fall into the waves wherever you wish. It will be an excellent, 'sporty' death. What do you think of that?" He scratched his head and reflected for a moment before replying, "No, lady. Don't trivialize death's grandeur. I have been a serious person all my life. Should I conclude my life with a 'sporting' death instead of a dignified one?. . . Women! No sooner do they get involved in something than it turns into an amusing romp. Leave me alone, woman." "Don't be angry. Let's go to the boulder." In no time at all the young couple were on the crest of that landmark rock at Sidi Bishr. They seemed a pair of lovebirds seeking to isolate their love from the clamor of the crowds and the din of the world. What distant spectator could have discerned anything but this, no matter how gifted an observer of human nature? What person who saw this handsome couple gazing dreamily at the sea, all by themselves, would have imagined the bizarre link uniting them or

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would have conceived of the terrifying idea dominating their minds then? A lengthy silence was broken when the girl remarked, "It's my duty to advise you to reflect carefully...." "I don't need your advice." "Suit yourself." "Hush! . . . Let me listen to these whispers, which are confiding in me, calling to me. They're coming from that distant glow . . . no, they're rising from the fathomless abyss. Don't you hear them?" Directing toward him a look she hoped would penetrate the depths of his soul, she asked, "Whispers that confide in you and call to you? Listen . . . I'm not the district attorney's deputy with his report in front of him. You're a person at the portals of death, and we've agreed that I won't do anything to stop you from dying. So why not be good enough to reveal the secret behind your suicide? Rest assured that I will keep it to myself. I won't divulge it to anyone. Speak. What reason do you have for killing yourself?" He did not respond or even look at her but continued to stare at the water. She paused, waiting for his lips to release some word. When his silence proved too much for her, she burst out, "The reason's obvious. Naturally it's because of a woman." Turning his face toward her, he gave her a sarcastic look. Then he went back to his contemplation of the water without saying a thing. She added determinedly, "That certainly must be the reason. For the sake of a woman in your life . . . or for the lack of one." Pivoting around, he asked her calmly, "Why do you attribute such existential importance to women?" "Then what is the secret?" "Is it important for you to know?" 'Very." "Know then that I have no secret. All there is to it, is that I want to exit from life. I want to leave it, nothing more or less. What's wrong with that?" "You didn't begin life voluntarily. How can you end it voluntarily?" "I would have left it voluntarily, had it not been for your curiosity and your meddling in something that did not concern you." "You're right. This is a lesson from which I shall profit in the future, even if occasionally we're unable to restrain ourselves from cautioning a heedless person. This life that you despise . . . look at it. Isn't it beautiful! All that you can see at the horizon and in the sea are the hands of death reaching out to you, but the people around you see a splendor in everything. Look at the children, the women, the old folks, the men . . . in the water and on the beach. They're all happy

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and laughing, as if listening to refrains issuing from every part of existence, inviting them to live." The boy fidgeted, snorted impatiently, and said, "To my eyes, life is ugly. Do you share my vision? Do you see through my eyes? I don't like the plot of this film. I want to leave. Should a spectator in the cinema take my hand, force me to sit down, and tell me, 'The plot's very enjoyable. Stay till the end!'?" The girl replied forcefully, "No one is taking your hand. Be my guest: Die." She walked away from him to another part of the boulder. He remained where he was for a moment without stirring. Then he shook himself a little and moved toward her, saying, "What guarantee do I have that you won't save me if I throw myself in the water?" She gazed at him with wide eyes. "What guarantee? Does the matter require guarantees and assurances? Give me a break. This is a bit much. I told you that you have nothing to fear from me. Die however you want. But it seems that courage has quit you and that you're resorting now to pretexts, debates, and wrangling." He shouted, "Me? You don't know me. You'll see." "I know you now." "What time do you have? I'll die in . . . " "What difference does the hour make? One leap will bring you into deep water." "I'm free to choose the time." "I hope you'll be quick about it and not delay me anymore." She took out a small mirror and began to arrange her hair, slowly, fastidiously, and obstinately while observing his reflection as he stood there like a statue, not knowing what to do. Then she started to hum a popular song. He asked peevishly, "Are you singing?" "I'm just waiting on you." She said this calmly, without glancing at him. He sprang away from her violently and headed off in the direction of the sea, shouting, "Farewell! Before I take my last breath, I remind you of your promise. Don't you dare try to . . ." Interrupting him, she said coolly, "Don't worry about that." Facing the sea, he stretched out his hands and yelled, "One . . . two . . . thr . . ." He did not finish, because a loud laugh escaped from the girl's mouth. He let his arms drop and turned toward her indignantly. Before he could speak, with her face still focused on the mirror, rubbing a finger over her lips, she said, "Excuse me. I put my lipstick on too thick. Look!" "Is this how a woman acts when she watches a man die?"

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"I'm sorry. Don't be angry. I'll finish my makeup later. Let's get on with it. Do your thing. I'll act in a seemly fashion. Please proceed." She put away her mirror and sat up straight. But he lowered his eyes as if abandoning all hope not of life but of death. Taking a seat, he put his head in his hands. He appeared to have fallen prey to agonizing reflections and enervating bewilderment. The very sight of him was enough to awaken compassion and to arouse pity. The woman approached him, saying tenderly, "Don't torment yourself. Try to give the scenario, I mean life, a second look. Perhaps you will discern in i t . . ." He did not let her finish but interjected: "No, I will never see it as anything but ridiculous and ugly. You don't see what I do, because you don't think. Most people are like you. Do you know what life is? It's a mirror, but not like your mirror that offers you a reflection of a pretty face. Life is an amusement park mirror providing distorted images of reality: taller, shorter, wider, thinner. On contemplating it, I have found that life contains no fixed reality. What we term goodness, beauty, justice, freedom, and so on, are merely items that do not retain their characteristics for long. They are soon transformed into different entities that are opposite and contrary to the original. When you stretch freedom too far and too wide it becomes slavery. Justice taken to an extreme turns into tyranny. Beauty expanded is ugliness. Goodness turns to evil. Not even geographical ideas are constant. East in its ultimate extension is west. The beautiful moon and stars celebrated by poets would turn into hideous terrors if the distance changed. There are no fixed realities in life. It's all a question of distance and perspective. What's real about us in this amusement park? Life's mirror reflects images that fluctuate in height or shortness, thickness or slenderness, beauty or ugliness, every time we alter the length and distance between us and the mirror. The reality existing beyond this amusement park is quite remote from the mirror's version. So am I at fault for hastening to exit in order to seek out the truth of my existence? What do you have to say now? Will you persist in disagreeing with me?" The young woman was silent for a time. She looked pensively at him for a m o m e n t and then inquired, "Do you suffer from chronic constipation?" 'Yes. . . . How did you know?" He answered immediately with no hesitation. Soon he realized the disparity between her question and his preceding remarks. He frowned in preparation for scolding and chastising her. This reply was not a suitable reponse to his profound thoughts. Quickly and graciously she said, "Do you know why you think about killing yourself? . . . This is natural. You ascend to intellectual

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peaks. Haven't you noticed that people who climb the great pyramid experience vertigo and feel that the earth is summoning and beckoning them? If there is no hand there to steady them, they fall or throw themselves down, without even meaning to. It's impossible for a person walking on the face of the earth to experience that lofty dizziness that tempts one to fall. I have a remedy to prescribe for your elevated vertigo. Do you know what it is? It's for you to partake of some inane pursuits." No sooner had the boy heard this than he shouted rebelliously, "Inane? I who have been accustomed to profound reflection and contemplation my whole life?" She answered calmly, "Why do you attribute such existential importance to thought?" "What are you saying?" "Listen! Go eat a couple ears of roasted corn on the Corniche and then fill your guts with at least a pound of raw, unpeeled cucumbers." "God preserve us!" "And marry a woman whom you can bother and who will pester you. Fill part of your life with inanity, discord, and dissension." "I should get married?" "If you demand this sacrifice from me, for the sake of your health, I am willing to present myself to you, like a bottle of medicine from the pharmacist with a label on i t . . . " "Bearing a skull and crossbones!" He immediately sprang to his feet. Before the girl knew what was happening, the boy was in the sea, battling with the waves. Not stopping to hesitate, he had thrown himself in, without her noticing it. She was bewildered at first, not knowing what to do. Then guided by instinct instead of conscious reflection, she jumped into the water after him, rescued him, and pulled him back to the boulder. As she administered first aid, he regained consciousness. Opening his eyes, he found himself in her arms. Terrified he said, "You?" She asked with a smile, "Don't you long for death's embrace?" "Yes." "I'm death!"

I

T IS AN AMAZING CONFEDERATION THAT STRETCHES ITS SMALL

wings around the world. Its members are distributed in all regions, neglecting no land or sky. They all chirp at the same rising of the same sun. When morning emerges from the belly of the night, they emerge from their nests. What mysterious caller awakens each of them in a single instant? They fly off to work singing, leaving behind no lazy slugabeds or indolent sleepyheads. A young sparrow asked his father one day, "Aren't we the best creatures, father?" T h e adult sparrow shook his head and replied, "We should n o t claim this honor. T h e r e is someone else who covets this right for himself." "Who is he, father?" "Man." "Man? The creature that pelts our nests with stones? Is he better than we are? Is he happier?" "He may be better, but he's not happier." "Why not, father?" "Because there's a thorn in his belly that's always pricking and tormenting him." "What an unfortunate beast! Who planted this thorn inside him?" "He placed it there with his own hand. This thorn is known as greed." "Greed? What's greed?" "This is something you're not acquainted with, little one. Indeed quite possibly no one in the confederation of sparrows is familiar

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with it. My information is based on my own lengthy observations of man, for I've fallen into his clutches more than once. It's something that prevents him from being satiated, satisfied, or content. We know what it means to be full; but he knows only hunger. We work to provide ourselves with a living; he wants to have a living he does not earn. We don't experience the exploitation of one sparrow by another, for the birds of the earth all meet life joyfully, melodiously, modestly, and fraternally. He dreams of nothing so much as exploiting his fellow man: to find someone to work for him from early in the morning, while he sprawls across his bed, stretching, lounging, and yawning till almost noon. He does not see the golden sun or the silver dawn. He does not inhale the moist morning breeze. His sun is gold allocated to expenditures. His dawn is the silver decorating his household utensils. The breeze buffeting him is the covetousness that fills his heart." The worldly sparrow was silent for a moment. He looked at his callow son and discovered that the youngster was treating all this talk as a fairy tale . . . receiving but not believing, observing but reserving assent. He had not seen these things with his own eyes, encountered them in his childhood, or had any practical experience of them yet in his brief life. Realizing this, the father said, "Yes, you must see these things with your own eyes. Next time you spot a man, tell me. I'll demonstrate with him." Not much time passed before a man approached. The moment the young sparrow saw him, it shouted to notify its father, who said, "I'll drop into his hands. Son, watch carefully what happens." "Drop into his hands, father? What if some harm befalls you?" "There's nothing to fear. I understand men and know how to trick them and escape from their hands." The sophisticated sparrow left its young one and immediately landed near the man, who joyfully pursued the bird, grasping it with his fingers to take it as his prey. Once in the man's hands, the sparrow asked, "What do you want to do with me?" The man replied greedily, 'To slay you and eat you." The cunning sparrow said, "I won't satisfy your hunger, but I could give you something that would benefit you more." "What will you give me?" "Three pieces of sage counsel. If you learn them, you will gain great benefit." "Tell me."

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"My conditions are that I teach you the first while I'm in your hands, the second after you set me free, and the third when I'm back in the tree." "I accept. Give me the first one." "Don't grieve over what you've lost." "And the second?" "Release me first, in keeping with my terms." The man freed the sparrow, and the bird lighted on a nearby hillock. It said, "The second piece of advice is: Don't believe something that sounds too good to be true." Then, flying to the tree, it cried out, "You fool of a human being, if you had slain me, you would have extracted from my craw two pearls weighing one hundred grams each." The man bit his lips so hard they bled. Grieving intensely, he glared at the sparrow, which had returned to the tree. Recalling its promise, he demanded in a voice drained by tormenting regret, "Give me the third piece of wise counsel." Smiling sarcastically, the sparrow replied, "Greedy man, your cupidity has blinded you. You have forgotten the first two lessons; how can I teach you the third? Didn't I tell you not to grieve over what you have lost and not to believe things that can't possibly be true? All my flesh, bones, fat, and feathers combined wouldn't weigh a hundred grams. How could there be two pearls in my craw each weighing that much?" The man's appearance was comical. The sparrow had been able to make a fool of him. Turning to its son, the father sparrow asked, "Now, have you seen with your own eyes?" Studying the man's gestures and expressions, the fledgling answered, "Yes, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

In the Year One Million

T

HIS STORY IS SET IN THE YEAR ONE MILLION A.D., DURING AN era when the world has been transformed to a degree almost impossible to imagine. Wars have disappeared, diseases have become extinct, and death has been exterminated. Yes, hundreds of thousands of years before, science had conquered death, so that there were no longer deaths or births. Marriage for the sake of children had also been abandoned for ages. Science prepared cultures in laboratories to produce human offspring. Matters progressed in this fashion for thousands of years until people no longer felt a desire to create new human beings. Since no one died, what need was there for more people? The living person assumed the character of unchanging elements of the natural world—enduring forever like sun, moon, sea, and mountain, with nothing subtracted or taken away. Cells were constantly renewed, and glands were immune to decay. The phrase "old age" no longer referred to anything . . . nor did the word "youth." The only concept people at this time had of themselves was as "existing." (If the sea had a language, would it discuss childhood or senility?)

During the summer of that year, one million A.D., a geologist visited a chemist and informed him, "I seem to be heading toward a major discovery that will shock everyone. From deep inside the earth I excavated these remains. Look!" Cautiously and carefully he withdrew from his small bag a human skull. He handed it to his friend the chemist, who—after taking the cranium and examining it—asked, "What is this? In shape, it resembles our heads, except for the skull's diminutive size . . . and t h i s . . . . " He pointed to the teeth and jaw.

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The geologist agreed, "Yes. It dates back six hundred thousand years." "Astounding! What could have separated it from the flesh, bones, and veins?" "That is strange!" "And where is the rest of the body?" "I only uncovered this p a r t . . . . " The two men were baffled by the skull, for it was a novelty. There was nothing like it in their museums. Hundreds of thousands of years before, nuclear wars on earth had destroyed the museums and libraries of ancient times. Only a digest of previous scientific experiments had been handed down, and it formed the foundation on which this new world was established. The anxious expression on the chemist's face was exactly like Cain's the day he saw death for the first time as it spread through Abel's corpse. After shaking his head and touching the skull with a finger, the geologist commented, "This must be a man like us, but how did he come to be in this condition? That is the mystery." "Yes," the chemist replied, probing the bony object with his hand. ' T h e r e must be some force that can transform man's active motion into this frozen type of rigidity." "Motion? Rigidity? I think motion must have an end." "How could that be?" "Haven't you ever wondered: 'In the end . . . what's after that?' I asked myself this once. Perhaps it's my discipline, geology, that motivates me to explore the past, and my research into the past that leads me to delve into the f u t u r e . . . . What future do we have?" "Our future?" "Yes. The future of the human race." "What's wrong with your head? Something inside must be out of kilter," the chemist remarked, staring dubiously at his colleague. The word "future" had a strange ring to the ears of people in that age. The morrow did not exist for them any more than night or day or sleep. Artificial light freed them from dependence on the sun, and chemical substitutes for food saved them from eating. Their motion was as constant as the beating of the heart, never frozen or still. They had no concept of the morrow, and their understanding of the past only reached back through the tens of thousands of years that had witnessed no major changes in their condition. They did not k n o w — nor could their mentality grasp—more than one time, namely the present, which spread its prodigious wings across aeons that seemed, because of their eternal character, to be a single day.

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The geologist gazed fixedly into space, as though attempting to see through a fog. Almost to himself, he whispered, "Given that there is being, there must also be nonbeing." "Nonbeing?" "Yes, nonbeing." The chemist stood up and asked, "Nonbeing? What is nonbeing? I hear this peculiar expression for the first time. Comrade, what has come over you?" "Aren't you ever troubled by this feeling?" "What feeling?" "A desire not to exist." "It's difficult for my mind to figure out what you mean or to comprehend what's come over you. Something in you is out of whack." The chemist sped off, as if fleeing from the room, and went immediately to the secretariat of the scholarly community. He described the condition of the geologist-turned-archaeologist and the man's expressions—the bizarre ideas and their cryptic implications—to the top officials, who received this information with astonishment. They asked the geologist to report to them. When he complied with this request, they directed him to clarify his remarks. He responded, 'Yes . . . this perpetual existence of ours must be followed by something else." "What do you have in mind?" "Death." "'Death'? What is this word?" "I don't know. . . . I'm not at my best now. . . . It's an intuition. I believe in the existence of something we can call 'death.' We must necessarily reach it one day. Scholars, tell me the truth: Hasn't even one of you experienced a catnap as fleeting and transitory as the flickering of an eyelid and felt a strange relaxed pleasure? This instant might be prolonged and stretched out over a period of time until, transformed into this thing I call death, it becomes nonbeing." The scholars shook their heads regretfully and looked down in embarrassment, for they realized that their colleague had allowed his imagination to run wild. Thinking he would try to reason with the geologist, one of them commented, "Don't forget that you're a scientist who shouldn't chase after idle fantasies or pay attention to mere feelings. Present us with scientific proof that this thing you call death can possibly exist." The geologist removed the skull from his bag and showed it to the scholars, crying out, "Revered colleagues . . . death once existed on this earth. Here is your evidence."

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At first the scholars crowded around the skull in bewilderment, but before long they were exchanging sarcastic, suspicious, skeptical glances. Setting the skull aside dismissively, one said, "This provides no evidence for your claim. What it shows is that long ago people on earth were farther advanced in science than we are today. We used to create human beings in laboratories, hundreds of centuries ago, by growing sperm in test tubes—as if it were bacteria. But prehistoric peoples, so it appears, fabricated the human skeleton first and then breathed life into it. The cranium you brought us was a 'draft version' for the production of a human being, which for some reason was never completed." The assembled scholars unanimously endorsed this theory and cautioned the geologist against perpetuating a hoax like his for fear of confusing simple-minded people of the type enthralled by superstitions. The scholars departed, abandoning their colleague the geologist to his disgrace and failure. But he did not despair, for he felt intuitively that he was right. He went to see a dependable friend with whom he was on close terms—a person of that gentler, more delicate type that five hundred thousand years before had been termed "female." Originally the existence of this sex had been necessary for reproduction, but once that handicap was overcome, people gradually lost interest in the old-fashioned procedures. Eventually differences between the two sexes disappeared, for they no longer served any organic purpose. Over the course of time, male and female were combined in a single category. Women retained none of their former characteristics except for a certain tenderness of disposition and delicacy of build. Society no longer distinguished between the sexes and did not remember their past. The sole variety of human being was labeled "resident of the planet earth," since earth too formed a single unified society, living under the protective wing of the Committee of Refined Intellects, the planet's government, which supervised administration of its public affairs, arranging for the comfort of the earth's residents. The geologist visited his sympathetic friend and asked her, "Do you trust me?" "Yes." "Do you believe in me?" "Yes." "In that case, listen." He recounted the story, showed her the skull, and explained his beliefs, expounding his arguments in greater detail whenever he noticed a perplexed expression on her face. His claims violated the laws of nature and presented an insurmountable obstacle to the imagina-

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tion, for the words themselves were problematic. He had to find points of reference in sense experience for terms like "dissolution," "nonbeing," and "death"—an almost impossible task for someone in that era, since nothing with which people were familiar died. They did not remember the existence of other animals on earth, because those had been extinct for hundreds of thousands of years. Atomic and chemical wars had exterminated them, purging, cleansing, and ridding the planet of all mammals, reptiles, plants, birds, and fish. Man was left with the earth's interior, where he resided amid his factories and laboratories. He was nourished by chemical fumes released in his home—gases extracted from elements in the air and radioactive substances. What had once been man's stomach had contracted, and his digestive system had disappeared, along with his mouth and teeth. He had become a thinking head joined to a nose that inhaled nutrition from the air so that he could dine on gases. His hands were weak and his legs stick-like from lack of use. There was no longer any difference between a man, a sea, or a planet, for like them he was eternal and like them he had no need to labor with his hands to make a living. Indeed, he was now almost a god, not giving birth or being born, ignorant of death, knowing eternity but not perceiving yesterday or tomorrow. The geologist had trouble explaining to his friend the haunting sensation he had about his theory, because this assumed an understanding of time boundaries. Nothing is more difficult than having a discussion with a god about his past or his future, since these two terms are meaningless to one who "exists" perpetually, and it is even rougher trying to make an eternal god comprehend "beginning" and "ending." The gentle friend looked at the geologist innocently and assured him, "I believe you, but I can't comprehend it." "My friend, it really is a problem. How can I ask you to comprehend something so diffuse that I don't understand it clearly myself? Perhaps I've been mistaken. It may be that my preoccupation with the history of the earth's geological layers has led me to imagine fantastic illusions. My discipline itself is out of style. It no longer commands the respect of scholars. I'm the only one who is still an eager student of it. Scholars even assert that the thing called history does not exist and that looking for anything before our eternal present is merely the fantasy of a madman. The fact is that I don't k n o w . . . . Am I crazy? . . . Or do I see something that no one else does?" "You're not crazy." 'You have confidence in me. That pleases me, but it does not convince me. I want you to see what I see."

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"I'll try. Help me." "Yes. I'll help you. Tell me the story of your life." "My life? My life is this, always this . . . the way it is now. You know how I live. Nothing ever changes." "Yes, nothing changes in our lives. But do you remember what happened at first?" "Remember? What does 'remember' mean?" "You're right! We can't have a memory when we're not conscious of the past or of h i s t o r y . . . . " "Why tax your mind, friend, with obscure, alarming questions like this? I'm afraid for you. I fear society will criticize and scorn you. People actually are whispering behind your back and advising that you be shunned. They say you have some incomprehensible deformity." "Will you shun me too?" "No. I'm on your side, no matter what you do." "I also wish to stay with you whatever h a p p e n s . . . . What should I call this feeling?" The geologist bowed his head for a moment, as though seeking an explanation for this strange sensation. The word "love" had also been lost for hundreds of thousands of years. It vanished once the natural attraction between male and female became obsolete, as laboratories assumed responsibility for hatching the young. When love passed away, poetry and art died as well. The only emotional tie remaining was that between fellow colleagues or fellow citizens of the planet earth. True affection was rarely kindled and then only in this murky fashion that linked the geologist to his friend. Affinities of the heart had ceased—replaced by relationships between minds. For this reason the cordial bond between the scientist and his friend was extraordinarily unusual in this era, and the novelty of this feeling troubled the archaeologist's soul. His friend became anxious and said, "If only you could explain things clearly to me. . . . For the first time, I'm unable to read your thoughts." The scientist raised his head and gazed at his friend for a long time. Then he replied, "That's because my thoughts are all muddled and confused. I myself cannot deduce anything clear from them. All I can say is that I have a vague, indistinct, unfathomable feeling. . . . " "A feeling of what?" "A feeling that something must come after my 'existence.' It seems necessary for me to feel that this existence has an end." "End?" Acute strain was evident on his friend's face, the very same kind of strain that had beset mankind when a million years before they had attempted to imagine infinity.

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'Yes, my gentle friend, there is a secret hidden from us. Happiness waits for us beyond a closed door. A strange pleasure—an extraordinary form of repose—lies in a forbidden chamber where no one has set foot." "Do we have the right to hope for it?" "Yes . . . if we can learn how not to exist." "I don't understand." "This forbidden room, the chamber in which repose of a type unknown to us abides—that's what I call 'death.'" "Death?" "Yes, death." The scientist said this almost in a whisper, as if dreaming or having recourse to the illumination of some mysterious inner vision, to discern by its light the silhouette he was trying to summon into his imagination. For eternal beings to picture death certainly is a trial. If a god is incapable of doing something, this is it: to conceive of himself as dying. If a god is forbidden anything, this surely is the variety of the prohibition. "This repose, this delight, this happiness, this thing you call 'death'—you must attain it. We must attain it together, since you believe in it and I believe in you. . . . " His gentle friend spoke so tenderly that the scientist's soul was filled with confidence and hope. Their conversation ended for this session. It was naturally not a conversation in the ancient sense of the word, for man in this era no longer had a mouth or a language. Thoughts simply traveled from head to head while the people conversing sat together silently. «—p News of the geologist and his ideas were widely broadcast. He became a significant force as many partisans joined him and his friend. A band of believers rallied around him and his enthusiastic companion. He was the first prophet to have appeared in hundreds of thousands of years, for after the extinction of both pain and hope, no need had been felt for a prophetic message or for prophets. When hope reappeared in a form that made one thirst after a mysterious repose, the man dreaming and hoping was ready to spread the good news, and nothing was easier than finding followers to believe and worship as he did. Yet he had one major hurdle to overcome: the miracle that doubters and opponents of his beliefs demanded of him. There was only one miracle that they would accept from him—to cause something living to die. This was the time of his greatest anguish. How could he accomplish that all by himself? The chemists and biologists adopted a hos-

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tile and negative stance toward him. If his dream was a reality, his inspiration true, and his insight valid, some hidden power would have to come to his aid. At this juncture, for the first time in more than a million years, consciousness of the existence of a supreme god returned to manifest itself once more in the human soul. Deep inside himself that prophet proclaimed, "Unless I have deceived myself and my followers, there must exist some power greater than all others. It could assist me with this miracle." This omnipotence revealed itself, as it had to previous prophets, because it decreed that human affairs should change course in that era. Thus, a giant meteor fell from the heavens, striking the face of the earth, penetrating deep below the surface, and crushing the head of a man against the roof of his underground dwelling. The prophet and his followers rushed to the victim to see what had happened. Learning of the incident, the government hastily attempted to seize his body from the clutches of the prophet's band in order to commence restoration work on his head. When the religious enthusiasts refused to surrender him and the government representatives insisted, violence erupted and the first civil disturbance for tens of thousands of years occurred. Eventually the government triumphed and carried off the man with the crushed skull for treatment or concealment—no one knew which for sure. The prophet was arrested and put on trial. His scientific colleagues testified that he was deranged, with a dangerous imagination. He was given the sentence reserved for criminals and other troublemakers: a head "transplant" . . . a penalty comparable to the ancient practice of chopping off a person's head. After bringing him to an electronics laboratory, they zapped his brain cells with special rays that weakened them, leaving his thought calm, mild-mannered, and rudimentary. . . but lacking in character, forcefulness, or will. In this way, the personality of the prophet disappeared, although his body did not. All the same his message survived, for his friend and the other followers continued to spread his teachings covertly, assuring people that they actually had seen death in the person of the man with the crushed head and that had the government not quickly snatched the corpse away, this miracle would have been visible to everyone. « — F

During the next thousand years, religious thought burned brightly, like hot coals hidden beneath ashes. Some people of out-

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standing intellect strengthened the movement by classifying and codifying principles of the prophet's message. They clarified the concept of a supreme god with authority to grant mankind spiritual happiness and heavenly repose. Finally the religious community perceived that the only obstacle to implementation of that divine dream was the prevailing system of sternly guarding a man's body—surrounding his physical existence with an iron shield and taking such care to safeguard the body's immortality that mankind was sheltered from the charms of the spiritual world. This concept gained control over the souls of the worshipers, and one day they unleashed a violent revolution, breaking into laboratories and smashing equipment. The ruling system was destroyed and anarchy reigned. It was no longer possible to provide nutritive gases to all citizens, and some began to show symptoms of disease. The health of a number of people reached a critical stage. The rebellions of religious zealots followed each other in rapid succession. The numbers of worshipers swelled, and they became powerful enough eventually to band together in a single region, which they controlled. There they established an independent state, imposing on it their new religion. They repudiated the sovereignty of the former god—science—which had provided them with the intellect's creative power while depriving them of the benefits of the heart and the pleasures associated with the instinctual drives. They now believed in the god of creation instead—the creator of the natural world—and left their destinies to him and to nature. Over the course of the next hundreds of thousands of years death appeared and with it arrived fear, followed by an instinctual desire to preserve the human race. Once the reproductive laboratories passed into oblivion, nature breathed lust into bodies, and at this juncture the single human species split once more into male and female genders. Then love appeared, and with it came art and poetry. Thus nature and its supreme god governed earth again, and the heavenly religions returned. Poets composed verses, reciting: O Everlasting Creator, You alone are eternal and omnipotent. Our wish is to be people, nothing more. We have a sound body, a zealous heart, and a fallible intellect. O merciful nature, you alone are immortal. We desire only a life like dew's: Falling from heaven at dawn and returning there by noon.

Azrael the Barber

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IFE IS STRONGER THAN DEATH. ANYONE CONSIDERING THE

events of a single day in his life will realize the truth of this, for death haunts us at every step. All the same, we ward it off and usually escape, skipping over its snares. Life's guiding hand rescues us. Life and death have been playing the selfsame game together from the beginning of time without variation . . . the game children call blindman's buff. Life and death take turns. One hides and waits anywhere he chooses, while the other calls out, "I see you and know where you are." The lives of us poor human beings hang by all sorts of threads, even totally trivial ones: a fly's feet, a mosquito's sting, the hands of the driver or pilot operating a car, train, or airplane. You may even find that the string binding you to life has been brutally plucked and shaken by the fingers of the barber, who receives you for a shave and a haircut when you are as far as possible from suspecting any evil or danger. At the beginning of summer I went to the barber for a shave. I felt joyfully optimistic about life and had a song in my heart. I listened to the farmers sing as they led a line of camels bearing watermelons down the fanciest streets of Cairo. Sinking back in the chair, I surrendered my head to the barber, closed my eyes, and retreated into sweet reveries, welcoming with my face the artificial breeze of an electric fan. As the barber lathered my chin, I felt fully at ease. He then set about honing the razor until its blade gleamed. Taking my head in his hands, he whispered to me in a strange voice, "I hope you don't mind me saying that I've been scrutinizing you—and my hunches are never wrong. I have a small request for you." 159

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He lifted the razor from my temple expectantly, and I quickly responded, "Go ahead." Grasping my head and starting to shave me, he asked, "Sir, do you know anyone in the mental hospital?" I was astonished but calmly replied, "If your hunches, which are never wrong, disclosed on the basis of your scrutiny that I've been a resident of such an establishment, then thanks." He hastily apologized: "Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean that. I only wanted to say that my scrutiny showed you to be a benevolent and influential person who might know one of the doctors at the hospital." "Why?" "I have a crazy brother I want released." "Crazy? Has he been cured?" "He was never seriously ill. It was a trumped-up charge by the hospital. As you well know, sir, they are always locking people up by mistake. All it amounts to is that he occasionally suffers from certain delusions and imagines harmless and unobjectionable things. There's never been any wild or unruly behavior, no shrieking or bellowing, no assaults or violence. He has never caused the kind of tumult and uproar that the insane people confined in that hospital instigate." "Amazing! What did he do then to deserve being put away?" "Nothing, sir. The matter is a simple one: This brother of mine was a barber like me. He was working one morning, in fine shape. It was summer, and you well know that the heat makes one thirsty. My brother had his hand on the head of a customer no different from you. His delusions made him imagine that the head of his client was a watermelon. He had the razor in his hand and wanted to split it lengthwise." I shuddered and yelled out at once, "Split what?" "Split the watermelon . . . I mean the customer's head." T h e barber said this in a placid, natural tone of voice. T h e blood froze in my veins. At that moment my head was in his hand, and the sharp, glistening blade was gliding down my neck. I held my breath in fearful apprehension. I soon regained my composure and to please him and to reassure myself suggested in a gentle, kindly way to him, "Of course this brother was the exception in your family. . . . " His razor against my throat, he replied as calmly as ever, "The truth is that the whole family is like this. I myself occasionally imagine strange things, especially in watermelon season. I'll tell you in confidence that my brother is not to blame." A strange gleam, like that of the razor blade poised at my throat, shone in the barber's eyes. Certain I did not have long to live, I recited the Muslim credo and asked God's mercy for my soul.

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Closing my eyes I gave myself up—not to sweet reveries this time—but to my imminent death and my spirit's departure. I did not open them until I heard cologne splashing against my face and the barber saying, "Congratulations." I shook myself and rose like someone born anew. I paid, and the barber called after me, reminding me of his brother and the need to negotiate his release. I did not heed him or pay any attention. The m o m e n t I set foot in the street, I sighed deeply and swore that during watermelon season I would shave myself or at least never patronize this barber.

A Woman Who Beat the Devil

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HIS WOMAN WAS ILL-FAVORED! SPRING HAD NEVER GRACED

her, only fall and winter. She had no flowering hopes, but her tears fell like torrents of rain and her heart shed happiness like a tree losing its leaves. A chill deprivation of bodily pleasures had cordoned her off from the rest of the world, leaving her an island of despair in the ocean of existence. This was how she lived and how she would die, without ever experiencing a man's embrace. Her lips knew nothing but prayers to a deaf heaven and curses on a merciless destiny. One night when violent winds were raging and angry gales howling, not outside her chamber but inside her soul, she exclaimed so loudly that the cry shook her whole hideous being: "Satan! You're all that's left!" She bowed her head as if in a swoon. Then the walls cracked open, and the devil appeared before her as he had once visited the scholar Faust. Satan's ears never miss an invitation, for he has acute hearing and is quick to respond to a plea. He asked her, "What do you want, woman?" "Beauty, life, enjoyment. . . . " She spoke these words like a thirsty person murmuring "water" in a trackless desert. The devil continued, "Do you know the price?" "Ask whatever you want in return." "Your spirit to take to h e l l . . . . This is my task on earth: pursuing souls with which to populate my kingdom, hell, in order to see ultimately who wins the greater number: I who sit on the inferno's throne or the other fellow who occupies the throne of paradise."

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"Grant me enjoyment on earth for ten years. Then after that take me wherever you want. Hell does not frighten me, for my life is already hell." "It's a deal. You can enjoy life for ten years, but after that you're mine." Once they had drafted the document for this contract with the woman's own blood, she signed it. Then the devil placed his hand upon the woman's body, and she trembled convulsively. He gestured toward the mirror on the wardrobe. Gazing at it she saw dazzling beauty burst forth like a shooting star . . . her new loveliness. Was this her body? Was she so splendidly and magnificently alluring? The woman taught herself to drink deeply from the spring of life. She plunged her body into the sea of delights and sported there until the passing days carried her to the tenth year. Then she floated to the surface like a swollen skin filled to the brim with enjoyment. Clutching the contract in his hand, the devil came to remind her that the deadline was drawing near. She replied, "Yes... I remember . . . b u t . . . " "But what?" "There's one delight I still thirst for. . . ." "Is there any enjoyment you haven't tasted yet?" "Spiritual enjoyment! According to the contract you are obliged to grant me this pleasure too. Didn't you agree to provide me every possible enjoyment for ten years? I have two more months before time runs out. I've grown weary of bodily pleasures but feel an intense thirst for spiritual enjoyment. Grant me this delight for two months and then take my soul to hell." "Your request is granted. As you can see, I honor the terms of my contracts faithfully." He disappeared. Left alone, the woman at once removed all her bangles and discarded her frippery. Donning the coarse attire of ascetics, she set out to perform the ritual duties of the pilgrimage. By losing herself in heavenly meditations and devoting herself to good deeds, she progressed far on the path of an elevated life of purity. When the two months had elapsed, the devil came to demand his end of the bargain. He trembled at the sight of her. What beauty enveloped her being! Not the flaming gleam of a shooting star, but a calm, profound glow that could only have come from a higher source. Although the devil was terrified, he braced himself and advanced on the woman. "The hour has arrived," he announced. "Come with me to hell." "Let's go," the woman replied obediently and submissively, her voice revealing no wish to procrastinate, for she felt none.

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The devil set off, with her trailing behind him. When they reached the gates of hell, the fallen angels sensed the arrival of their monarch and opened wide the portals. The king of hell entered, and the woman tried to follow him. Yet no sooner had her feet touched the threshold than a breeeze swept through hell causing the tongues of fire to retreat before it. Fear crept into the hearts of the fallen angels, and Satan was astonished. In alarm he shouted: "What's this? What is this?" And the denizens of the inferno echoed his cry. Then the hands of the angels guarding heaven reached out and snatched away the woman. They called to the devil, "This woman is ours." Satan replied, "No, she's mine. I hold a contract on her spirit. Look at this!" "We don't scrutinize contracts. We examine spirits, and this is one of the heavenly souls." "No, one of the souls of hell. . . marked with our infernal stamp for ten years." "But during the past two months the breath of paradise has suffused i t . . . this gentle breeze that seems a violent gale to you, overcoming your fires. Your flames cannot withstand it." "Then this woman has deceived me." At that moment the woman, who was in the angels' hands, yelled, "I haven't deceived you. I'm true to my word. Take me to hell. Angels, let me go to the inferno. That's what I promised. It's right to honor a promise. I'm not going to violate an agreement, not even with the devil." Satan taunted the angels: "Hear that? She's mine. Let her join me." The angels dragged her toward heaven, explaining, "If she had denied and disavowed you now, we would have handed her back." "What logic! She cries out, confessing that she is mine, and this is supposed to be an argument against me and evidence refuting me? She acknowledges the contract and admits that her spirit is mine. . . . " "Yes, her first spirit, but where is it now? She gave you her original spirit. Search for it. Her present spirit is ours. Let's go, pure lady." The woman implored them: "It's a crime for me to fail to honor my obligation. By your Lord, allow me to go to him so I can atone for my first sins." The angels replied, "You no longer have those first sins. They have evaporated in the light of your latter-day purity." "Then don't expose me to the new sin of trying to weasel out of a contract that should be honored." "This doesn't concern you. Hurry up. Let's go."

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Satan yelled, "How amazing! A virtuous woman seeks to safeguard the sanctity of her word and you incite her to act like the lowest type of c r e a t u r e . . . . " The angels gloated, "You admit she is a virtuous woman? Where do virtuous women go? To heaven or to hell?" By this time, Satan was disgusted with the lot of them and snorted, "Disaster strike you! Take her and leave me alone. It's just a woman's soul, isn't it? She's nothing but a woman. So let her go . . . to hell. . . heaven, I mean. But I will never forget that she duped me. She tricked me the day she called virtue fun."

The Unknown Lover

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HO WAS HE? I DID NOT KNOW WHO HE WAS. HOW COULD I?

The origin of all my misfortunes was not knowing who he was. Had I discovered his identity in time, what transpired might never have taken place. T h e story is a simple one, the sort that could h a p p e n to anyone anywhere: An automobile driven by a friend passes you on the street. He stops and graciously invites you to get in, offering to take you wherever you want to go. What is strange or alarming about that? Nothing, to be sure . . . and this is exactly what h a p p e n e d to me. O n e a f t e r n o o n I was slowly walking h o m e alone, contentedly eyeing my surroundings—for walking is both beneficial and delightful—when a luxurious car stopped beside me. A friend leaned out of the window to gesture to me, inviting me for a ride. I wanted to decline, preferring the exercise of walking, but he insisted adamantly. He o p e n e d the car door and got out to take my hand and seat me in his place. When I approached the vehicle and peered in, I was astonished, for the driver was a young woman, the most beautiful I had ever seen, and the seat proffered was next to her. I did not think good taste would allow me to decline. In fact, before I knew what I was doing, I was in the automobile and speeding away. My friend, in the back seat, asked about my destination, but I did not know what to reply. There is a kind of beauty that stuns insight in exactly the same way that car headlights blind the eyes. Once they have been dazzled, you need time to r u b your eyes before they can see. Similarly, your paralyzed discernment requires

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a few m o m e n t s for you to revive it. Eventually the intoxication faded, b u t by then the shadow of my house a n d every trace of it h a d vanished b e h i n d us. Regaining my senses I shouted, "My house! My house!" T h e lovely driver stopped the automobile at once, intending to turn and go back on our tracks. At that m o m e n t another car, coming from behind us, blocked our turn and stopped. A m a n frothing with anger j u m p e d out and ran in our direction. I saw him h e a d toward m e and grasp the handle of the door to wrench it open. T h e sparks flying from his eyes led m e to believe that h e m e a n t me harm. T h e n I heard my friend, who was sitting b e h i n d me, yell, "He's caught you! Get out of here as fast as you can." T h e young lady, whose face was, I noticed, turning pale—although it seemed even in its pallor as beautiful as a white rose washed with yellow—gunned the engine. Racing the wind, she left b e h i n d us the man, who stepped aside for fear of being hit or struck. O u r car shot down the Giza road like an arrow. Glancing in her rear-view mirror the beauty shouted, "He's following us." She increased her speed dramatically, but I noticed the car behind us was increasing its speed too. I asked my fellow passengers, "What's this all about?" T h e woman seemed rattled, and my friend hesitated a little before replying, "It appears that there's b e e n a traffic violation." I believed him and fell silent. T h e automobile traversed Giza and sped off down the road to the pyramids. T h e beauty looked in the mirror again and shouted, "He's gaining on us!" My friend yelled, "Increase your speed. Quickly. . . faster. . . . If he catches us, we're doomed." T h e lovely lady did go fast! Looking b e h i n d m e I saw that the m a n was also going extraordinarily fast. I could n o t keep myself f r o m exclaiming, "How odd! What does this man want f r o m us? If we had at least collided with him or caused him obvious h a r m , h e would have had some excuse, b u t he pursues us for a simple traffic infraction, compelling us to a d o p t this perilous speed, destroying o u r peace of m i n d and spoiling o u r serenity. . . . God's curses on this idiot!" It seemed to m e that my friend's voice trembled when he said, "That's t r u e . . . . He is an idiot." Lost in my brooding reflections, thinking only of the risk posed to our lives by this lethal and unnecessary speed, I asked myself, "Are we such cowards? Why haven't we thought of facing u p to the man and talking over the disagreement in a friendly fashion? Perhaps h e would be mollified by a polite gesture."

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When I candidly disclosed this thought to my companions, they smiled but did not volunteer a response. They maintained an anxious silence as the automobile was pushed to its limit in that terrifying race. At this time, the car in pursuit was on the verge of catching us. My friend shouted at the beautiful woman, "The best thing is to make an abrupt u-turn and go back the way we came. He won't be expecting that and we'll lose him." The beauty suddenly rotated the steering wheel, and the car spun around. Just as it began to race back in the other direction, we discovered that the man trailing us had also made a u-turn, but not in the street. His car had gone over the sidewalk to come straight toward us and block the road. My friend started screaming at the driver, "Go on the sidewalk too. Fast!" My patience was exhausted. I opened the car door, saying, "This is childish. Let me out. I'll try to reach an agreement with the fellow." They both grabbed me by the cuff, shouting at me, "Reach an agreement! Impossible! Out of the question! Stay where you are. We'll take off. Flight's the only answer." Struggling to free my arm, I got out and told them, "You may want to play games, but I'm too old for that. I'm not up to cat-andmouse chases. You go on and leave me here to talk to this man about the minor traffic violation. I'll settle the matter with him through friendly negotiation." The man had disembarked and was approaching me at a rapid clip. When the lovely driver and my friend saw that, they fled. They got the car free by commandeering the sidewalk. The hostile man watched until they disappeared from sight. Then he continued to advance on me. Before I could say anything, he blurted out, "At last, you've fallen into my hands, you criminal." I gave him a critical look but said, calmly and forbearingly, "Criminal? I wasn't driving. I've never driven a car in my entire life. I don't know how they work or run." "Of course. . . . She's the one driving and steering. You were sitting beside her, gazing into her black eyes." "Oh . . . don't remind me of her eyes. By God, I was so dazzled by them that I didn't notice what color they were . . . black, gray, or amber. I certainly am astonished that a refined, cultured, and discreet gentleman like yourself would act this way with an enchantress like her. Suppose, sir, that she has committed an offense and made an error, wouldn't it be best for you to overlook it?" "Overlook it, scoundrel!? What do you take me for? Do you think I'll be indulgent in affairs like these? I'll show you that the person standing before you is a man."

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H e immediately pulled a small revolver f r o m his pocket. When I saw that, my heart sank to my feet, but I steeled myself and resolved to stay calm. Affecting a smile, I said forbearingly, "May God forgive you and be gracious to you. Do you want to kill me, sir, over an insignificant affair like this?" "Insignificant!? Insignificant, you wretch? You call this affair insignificant?" "I mean . . . I h o p e you won't mind if I say that it's not o n e meriting so m u c h anger on your part. This kind of thing happens every day . . . especially with a beautiful lady who can be forgiven anything." "She can be forgiven everything except recklessness." "By God, she was being exceptionally cautious until you suddenly showed up. . . . Perhaps that was what u n n e r v e d her." "Of course my sudden appearance upset her and m a d e her feel uncomfortable and embarrassed." "It did more than that, sir. If you'll forgive my saying so, you disr u p t e d our enjoyment of this delightful outing. H a d you been gracious to us, generously disposed and ready to overlook the situation, or a good sport, allowing us to continue on our way for this blissful excursion, you would have caused our tongues to thank you profusely, praise you, and call down blessings u p o n you." "God's will be done! Never in my life have I encountered anyone m o r e brazen than you. I swear that I now feel able to shed your blood with a clear conscience." The glint of his eyes alarmed me, and I implored him to turn the revolver away from me. I tried to appease him by saying, "Not so fast, sir . . . take it easy. Calm your unruly nerves. No matter what may have happened, what fault of mine was it? Why do you hold me responsible for the incident when in actuality I am merely a mediator? I stepped out of the car to reach an understanding with you and to put your heart at ease." "Amazing! Did you imagine I would accept you as a mediator and peacemaker from her?" "Why not?" "Are you the right person to arrange a truce between me and your partner? Would I agree to this arrangement? Is that conceivable, you . . . you dunce!?" "I considered it a sensible approach." "This is an approach of exceptionally daring insolence." "There is n o might or power save God's! I admit that I have been unable to satisfy you. All h o p e of understanding you or your desires is a b a n d o n e d . So kill m e if you wish, but with my dying breath I beg you

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at least to explain why I am to die. If I had been responsible, God forbid, for a punctured tire, that would be a comprehensible reason for killing me, but I die, O world, for a trivial affair." 'Trivial!? Vile wretch! In what age do we live that we meet with braggadocio like this and nonchalance about such a weighty offense?" "You should ask, rather, in what age we live to see sacrificed for a technical infraction meriting at most a fifteen piaster fine a life that God has forbidden us to destroy." "Infraction? This is a capital offense!" "I assure you that it's only an infraction, and I'm well versed in the law." "Shut up! You're nothing but a scofflaw!" "And you're an abnormally violent person." "What impudence! Don't you expect a person to resort to violence to defend his legal rights?" "Your rights, sir, are not in danger. If any damage had been done to her or to you . . . " "No damage done? Are you even unwilling to admit that harm has befallen me?" "I don't mean that, sir. I confess that my judgment in this area is not to be relied on, but I am ready to solicit an inspection, bringing to the case the expertise of a trained professional to conduct an examination." "Conduct an examination? Hush your filthy tongue." "By God, I can no longer think of anything that would satisfy you." "Nothing will satisfy me except killing you, drinking your blood, and cleansing my dishonor with that polluted liquid." "Why, respected sir? What in the world have I done to deserve this?" "That's the sole penalty for the sin that has fouled my family honor." "Family honor? What bearing does that have on our dispute?" 'To what category would you consign your disgraceful relationship with my wife?" "Your wife? Have I had the honor of making her acquaintance?" "Don't you know her?" "I've never seen her in my life. I swear to you." "Who's your lover then?" "My lover? No, good s i r . . . . Don't offend my sensibilities. I'm an upright person without any tie to a woman. I don't even know any women."

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"And the person sitting beside you in the automobile . . . was she a woman . . . or . . . ?" "Oh . . . you're right, but the fact of the matter is that I was walking home in the most normal possible way when an automobile stopped beside me. I got in and found myself next to a woman." "As might happen when you board a bus?" "Precisely!" "Do you know this woman?" "Not at all." "She picked you up on the street like that without ever having met you?" "By God, this is what happened." "That conduct really reflects well on a woman . . . to become in effect a public conveyance, collecting from the streets both those she knows and those she doesn't." "Don't blame her, mister. There's an explanation for this conduct." I intended to tell him the truth of what had happened—candidly, veraciously, and in full detail, but paused at once, realizing that this was impossible, for I would inevitably find myself forced to mention the presence of my friend, who had invited me. Her husband had obviously not noticed him, since this friend was in the rear seat of the car and her husband's attention was focused exclusively on the person in the front seat beside his spouse. Although it was nothing to boast about, I was that person. Disclosing my friend's involvement would not change the situation much. In either case, the wife would be at fault. How could I know whether her husband would believe me if I attempted to shift the guilt from my shoulders to those of another man, whom he had not seen. All I would gain from this maneuver would be the ignominy of cowardice, baseness, slander, and backbiting. Moreover, at the beginning of our conversation, I had erred by extolling the eyes of his wife, her charm, and the impact of her enchantment on my soul, as well as the delight of the outing ruined by the arrival of her husband. Thus my own words and deeds had virtually convicted me of the charge. No power or argument could have absolved me. It was senseless to deny the accusation and pointless to try to defend myself. I would have to trust in God, allowing the man to believe whatever he wished, come what may. Observing my silence and bowed head, her husband challenged me, "Speak.. . . What can you say? How can you explain your pres-

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ence next to my wife in the car? How can you justify the fact that you two fled from me as I chased you from Cairo to Giza and then to the pyramids?" I found no satisfactory answer in my head. As previously mentioned, the facts were not fit to be repeated and the truth did not afford a means of escape. So I contented myself with the admission: 'The real puzzle, sir, is how to supply a convincing explanation." "So confess. And since we have arrived at this conclusion, it is mandatory that we resolve this issue through the reliance on intellect, wisdom, and composure befitting two refined gentlemen. First of all, tell me candidly: You love her, of course, don't you?" I saw no reason to concern myself with giving a truthful answer, for the affair had reached a point where truth and falsity were equally irrelevant. It was possible that lies in this case would be more believable than the facts and thus might deliver me from an apparently hopeless maze. So I told him, "You ask if I love her? I love her so madly I can't sleep at night." "Of course, she loves you?" "She worships me and cannot sleep at night." Restraining his anger and trying to remain calm, he asked, "How long have you known each other?" "Half an hour." Looking me straight in the face, he exclaimed, "What rubbish is this? Does this make sense? I told you to answer me candidly." "I'm answering you as I see fit. It's up to you to sort out the fraudulent from the genuine." "Your last answer was obviously a lie. Please tell me the truth." 'That was the only lie out of everything I've told you. Forgive me." "One thing that's certain is that you must have known each other for a long time." "Let me tell you the truth then. In fact we met and became acquainted a year ago, and since then our relationship has continued on the best of terms." "Great. . . . Hear this then. I have determined to divorce her, and it will be up to you to marry her. Don't imagine that there can be any other solution." Swallowing, I suppressed my real feelings, pretended to smile, and attempted to appear content. The important thing was to emerge from the present situation and to escape from the current predicament. Once I had returned to my domicile, God might provide some relief. Before I appeared to face the notary for the mar-

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riage contract, I might encounter my friend, box his ears, and convince him to take my place, thus freeing myself. The husband and I agreed to this settlement and shook hands. Then he gave me a ride in his car to the home I had been unable to reach in his wife's vehicle. I waited and am still waiting today. No one has appeared: not the husband, his wife, or my friend. The divorce has not taken place nor have I been requested to marry. Where have the heroes of this story been concealing themselves? What has become of them? What course have their relationships with each other taken? These are secrets beyond my ken, and I do not wish to discover the answers. All I know is that I flinch and shudder whenever an automobile pulls up beside me, if it is driven by a woman.

The Killer Confessed

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HE POSTURE ADOPTED BY THE

DEFENDANT VIS-À-VIS HIS

judges seemed amazing. Was the young man with the slender body, pale complexion, calm demeanor, and smiling lips a murderer in the dock or a poet in a fragrant bower? He surveyed the courtroom like an author in his loge watching his own play, expecting everything to unfold before his eyes precisely as imagined and planned, confident that events would proceed according to his whims and expectations. His eyes betrayed none of the apprehension of a person confronting the unknown and his heart harbored none of the anxiety of an individual awaiting the voice of destiny. He appeared to feel that he had forged his own future and sealed his fate. The courtroom was packed, and a police cordon pushed crowds away from the doors, for this crime, which had shaken the ruling elite, had attracted the attention of the whole nation. The prosecutor stood up to demand the death penalty, proclaiming, "My task is simple, your honors. The defendant has admitted his guilt. He planned this crime meticulously and executed it expertly. With premeditation and advance preparation he deliberately murdered a renowned political figure by firing a revolver at the victim, while aboard an aircraft en route from Alexandria to Cairo, striking him in the chest as specified in the coroner's report, and thus causing his death. We can summarize the details of the crime as witnessed by the radio operator of the plane in this manner: On that day there were only two passengers—the victim and the defendant. Although the radio operator and the pilot noticed symptoms of emotional dis-

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tress in the defendant when he boarded, they attributed no particular significance to this until after the plane had taken off and flown most of the way to Cairo. Then, through the open door connecting the cockpit to the cabin, the radio operator sensed movement behind him and, wheeling around, saw the victim fall from his seat. The defendant was standing, a revolver in his hand, in front of the victim. Rushing to the defendant, the wireless operator seized the murder weapon and took custody of it. On being questioned, the assailant confessed to premeditated murder. During the subsequent inquiry it became clear that the defendant, a teacher in one of the private schools of Alexandria, frequently visited Cairo, and that he—as the principal of his school revealed—was in troubled financial condition. He kept much to himself, and his life was surrounded by mystery. His colleagues testified that during breaks he often wrote on the sly to an unknown party and that they had on many occasions observed a facial expression of almost passionate concern and concentration when he received or read the numerous letters coming to him from a source he did not reveal to them. They assumed that the defendant felt alienated from them, for he conversed little with them and steered clear of their merry reunions and entertainments. They never saw him laugh or jest. He was always brooding about something beyond their ken. He appeared to shun their company and to avoid it. On the day of the incident, his teaching colleagues observed him receive a telegram. After he had read it, his expression changed and he asked the time. In an agitated, impetuous manner he declared that he was heading for the airport to catch a plane to Cairo. At that moment they saw him draw from his clothing a revolver, which—after examining it—he returned to his pocket. These facts have been established by the inquiry and the defendant has confirmed them. Yes, the defendant has confessed to the outrage he committed. The distressing question on everyone's lips is whether he had accomplices. Unfortunately, the investigation could not pry a single name from this malefactor's mouth. Throughout the inquiry he denied that anyone else had a hand in this crime, maintaining the uncanny composure that you witness now. No methodical interrogation, meticulous accumulation of evidence, brilliant stratagem, or ringing argument could succeed in shaking, goading, or prompting him to abandon his resolve and his smile. Never during my lengthy legal career have I encountered a criminal of such cunning determination. There was absolutely no way to force this beaming youth to break and spill his secrets. He has been an icy mountain surrounded by fog or even a mystic's tranquil redoubt sheltering, almost certainly, a gang of confederates and groups of murderous terrorists. This killer's attitude

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has left the investigators baffled, as he has not even been willing to divulge the political motives for which he committed this crime. He has remained throughout, just as you see him now, free of pride or vainglory. No boasting words have betrayed him. He has not attempted to cloak his action with the glittering raiments of nationalist bywords or patriotic slogans. He has chosen to leave his deed free of any justification or explanation, for fear of tripping himself up or of providing with his words some route, however camouflaged, into the castle of his secrets. His only statement was: 'I killed deliberately. I deserve to die on the gallows. So hurry up with it. Don't waste my time or yours with futile exercises.' "This criminal has carried out his mission. He wishes to be rubbed out quickly, to be destroyed like a document containing information no one should see. The evil of this man will not cease with his execution, since he dies in order that further assassinations may take place. If you opened this man's skull, you would find a string of crimes and the names of victims whose hour draws nigh, as he is well aware. He also knows whose hand will wreak violence on them. "Your honors, before you is a dangerous man! Do not allow yourselves to be deceived by this silky veil of mild-mannered gentility, for hidden beneath it is the evil soul of a murderous criminal. I will recount for you the documented evidence of my files and reports concerning the psyche of this criminal and his political motivation." The prosecutor paused for a moment to sip water from a glass on his podium. This he did with a smooth gesture of self-satisfied grandeur. The defendant cast the prosecutor a look that mixed sarcasm with a certain tenderness. The prosecutor continued his presentation through the course of that day, and everyone absorbed it with eager ears and astonished eyes. The sole exception was the defendant, who was eventually overcome by a wave of fatigue and slept in his chair until the guards roused him at the session's close to lead him off to jail. The following day, they escorted him back, so he could hear the prosecutor continue. He had not concluded his case against the defendant, and no one knew when he would. Hoping that each turning leaf would shorten his life by another day, the defendant watched the prosecutor flip the pages of the brief. Even so, anxiety started to gain control of him and annoyance wore away at his patience more than he would have liked. What business of his was all this talk? He no longer counted as an inhabitant of the earth. En route to another world, he resembled a train passenger who has cut his ties with his home town in order to make his way toward a faraway land, only to be detained by people wanting him to listen to a lengthy discussion of matters that do not regard or interest

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him. The torment would not end with this prosecutor. His own attorney was armed with an even more massive brief and would also seek to make his presentation last for days. He had not retained an attorney and had not wished to present any defense at his trial. The court had appointed this lawyer for him, since judicial etiquette required a defense counsel, whether the defendant wanted one or not. That was 'justice." Alternating between slumber and wakefulness, the defendant passed his time in this manner, until a momentary silence caught his attention. He observed the prosecutor pour himself a drink of water and wipe the profuse perspiration from his brow. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, the defendant rose to address the tribunal with a delivery that forced everyone to listen and blended together delicacy, politeness, sarcasm, and ingratiation: "Your honors, I have not wished to interrupt the presentation of the prosecutor, for I am one of his most ardent admirers and fans, listening with interest and enjoyment to his eloquence. I understand that the circumstances require him to go on at great length. The victim was a prominent figure, and the public is interested in the case. Everyone is discussing the motives and goals of the act. Therefore the prosecutor is obliged to make his presentation last for at least a day or two, whether or not there is any actual need. He has had to exert himself till his throat goes dry and his sweat drips, in order to merit the audience's applause for his zeal and outstanding presentation. I also understand that the court needs to keep an open mind, to listen attentively for a long time, to take every precaution, and to consider all the testimony, so that you can gain the praise of people for your justice and fairness. Indeed, I even understand that the attorney appointed to defend me, who at present, as you can see, is up to his ears in papers (since he is preparing to deliver a lengthy statement that will neither advance nor retard matters, for it will not change or affect my fate), hopes to attain popular renown and reputation in this way. You are all servants of justice.' I have no doubt of that. But you would certainly not be blamed if you placed me at the head of an impressive procession, with you following close behind, strutting and shouting, in plain view of the multitudes, slowing down or halting to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. My only request is that you speed up the procession a little. Besides that, it does not bother me at all if you make your reputations on the last breaths of a dying man." He sat down as calmly as he had risen, and the chamber was pervaded by a chilly silence, broken only when the presiding judge signaled to the prosecutor to continue his presentation. No one dared to express any reaction to the defendant's statement. The prosecutor

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proceeded to wind up his case, closing with a request for the defendant to be sentenced to death, in accordance with the law. When the prosecutor had stepped down, the presiding judge called out, "The defense." T h e defense attorney rose, removed his spectacles, and placing them on his papers, said, "Your honors, if the prosecutor's task was easy, as he admitted, mine is difficult, not because my goal is to save the head of a killer who has admitted the crime, but because the defendant, I believe for the first time in the history of criminal justice, has treated his own attorney as an enemy. Yes, the defendant has been my sole adversary in this case. He is the only one whom I have feared and who has been afraid of me, the only one who has tried to evade me and whom I have tried to dodge, who has kept silent with me and with whom I have been unable to share my thoughts. The prosecutor complained about the defendant's sealed lips, even though the d e f e n d a n t confessed to him. Who is more entitled to complain and more justified? I have only been able to obtain f r o m him this sarcastic statement: 'If duty obliges you to do something in court, recite the opening prayer of the Q u r ' a n for me in a loud voice.' "The defendant wants to die, and for this reason it was only natural for him to consider the prosecutor his friend and his own attorney an enemy. I don't know what made me resolve to go against him and, unknown to him, to proceed with my investigations, to dig until I uncovered things that will stir his anger and wrath against me. Perhaps my motive was the search for fame he mentioned, that desire for popular renown. So be it. I will not try to claim that I have any personal interest in the defendant's fate, but saving him, even though he does not want it, is a question that interests me. "Your honors, you will not hear me present any defense of the defendant. What you will hear is a story merely relating the events as they happened, without any commentary or embellishment. "A few years ago, the defendant was a student in the Faculty of Arts. People who knew him then portray him as a diligent young man of good character with a preference for solitude and a penchant for poetry. He was not loud, frivolous, or merry. He passed his first years there without attracting anyone's attention. During his third year, some of his comrades began to sense a growing bond between him and a coed of the same year. This relationship continued in a more overt form during their final year, despite the efforts of the couple to conceal it. The two of them were of a similar character: secretive and cautious, but the inner tie binding them became so powerful and intense that it could not be hidden. Their mere presence together was

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enough to radiate a feeling of mutual dedication so sincere that it would arouse in the observer a shiver of astonishment. Subsequently it was learned that the roots of their silent love reached back to the beginning of the first year, to the day they met in class for the first time. More than two years had passed as it developed out of sight before its blooms matured and betrayed their desire for secrecy. Their goal and compact was that they should both obtain degrees from the Faculty of Arts and that then he would ask her family's permission for an engagement. They would marry once he found a position good enough to support them. The time for the final examination approached, and the young couple worked so hard that their efforts made them forget the body and what it can endure. Love with its whip scorched the backs of these race horses to make them gallop all the way to the finish line. These two reached the first hurdle and mastered the examination, but one f e l l . . . fell ill with tuberculosis. It was the young woman. "The tragedy commences at this point. Illness bound the couple together with a bond of more than human contrivance. He quickly asked her family for permission to become engaged . . . yet his struggle to find a cure for her has been mind-boggling. "Her family had only limited resources as did his own. He accomplished the impossible and landed a position as a teacher in that private school in Alexandria. He struggled heroically until he succeeded in having his fiancée admitted to the Helwan Sanatorium. He instructed the physicians and nurses to spare no effort in caring for his beloved invalid, for he was ready to bear all the expenses, even if it had to be with his blood. In fact he sacrificed his blood, mind, and strength, giving private lessons in addition to his demanding workload at the school, so he could gather enough money to pay for her nursing care and treatment. He made a point of visiting her once a week to encourage her and to urge her to be steadfast in enduring the burdens of ill health. He made many trips to Cairo. Despite all his efforts, his resources remained meager and he resorted to borrowing money from the school administration, fellow teachers, and finally from loan sharks. The public prosecutor was certainly correct in citing the testimony of the school's principal concerning the financial distress in which the defendant had landed himself. If spirit were a commodity pawned or traded in the marketplace, this young man would not have hesitated to bargain it away in order to save the life of his beloved. Listen to one of his letters to her: 'If only I could exchange years of my life for each breath you take! My darling, how inadequate medicine is! Why can't you share my lungs? If only I could breathe for you! Be brave, darling, for my sake. It is the

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air conveying the fragrance of your existence that keeps me alive. You must live so I may too.' "She loved him of course, but I have not had access to her letters to him, since he has kept them from me, as I mentioned. I have only been able to obtain his letters to her. Listen to this letter in answer to one from her: 'Do you rebuke me for the thought of following you at the hour you leave this terrestrial sphere? You might as well rebuke a man who dies of strangulation for not breathing anymore. . . . What life would I have on this earth after you are gone? How could I live? Darling, rest assured that heaven has bound your spirit to mine and that the moment you ascend I shall too.' "The letters continue in this vein. I have a large bundle of them in my files, for—as the witnesses have mentioned—the defendant wrote a great deal during his free time. The witnesses noticed then on his face signs of concern and symptoms of emotional stress. He wrote her a letter every day. "Eventually her condition deteriorated. When death neared, he was at work in Alexandria. As she lay dying, she kept repeating his name. Her family sent him a telegram asking him to come quickly, since she was taking her last breaths. "The telegram reached him when he was emerging from a class. As he read it, he blanched and his tongue became dumb. He went to the staff room, threw down his book and notebooks, and checked to see that he still had his revolver, for he had taken the necessary steps to prepare himself, anticipating that this would be how his tragedy ended. Afraid that he would reach her after her spirit had escaped, he decided to take the plane. All of this was witnessed by his fellow teachers and mentioned by the prosecutor. All of it is beyond dispute. "The defendant boarded the airplane. He was alone except for one other passenger, to whom he paid no attention. The plane took off and soared away, the thoughts of this voyager to death soaring with it. Would he reach her before it was too late? If only the plane would go a little faster! It seemed pinned to the sky! Even with a thousand wings, the airplane would not have outstripped his flying reason or his yearning heart. Suddenly an amazing thing happened. He distinctly heard her voice pronounce his name and sensed a tremor pass through his body. Then he was conscious that his eyes saw something of an unearthly substance pass like a fleeting ray—penetrating the aircraft and ascending from it into the sky. At that moment he felt certain that she had surrendered up her spirit. And this was in fact the case. Her family told me that at the final moment she shouted his name. I have no doubt that he heard her voice in the airplane at the same time. I do not doubt that the

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young man's condition changed and that peace descended upon him. He no longer felt himself mortal and saw no need to continue the flight. The lifeless corpse on the bed was no concern of his. "Her spirit had just passed by him, as if calling him to join her at once. The young man took out his revolver, pointed it at his head, and fired. But at this moment, fate intervened. The airplane shook violently, and the trajectory of the bullet was altered so that it struck not the defendant's head but the chest of the other passenger, sitting a row behind. "The defendant was terrified at first and forgot his own concerns temporarily. He rushed to the victim to try to help, but the radio operator sensed this movement, rose from his seat, and hastened to the critically injured man. Seeing the revolver in the defendant's hand, he felt not an atom of doubt. Seizing the lethal weapon, he took custody of it. The defendant realized now that he would be suspected of murder and after a moment's reflection decided that this would provide him with an alternative route to his intended destination, since confessing to premeditated murder would guarantee him the death he wanted. "Your honors, this is the evidence I have at hand, and I would like the prosecutor to reopen the inquiry once more to confirm that this defendant has misled him and that in this dock is a wounded heart whose only wish now is to join his beloved in heaven." The defense attorney sat down quietly, leaving judges, prosecutor, and spectators sunk in a kind of stupor. Silence enveloped the chamber. Then a faint sob was heard. Turning in that direction, the judges saw that the defendant had lowered his head and that he was trying his best to contain himself and his emotions. He fought with himself but lost control. The serenity that had amazed everyone deserted him, and in a tremulous voice, he screamed through the courtroom, "This attorney is a liar . . . a prevaricator. Everything he's said has been lies and prevarications. I'm the killer. I committed premeditated murder. Premeditated! Kill me. . . . Kill me!" Then he started weeping. Tears streaked down his cheeks as if recording legal precedents for the court's verdict.

The Birth of a Thought

W h a t ' s shaking the walls of my head?" "A thought." "What do you want?" "To get out." "Now? In the middle of the night? When everyone else is asleep and I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open?" 'Yes, n o w . . . . If I don't make my appearance now, I never will." "Don't you see I'm yawning and barely in control of my faculties? Couldn't you wait till morning?" "I can't. I've got to come out now." "Why did you pick a time like this when I'm falling asleep?" "I'm not the one choosing. I've evolved in your head the way a fetus develops in its mother's belly. Now I'm mature and ready for delivery." "Why haven't I been conscious of you? My head has felt as empty as a waterskin with holes in it." "Unknown to you, I have been growing over a long period of time. Now that I'm fully formed, the m o m e n t has come for me to be delivered." "Delivered where?" "To the w o r l d . . . to paper. Rouse yourself from your lethargy and set me down on paper. Expose me to the world at large." "What a conceited idea you are! . . . What impact would your delivery have on the world?" "Who knows? Perhaps this event will change the face of the world, add to its beauty, or transform it in a most significant way." 183

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"Because of you?" "Yes . . . me! It won't be the first time I've had this effect. The pyramids you see from your window were once an idea. The electricity illuminating your room was an idea. This radio bringing you the voice of the world was an idea. Progressive movements in the world began as ideas. The religions that have exalted mankind were sparked by an idea. The art delighting human beings is the shimmering sparkle of an idea. Indeed all the manifestations of civilization are the offspring of ideas. The only difference between the human species and other types of animals is that human beings give birth to ideas, while other animals do not. So rise and shed your laziness. Rejoice: there's an idea in your head." "Am I the only person with an idea in his head? Don't the heads of millions of people contain ideas?" "Yes, but very few emerge." "So your value comes from emerging? . . . " 'Yes, and in living . . . that's the most powerful event on earth. If you're interested in figures, take pen and paper. You'll reach an amazing conclusion. There are more than a billion people on earth. If you assume that only a million of them produce an idea each century, then there would be a million ideas alive every hundred years, and not even this happens. A century that produces ten ideas lives on, benefits people, and is called a renaissance or a golden age for mankind." "It's not enough then for you to escape from my h e a d ? . . . " "No, that doesn't suffice. Every day numerous ideas spring from the heads of thinkers, poets, artists, and scholars—especially now that the output has doubled as multitudes of professionals dedicate themselves to the trade, filling journals and books with ideas. Each thinker claims that his thoughts are created from the dough of eternity, but most are made from nothing more remarkable than the dough of the pastries that melt in our mouths with tea each morning." "I thought the important thing was just for you to emerge from my head." "What's really important is my life after that." "Your life seems less critical than its l e n g t h . . . . " "You're right! I might live for only a year like a stylish innovation. . . . That appears to be the silliest type of life." "How many years do you want to live after emerging from my head?" "Years longer than you at any rate . . . many times the length of your life, at least. I hope to see you in your grave, your bones decaying, while I, in full bloom, am still in the best of health."

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"Damn you and your hopes." "Wouldn't you like me to survive you?" "No, I'd like to outlive you, if only by an hour." "What kind of life would you have if your ideas were already dead? What enjoyment does a father get from a long, solitary existence after losing his children?" 'That's a painful disaster to be sure but one reserved for parents. Since it's still in my power to prevent you from being born, why shouldn't I? Giving birth to you could bring me some problems." "But also some b e n e f i t s . . . . " "What?" "You will witness me—a fully formed creation that resembles you and reminds you of your shortcomings—living before you as a mirror for your character, a treasury for your qualities and virtues. I will prolong your existence. People may like me and find me useful, and that will gratify your pride." 'The fact is that only our conceit sanctions the birth of ideas like you." "Then it's appropriate for me to exploit this human characteristic. Hurry up. Set me free." "But you haven't told me how you benefit from being born." "What a stupid remark! Would you ask a cell what advantage it gets from living? The desire for life is bound up with our very existence." "So you currently exist in my head?" "Naturally . . . here I am crying out to you, ardently urging you to allow me to be born." "Wait a moment till I get a pen and some paper." "Don't be slow about it." "What harm would that cause?" "I feel that my breathing is becoming labored. My light is fading. Your lengthy debate with me has sapped my strength. You have exhausted me and worn me out even before I'm born." "Oh, what bad luck! I've forgotten where the pen is, and the only paper I can find at this hour is on the table . . . wrapped around the pastries I bought for breakfast. Now that you've roused me from my slumber, the least I can do is to start with some food. It's no use having a head filled with ideas if your stomach's empty. So please be patient. Wait till we're done with affairs of the mouth before we concentrate on those of the intellect. Rest assured that I'll be quick and won't keep you long. While I'm munching, we'll search for that lost pen. I'm looking for it. . . . Here's one on the dressing table. There's no obstacle to your delivery now, thought. Let's go. Speak. Come on out. How amazing! What's wrong with

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you? Why this silence? This stillness. . . . Where are you? Where's your chatter that woke me up? Thought, speak! Don't obstruct the morsel in my throat. Where are you? Have you departed? Have you died? . . . Alas, you've passed away even before being born." Yes, it certainly died in my head before it could be born. Do you suppose I delayed too long? I wonder if it was my fault or the idea's? Let's not worry about that. To hell with this idea! I'll finish eating and go to bed. This is not the first time an idea has done this to me, and I'm not the first person to have this experience. It's just a thought that is born and then dies or that dies without ever being born, like any of the millions of thoughts shaking the heads of millions of people millions of times on millions of different occasions.

Boats of the Sun

i Waiting to die, Pharaoh's wife rested on her royal bed. Her cloudy eyes were not directed toward the grieving husband or despondent maid beside her but toward her own life, to her past. Short though it was, what an extraordinary past it had been! Despite all the riches and pageantry enveloping it, what a poor, lackluster life it had been! She was dying, in the spring of her youth. What was the most beautiful day she had known on earth? She would weep for it now with her heart, which had only a few beats left. Disease had dried up the tears of her eyes when it capped the swelling fountain of her life. What was the most beautiful day in her life of no more than twenty-four years? Was it the day she married her brother, this youthful pharaoh standing at her head? He was her full brother, and they had been raised together. She loved him no doubt, b u t . . . no. . . . She knew now that this was not the kind of love that makes the heart throb. Had her heart ever responded to love? Yes. . . once . . . it had trembled, blazed up, and then flickered out like a candle's flame in its final convulsions, leaving her life in darkness thereafter. She remembered the moment. It had been an evening of gentle breezes during the past spring. She had ventured off on a Nile cruise. The royal boats had been readied, and she had been escorted by slave girls bearing tambourines, oboes, and other musical instruments. The people had turned out in droves to greet the beautiful queen. Then she had suddenly sensed that two eyes, from the masses, were burning into her, like twin shooting stars. This swift illumination fell into the pit of her 187

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empty heart. Whose eyes were they? Why had he given her this penetrating look? Why had she trembled at his attention? She knew only that the guards had shoved him aside and that she had proceeded aimlessly on. That was her royal heart's first and last exultation. What awaited her now? Another excursion in another b o a t . . . a sun boat. Yes, they had no doubt finished creating one for her and preparing it. Her body would soon be embalmed, placed in a decorated coffin, and buried in a secret tomb. The high priest would receive her spirit and convey it to the sun boat as celebrants chanted hymns and prayers. Then he would recite magical words, and the boat would lift her spirit through space to the twenty-four gates of heaven. She had learned this at the death of her father, the great pharaoh, when she was fourteen. Although she had not grasped much of what went on around her, she had witnessed these ceremonies and had then asked the high priest with childish simplicity, after he had completed his work, "Has the boat risen into space with my father's spirit?" The priest had replied, "Yes. It is now sailing through the sunbeams. Accompanied by melodic songs and chanties, its oars beat against the surging waves of light." Gazing at the sun boat made of cedar timbers, the child had protested, "But the ship is still resting in exactly the same spot!" The priest had replied, "It's the boat's spirit that moves and bears aloft your father's spirit." The child had inquired, "What is the spirit?" The priest had answered, "It's you without your bodily raiment." He had allowed her no further questions after that. Apparently uneasy about discussing such matters with children, he had departed quickly, leaving her to ponder what she did not understand. How far she was from understanding! Here she was now in her father's place. Soon the same priest would come, recite his magic incantations, and announce that her spirit had been borne aloft by the sun boat, sailing through waves of light. Afterwards he would not be disturbed by anyone's queries. The final question her lips uttered as she took her last breaths was left unanswered: Why and for whom had her heart trembled on that spring evening?

2 The builder fashioning the sun boat to carry her spirit to the sky had completed his task. A group of priests arrived to carry the boat to the location for the funeral rites. With piercing eyes, the maker cast a final

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look at his boat. Then he went to a wine shop where he often met his cronies. On entering the tavern, he threw himself down beside his friend, a sculptor, without uttering a word. They had been friends for a long time . . . since childhood, and their hearts were bound together by an incident the artist would never forget. He had gone down into the Nile one day to collect mud. Then a crocodile had taken him by surprise and would have eaten him alive had not the carpenter risked his own life and stabbed the beast with his knife. Each man trusted the other with his secrets. The day the sculptor fell in love with the queen's maid, he did not hesitate to apprise his friend of all the details, recounting how he had met her by chance several times the day he was commissioned to carve statues of Pharaoh. Matters had reached such a head between the lovers that they might already have been officially engaged had the queen not fallen ill. The boat builder did have one secret he had never dared reveal to his friend or to any other living creature . . . until that day. As the builder sat there quietly, the artist, casting down the wine cup, turned toward him, and observed: "I can tell that you're crying!" "You see tears in my eyes?" "Not in your e y e s , . . . " the sculptor said with the certainty of a person claiming to know his friend better than anyone else. The two were silent for a moment, and the artist returned to his drink, taking a sip from it. Then he protested to his friend, "You're keeping something from me." Without offering any resistance, the boat builder acknowledged: "Yes." "Why?" "Because, it's insane." "Speak! I'm your friend." The boat builder bowed his head. Then he gazed at this friend for a while. Finally he bowed his head again. The sculptor asked him, "You're hiding something from me? Are you afraid of me?" "No, I'm afraid for you. I fear you'll be upset." "Have no fear. Speak!" The carpenter braced himself and whispered, "I fell in love with her. I still love her. I shall always love her." "Who?" "The queen." The cup almost dropped from the sculptor's hand. With trembling lips he muttered: "What are you saying?" "I told you it was insane." He emitted a short, hysterical laugh. The sculptor shuddered, stared searchingly at his friend, and then, pulling himself together, inquired, "When did you see her?"

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As if witnessing the events he recounted, the boat builder whispered, "One spring evening. . . . "

3 They had finishing embalming the queen and had begun wrapping her in white dressings prior to putting her in the coffin. The maid was present, teary-eyed. A young priest approached her and whispered something to her in confidence. She nodded in agreement and, the moment she was done with her work, slipped out to the home of her fiancé, the artist. She found him alone with his friend the carpenter. When he saw her enter, he rose to greet her with this statement: "I have a request for you." The request actually was not his but the fruit of discussions and pleas exchanged during the previous days between the two friends. Now the queen was dead, the carpenter had only one objective. This was to acquire her statue as a companion to whom he could confide his eternal love. But how was he to obtain a likeness of her? Only a few official portraits had been made of this young queen. There was no way to acquire one of them. Moreover, these were not particularly well executed and were sorely lacking in expression. This poor queen had not lived long enough to excite art's interest. Most of the court artists were concerned with making images of the king. When the sculptor told his friend that he had not been commissioned to make even a single likeness of the queen, he was simply telling the truth. So the carpenter requested a new statue for his own sake . . . for his sake, since he had loved her alive and dead, without ever exchanging a word with her, without her knowing who he was, without her experiencing his love, without there being any tie between them save eye c o n t a c t . . . not to mention the social chasm between them—like that separating earth and star. Now the star had been extinguished. All he wanted from life was a statue of her. Would his friend begrudge him the creation of one? But how could the artist fashion a statue when his memory retained nothing but a faded image of her features? He had seen the queen only, as it were, in a fleeting glimpse. He had not had time to study her adequately. Now he really could not remember any of her special characteristics. If he saw her face again, if only for a moment, he would be able to make the statue. Then his friend had shouted that this might not be so difficult, since the maid was the sculptor's fiancée. She would be able to devise a way for him to see the queen's face before it was covered by the coffin's lid. Who could say? Perhaps his friend was conspiring with destiny to furnish him the

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opportunity to achieve an artistic masterpiece. His artistic ambitions were not limited to pleasing the king in official commissions but extended to creating art inspired by the emotions. In this way, the artist was seduced to the point of enthusiasm, convinced that he was furthering art and friendship at the same time. "I have a request for you," the artist told the maid once more. Then he explained the matter to her. She was startled and alarmed. What was this madness? What creature would consider looking at the sacred queen in her coffin to make a statue of her? This was naturally all that she understood of the affair, for the sculptor had not dared confide to her that his friend was in love with the queen. He had merely commented that he revered the queen and felt that none of her statues did her justice. Entranced by this mission, he was now begging his fiancée to assist him in the pursuit of this exalted artistic goal. Ultimately the maid yielded to her fiancé's request. She said, "Let's make haste then . . . before the coffin is sealed at dawn." She sketched out a plan involving a secret underground vault that led to the site of the coffin. She described this to them and instructed them to come in priests' clothing, at midnight. She would wait for them at the door of the vault. As she departed, she smilingly cautioned her lover: "Don't drink too much tonight."

4 The two friends agreed to meet in their usual wine shop at dark. When the boat builder arrived, he found that his friend was there already and had drained several cups. Although visibly tipsy, the artist said, "Have no fear. A little wine sharpens my memory, and I'm the person most in need of a good memory tonight. On its surface will be imprinted a picture of the original, and that impression will supply me with my inspiration." The boat builder looked at him anxiously: "I fear you've overdone it." Laughing boisterously, the artist replied, "Me? Absolutely not! I know my limits. I need a little extra when embarking on an important project. That's my custom. In this manner I've produced some amazing statues." He raised his cup to take a drink, but it fell from his hand. Then the boat builder could not restain himself any further. Forcibly raising the artist, the builder marched him out of the wine shop. With the builder steadying his friend, they proceeded to the artist's home, where they had agreed to change into priestly attire. But the moment

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the artist entered his dwelling and rested his body on his soft bed, he fell asleep so decisively that there was n o h o p e of waking him soon. When the appointed h o u r of midnight arrived, the builder attempted in vain to rouse his intoxicated friend. In despair he asked himself, "Is this the will of the gods? It's my bad luck! What can I do now? T h e maid is waiting. This animal is sound asleep. Is everything lost?" H e thought for a time and gained a clear picture of the problem. T h e r e was n o h o p e now of a statue. But could h e let the maid wait all night for n o reason? Should he go and tell her what had happened? Why n o t go? Indeed, why should he not cast the final look at his shrouded lover in her casket? This vision would be imprinted eternally in his m e m o r y like a portrait and would be truer than any made of stone. He d o n n e d a priest's robe and left his friend stretched out in bed. H e went from the house to the vault, where h e f o u n d the maid waiting in the stipulated place. When she saw that he was alone, her expression changed. She asked immediately, "You came by yourself?" H e answered tersely, "He didn't take your advice. H e drank too much." "Where is h e now?" "Drunk in bed." She moved away, t u r n e d her back on him, and started to go about her business, for she understood that the affair had e n d e d in this fashion. But the boat builder stopped the maid: "Let m e see her!" "Have you gone mad?" "I beg you." "What do you want from this?" "A single look . . . a final one." "Is your brain addled?" His hand grasped hers, a falcon's talon seizing a dove. In a frightening, peremptory, hoarse voice, he commanded her, "Lead me to her!" H e pushed her forward, and she saw n o alternative to obeying him. She preceded him down the long, gloomy passages of this concealed, subterranean vault till they reached the end. T h e n she knocked on the side of the wall with her hand. A large stone opened to reveal a doorway that led into a wide chamber decorated with paintings and illuminated with lamps hidden behind columns and in niches on the walls. No one was in the chamber, which the priests had recently vacated. It had a large door that was locked, with guards standing outside it. The boat builder found nothing in the room to excite his interest, for he was accustomed to these sacred places. His eyes were searching there for only o n e thing: the coffin. H e f o u n d it placed on a stone platform at the front of the room. The casket was bathed by a subdued

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light, which gave the viewer the impression that it emanated from the colorfully painted ceiling or from the shrouded body. The builder stood frozen before the coffin a moment, until his terror subsided enough for him to extend a hand to the wooden cover, meaning to raise it. The maid clung to his arm to stop him. Freeing himself from her grip, he grasped the cover with his powerful arms and removed it. Beneath was revealed the queen's body wrapped in white strips of cloth. The builder stood there transfixed. He shuddered. His heart was pounding fast. As he should have realized, the queen's face was hidden beneath the wrappings. Summoning his courage, he reached his fingers out to remove the ribbons of cloth from her face. The maid, boiling mad, shoved him away and said with controlled fury, 'That's enough! Stop that! Beasdy tomb desecrator! Get out or I'll scream." He quickly placed a hand over her mouth. She resisted, trying to escape and cry out. He grabbed her by the neck. He was in such a critical situation that he did not realize what he was doing. He did not know whether he was tightening his grip or not. He could not gauge his fingers' strength properly. All he knew was that she fell to the floor in front of him. Dumbfounded for a moment, he then recalled his reason for coming. Leaving the maid on the floor where she lay, he hastened to the embalmed queen, loosened the bandages from her head, and uncovered her lovely, pale face, whose beauty the serenity of death had enhanced. Where was there a sculptor capable of transferring this beauty to stone? Such were the thoughts of this crazed lover as he admired the divine face. At that extraordinary moment he was not utilizing intellectual consciousness, for his mind had renounced judging and judgment. He experienced, rather, an emotional consciousness that pervaded his whole being like destructive radiation. In the presence of such beauty, he was unable to advance or retreat. Frozen in place, he felt certain that it would be impossible for him to leave now. An invisible force, one he could not flee or disperse, bound him to this embalmed queen. He would have to be buried with her or she would have to live with him. Then from deep inside him a thought flashed up. He did not flinch or hesitate to execute it. Does a man ever hesitate to seize the spirit by which he lives, no matter where it is? He went immediately to the embalmed body and stripped away the bindings. Then he lifted it from the coffin and wrapped it in his cloak. Hugging the corpse, he intended to retreat unnoticed with it. Then his foot stumbled against the maid, sprawled on the floor. He returned to his senses a little and realized that he was in a sticky situation. Should he carry off the queen like this, leaving the coffin empty and the maid dead on the floor? In no time at all the whole world would rise up in alarm. Conflicting thoughts assailed him. What should he do? Should he advance or retreat? Then

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he had an idea. There was no hesitation this time either. He immediately set about implementing his plan. He hastened to seize the white bandages and began to wrap the maid in them. Then he placed her in the coffin instead of the queen. Carrying the queen on his shoulder, he fled with her down the subterranean vault.

5 Dawn broke. The rites of the funeral celebration commenced with the coffin's removal to the royal tombs. The priests flocked around. Pharaoh and his family were present. Hymns rang out. Sacrifices were offered. A final look was given to the body, not a bit of which was visible through the strips of cloth. The coffin's lid was fastened. Then the casket was conveyed to the secret tomb, the location of which was known only to a limited number of people. Having finished with the body, the celebrants turned their attention to the spirit's journey. The high priest approached the sun boat prepared for the queen. He proceeded with his customary duties and performed the normal rituals, reciting religious phrases and magical incantations. Then he stood up to announce to the assembled crowd that the sun boat had set off, bearing the queen's sacred soul toward the sky. Surrounded by melodious hymns and chants, it was now sailing through space.

6 At this moment, the queen actually was on a boat, but not a solar one. Hers was a Nile boat transporting her to the other bank. Her embalmed body had preserved its freshness, suppleness, and bloom. The sweet smell of perfume wafted from it. She was placed in the forward seat like a reclining passenger. Facing her sat the boat builder who had stolen her. As he stroked the surface of the water with his oar, he gazed at her and mused, "This is the cruise I've dreamt of for so long! With you! Yes, now you're here in my boat. What happiness! I wonder which you would prefer: this excursion with me in a Nile boat or that other one by yourself in the sun boat?"

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7 The sculptor awoke from his drunken stupor that morning and found himself in bed, wearing his clothes of the previous day. He scratched his forehead, trying to remember. Then he quickly realized what had happened. He rose and went out to look for his friend and his fiancée, to apologize to them. It would not be an easy matter to meet with his fiancée now, for he could see that the palace was astir and abuzz with priests, guards, and the trappings of the funeral. The boat builder was not to be found in the wine shop or anywhere else. The sculptor finally thought of searching on the far side of the Nile in an abandoned house the builder had forsaken because of its distance. It was used at present as a kind of warehouse for wood, tools, and sample sun boats. The sculptor crossed the Nile and went to that building. As he approached it, he heard mumblings, whisperings, and confidential talk. He knocked on the door, but it was not opened expeditiously. He knocked again and waited longer than usual in such circumstances. Finally the door was cautiously opened and his friend's head poked out. The carpenter's face registered shock, but he pulled himself together. He stepped outside to see his friend, not wishing to invite the sculptor in. The artist assumed that this desultory welcome was simply what he deserved after he had let his friend down the day before by getting drunk. So he quickly said, "I'm very sorry." The boat builder did not seem to understand or to remember. With the inquisitive candor of a person harboring no bitterness or malice, the carpenter asked, "Why?" The sculptor stared at his friend's face, finding there not anger but anxiety, discomfort, and a desire to lock the door and lead this guest away from the threshold. He teased the builder, "Don't you have anything to drink here?" With what amounted to relief, the carpenter replied, "No. No. This place isn't inhabited, as you know. Let's leave. Let's go. I came today to bring some wood. Let's meet in the wine shop tonight. If you w a n t . . . at the wine shop, the tavern. Goodbye!"

8 A strange event took place that day in the courtyard of the temple. An ordinary citizen ran in, shouting to announce that with his own eyes he had witnessed a flying disk that emitted an intense green light in the sky. He was positive that this was the sun boat carrying the young queen's spirit on its heavenly voyage. People gathered around

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him, and the clamor increased. The debate became so heated that the affair reached the ears of the king and his religious functionaries. They hauled the man in and interrogated him. He persisted in affirming, "I saw it with my own eyes!" Pharaoh summoned the high priest and asked, "Is it possible for a sun boat to be seen in the sky?" The priest replied in a peremptory tone, "Impossible!" "What do you have to say about this man's assertions?" 'That he's a liar or simply mistaken. It does not make sense that ordinary citizens should be able to see the boat carrying the spirit of this young queen when boats carrying the spirits of the great pharaoh your father and of the mighty pharaohs your grandfathers were not visible. This deceitful liar must die." "Couldn't this flying ship with the green light have belonged to one of the gods?" "If it belonged to a god, it would have been sighted by a priest, not by a commoner." "Why not say, high priest, that your magic has finally been able to achieve this miracle?" "My magic?" The high priest repeated this slowly and thoughtfully. Should he accept this explanation with all the glorious merit it implied or reject it? If he accepted, he might be called on in the future to make sun boats appear in the sky. He would be at a loss then. The safest approach was for him to reject this suggestion and to leave his magic in the sphere of the spirit alone. So he shouted, "Certainly n o t . . . . No! This isn't my magic. It's the 'magic' of those who conspire against our ancient religion. This man must die."

9 In the courtyard of death, the man stood before his tribunal of priests and shouted repeatedly, "I saw it with my own eyes!" The judges asked him, "Do you reject the spirit?" He said determinedly, "I don't reject the spirit; but I saw something real." Persistence to the point of death always has a magic potency. At times it creates believers. The fact that this man of common origin challenged the terrifying power manifest in the pharaoh and priests had an influence on people. A group who believed him whispered among themselves: "There's no doubt that he's telling the truth. They are going to kill him, because he saw something they couldn't."

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10 Over a period of days, the sculptor searched fruitlessly for his fiancée, the maid. He asked for her at the palace only to be told that no one had seen her since the day her mistress was buried. In their opinion, there was nothing unusual about this, since she was a devoted servant, whose loyalty would not allow her to serve anyone save her queen . . . or even to remain in a setting where they had passed so much time together. But where had she gone? Would she hide for a long time, even from him? He had not seen her since they had agreed to meet at the v a u l t . . . for his friend's sake. This friend, as well. . . what was wrong with him? What had happened to him? He now fled from the sculptor in a most suspicious fashion. His conduct had been quite peculiar the day the sculptor had gone to the abandoned house. The builder had clearly been trying to keep him out of that house. Why? . . . Yes, he remembered distinctly now that on nearing the door he had heard whispering, as if a confidential chat were in progress. Who might have been in the house then with his friend? Had it been a woman? Alas . . . who was she? Could it have been his fiancée? Could she have betrayed him with this friend? He could not stand the thought and determined to raid the house. He set out at once, crossed the Nile to the other bank, and proceeded directly to his friend's house. He banged on the door, but no one answered. When he pushed against it forcefully, it burst open. On entering, he found the room vacant, but his eye noticed that behind a boat propped against the wall there was a small door leading to a furnished chamber. He walked to the room where he stood transfixed as the blood congealed in his veins, for he found himself facing the young queen, who was resting on a luxurious sofa. When he eventually returned to his senses, thoughts raced through his head. He perceived what might have happened, but the dreadful question then was, "Who was in the coffin when it was placed in the tomb?" Not waiting for an answer, he shot out of the house, as if propelled by a lightning bolt.

11 The sculptor did not know what to do about all this. He walked the streets, asking himself idiotically, "Who's buried in her tomb? Where has my fiancée disappeared? Is there any link between the two events? Might she be the woman in the casket? How terrible! How did she get there and why?" In any case, the tomb would have to be opened, since the queen was not reposing in it. He would have to go

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to Pharaoh and the priests. He would shout, "Come! Let's go! The queen's not in her tomb!" But they would seize him and demand, "How do you know?" What could he reply? Should he lead them to his friend's house and incriminate the builder before identifying the person in the tomb? No, he would not do that. He should say he had a dream in which one of the gods revealed this information. He went immediately to the high priest and disclosed the matter. The high priest rose and shouted, "What's happening? Is everyone except us priests seeing the gods now?" He turned threateningly toward the sculptor and asked, "Do you know the penalty for lies and false claims?" The sculptor did not hesitate to reply confidently, "Death.. . . I'm prepared for that, if it's established that I'm lying. The matter is simple. Open the tomb and learn the truth." Pharaoh and the priests accepted this challenge. When the tomb was opened and the lid of the casket removed, they were exposed to the blood-curdling sight of a woman's teeth poking through the facial bandages, as if she had been struggling to bite them off at the time of her death. When the body was stripped of its coverings, there was no doubt that this was the maid. Everyone was aghast. Pharaoh raged: "Where is the queen?" As he emerged from his stupefied grief and repressed rage, the sculptor recognized his friend's crime. Raising his head, he proclaimed, "Over there on the other shore . . . in a house belonging to the builder of the sun boats."

12 In the meantime, the boat builder returned to his house to find the door open and footprints at the threshold. Seized by fear, he imagined that his secret had been discovered. Then, resolved to flee, he quickly outfitted his boat and carried off the queen. Night had fallen, and he used it as a veil and a shield. Rowing mightily, he headed south in his boat.

13 The palace guards and priests came to the house, searched it, and found no trace of anything. Turning on the sculptor, one of them

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cuffed him and demanded, "Liar, where's the queen? You stole her and you'll pay the price!" Then a fisherman came forward to tell them, "I saw a man carry a woman's body off in a boat and speed away south on the Nile." The guards and priests sprang to their boats, bearing torches that lit the search for the stolen queen as if this were a procession of lights emanating from her spirit on its heavenly voyage. Eventually they spotted the fleeing craft and redoubled their efforts. The boat builder turned to look back, saw the pursuers bearing down upon him, and realized that destruction was imminent. He dropped his oar, knelt before the queen, and said, ' T h e time has come for us to part. Thank you, my love, for the moments of happiness you have given me. I shall not detain you longer here . . . and I will not intervene between you and your eternal heaven. As for me, it's into the gloom awaiting me. Farewell!" He humbly kissed her hand. Then he jumped to his feet and threw himself into the water, where crocodiles devoured him.

14 The queen was returned to her coffin, but the sculptor troubled and distressed the priests by telling throngs of people that the maid's spirit had been carried away in the sun boat instead of the queen's. So the priests put him on trial. The high priest demanded, "Do you know what punishment you deserve?" The sculptor replied, "I know what's more important than any punishment: the truth that you acknowledged, high priest. Do you deny that you performed your religious rites and recited your magical words with reference to the body deposited in the coffin? Then you announced that its spirit had been carried off by the sun boat to the eternal heavens. Whose body was it? Wasn't it the maid's?" The priest replied sharply, "The maid's spirit could not ascend to the sky." The sculptor retorted, 'Then your magic failed." The priest was temporarily at a loss for a reply. The other priests surrounding him bowed their heads in dismay. Either the ceremonies performed were genuine and the maid's spirit had ascended to heaven or they were null and void and could raise no one. The priest could hardly contend that they were invalid and did not raise spirits, because he had proclaimed their efficacy on the day of the funeral.

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After reflecting for a time, the priest said, "The magic is sound, and the queen's spirit has ascended. This is what I announced then and what I announce and reaffirm today, since the maid's spirit is not eligible for journeying to the sky in boats of the sun." The artist asked, "Why not?" The priest retorted vehemently, "Because she's a commoner, and sun boats only carry royalty." "Will common citizens never be able to ascend, like royalty, in these boats?" "Never." The sculptor emitted a rebellious cry: "This is tyranny! Tyranny!" The priests' voices were raised in disapproval. The clerics huddled and whispered together, deciding that this revolutionary had uttered a blasphemous enormity and could no longer be tolerated among the living. They condemned him to death, and people gathered in the courtyard of death to gape at him. With his smiling and calm demeanor, he reminded them of the other man who had recently been executed for seeing things that others refused to believe. Some said sarcastically, "He wants his fiancee's spirit, the maid's, to be borne aloft on the boats of the sun that carry kings." Others replied, "Don't make fun of him if he wishes this for the maid, because that means he wants it for all of us." "All of us?" They watched the sculptor breathe his last. There was a contented smile on his face, as if he were replying to their queries with glad tidings. 'Yes, why not?"

Thus ends this story, which history has not recorded for us, since it rarely uses its letters and stone inscriptions for anything but news of kings. The deaths of these two martyrs of the sun boats were not carved in stone, but seeds from these events germinated over centuries and generations, their growth recorded in blood. Grown tall and broad, these plants have yielded fruit in the form of individuals who seek freedom for thought and freedom for people.

The Saints of Tarsus (for Children)

C

HILDREN, I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU AN AMAZING STORY. I

hope you like it as much as I do. It's about a time long ago when there was a pagan king named Dekiyanus. 1 He worshiped idols, not God. All the people in his kingdom were pagans too. They did not know how to worship God—except for two men, who understood about God and who were steadfast in their private worship of Him. They kept this practice hidden from the pagan king, even though he knew them well. They were viziers in close contact with him. The first was named Marnush, the second Mishilina. 2 One day the king discovered the secret they had been keeping from him and everyone else: that they were not pagans and idolators like the king and his subjects. The king summoned them and demanded, "Tell me: What do you worship?" They replied frankly, "We worship God!" The king became angry and ordered them to abandon the worship of God on pain of death by wild animals. This tyrannical king had commanded the construction of a pit filled with voracious beasts. Into it were thrown all those who followed a religion other than his. The two viziers were afraid the king would carry out his threat to push them into this death trap, where they would be devoured by wild beasts. They fled by night, leaving the city, which was named Tarsus. They headed into the wilderness to search for a site on the mountain where they could hide for a number of days until the king's wrath subsided. On their way to the mountain they met a shepherd whom they asked about hiding places. When he inquired why they wished to hide, they explained that they were fleeing because they

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did not worship the king's idols but God instead. They explained the essence of their religion to him, and the shepherd accepted it too, deciding to accompany them and show them a cave in the mountain where he often sought shelter from rainstorms. Leaving his flocks to graze on a secluded slope of the mountain, he brought only his dog, which refused to leave his side and insisted on following him, wagging its tail all the while. The name of this shepherd was Yamlikha 3 , and his dog's name was Qitmir. Accompanied by this dog, the three men entered the cave. In no time at all, overcome by a drowsiness prompted by their fatigue, fear, and anxiety, they all fell asleep. Even the dog slept, extending its paws over the threshold of the gloomy cavern. They slept so deeply that when they awoke, they had no idea how long they had been asleep. The first vizier to wake up was Mishilina. He stretched and called out, "Marnush!" Yawning, Marnush replied, "I'm awake, Mishilina. What do you want from me? Let me be. My ribs ache as if I had lain on them for years." Mishilina remarked, "My back is killing me, too. Where's the shepherd? Where's the third of our party, the shepherd?" Peering into the darkness, Marnush answered, "I can make out the form of his dog, paws stretched out, there by the entry of the cave. Perhaps he's outside, standing by the entrance, watching the sunrise, as shepherds do. How long have we been here in this cave?" "A day or part of one." "How do you know?" "Do you ever sleep longer than that?" The shepherd returned, and Mishilina asked him, "Where were you?" "By the entrance to the cave. . . . I was feeling hungry. Why don't I go to the city, under cover of darkness, and get some food for us." Marnush said, "Yes. I'm hungry. Mishilina must be too, since we fell asleep yesterday without eating supper. Yes, you would do a fine deed if you went to the city and bought us some food. Do you have any money? Wait. I had some silver coins with me yesterday. They're still in my pocket. Here you go." Yamlikha took the money and departed. Mishilina said, "Have you left, Yamlikha?" Marnush asked, "What do you want from him?" Mishilina answered, "I wanted him to meet with my fiancée Prisca to reassure her that I'm all right." Marnush said, "I, also, forgot to tell him how to find my house so he could see my wife and son and inform them that I'll be home soon."

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Departing from the cave, Yamlikha walked toward the city. On his way he happened to meet a fisherman. Taking some money from his pocket, he showed a coin to the man, hoping to buy some of the fish. The moment the fisherman glimpsed the silver coin, he examined it and exclaimed in amazement, "Money from the time of Dekiyanus! Do you have much of this?" After Yamlikha handed over all the coins he had, the fisherman asked, "Where did you find this? The coins are ancient. . . three hundred years old. This must be some ancient treasure trove." Taking charge of Yamlikha, he headed off to the city. Marnush and Mishilina remained in the cave, waiting for Yamlikha to return with the food. After some time they heard a commotion outside . . . the sound of many people converging on the site, yelling, 'You there inside the cave . . . where are you? You discoverers of the ancient treasure, bring us your hoard." Since the cave was pitch black, the search party procured some torches and lit them. Then the assault commenced. People began to enter the cave, carrying the torches. But the moment that the leader caught sight of the viziers by the light of his flare, his heart was filled with terror and he fled back outside with the others, who panicked and shouted, "Specters of the d e a d . . . . Ghosts!" They exited in a disorderly fashion, leaving behind some of the torches. The occupants of the cave, their faces grave, remained immobile, like statues, as though terrified themselves by the cries of "ghosts" and "the dead." They could make no sense of what they had seen and heard. «—p News of the cave and of the men inside spread through the city until it reached the king. Astonished, he summoned a scholar, who was the tutor of Princess Prisca, the king's daughter. The king asked him, "Ghallias, have you heard the news?" The savant replied, "Yes, your majesty . . . the news of the treasure trove." The king corrected him, "No, of the ghosts." Ghallias was amazed, as was the princess. They cried out together, "Ghosts?" The king said to Ghallias, "Yes. Didn't you go to the cave with the search party? Where were you then?" The teacher answered, "I listened to the fisherman's story with the others and was about to go to the cavern with them, but I suddenly remembered the princess's lesson.

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The king continued, "This fisherman has now returned with a bizarre tale, to wit, that they saw in the cave creatures of terrifying forms . . . with long dangling hair and strange clothes. There was a wild-eyed dog with them too. The men fled in terror from these apparitions." The beautiful princess exclaimed, "My God! Terrifying creatures!" Ghallias commented, "Have no fear, princess. They aren't ghosts. They are . . . 'three and the fourth is their dog. . . . ' 4 Didn't I tell you, your royal highness, when we were discussing the history of the age of martyrs, that some Roman noblemen fled—for the sake of their religion—from the pagan king Dekiyanus and sought refuge in a cave three hundred years ago? . . . They never were seen again and no one knew anything more about them. I've read in ancient books that they will reappear some day. Now they have done just that." Delighted, the king remarked, "Yes, they appeared today. How lucky I am, if what you say is true." Ghallias replied, "It is true, your majesty. T r u e . . . . These are the very same men. 'Three and the fourth is their dog.' They are saints who believe in God. They have appeared in your happy era, three hundred years after the time of the pagan king from whom they fled . . . now that you have come to power, O King, you who believe in God. Yes, they are the saints Marnush, Mishilina, and Yamlikha, with the dog Qitmir, as we know from the the monks' chronicle." With a mixture of fear and curiosity, the princess inquired, "But where were they? Were they alive all this time?" The king commanded, "Answer, Ghallias. Do you truly believe that they remained alive in the cave for more than three hundred years?" The teacher Ghallias responded, "Why not, your majesty? . . . There are no limits to God's power." The king asked enthusiastically, "What are we waiting for, Ghallias? Why don't you go to the cave and bring these saints back to our palace as honored guests?" Then a clamorous tumult was audible from outside the chamber, and the princess asked, "What's all this noise?" The king directed, "Go see what's happening, Ghallias." Ghallias exited only to return hastily, proclaiming, "They're here, your majesty. The people have brought them to you. The people have brought them to the king. They are now passing through the palace gate." Mishilina could be heard from outside, saying as he approached: "Nothing's changed, Yamlikha. . . . Here's the Hall of Columns, just the way we left it yesterday."

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Marnush agreed, 'Yes, the Hall of Columns hasn't changed." Yamlikha could be heard complaining in a choked voice, "Everything's changed. Everything." With disheveled hair, long beards, and antique garb, they entered, surrounded by the king's guards and courtiers. Frightened by their appearance, Princess Prisca clung to the robes of Ghallias, but Mishilina cried out softly and joyfully the moment he laid eyes on her, "Prisca! " He believed that she was the original Prisca, his fiancée, whom he had left three hundred years before when he fled to the cave. In fact, the young princess looked exactly like the tyrannical king's daughter of three hundred years before. Prisca was alarmed by the way Mishilina was staring at her and told Ghallias, "He's looking at me strangely." She drew her tutor with her out a nearby door, but their disappearance was not noticed by anyone except Mishilina, who gazed after her in astonishment, as if in a dream. The king, on the other hand, summoning all his courage and fortitude, strode toward them and proclaimed, "Welcome, saints! We have waited a long time for you, as did our grandfathers and greatgrandfathers before us. It is truly an enormous honor that you should appear in our era." Marnush replied, "Your majesty, we sincerely praise God for this genuine miracle that God should have destroyed the tyrannical pagan king in such a short time and placed you, a monotheist, on the throne." Yamlikha commented, "Didn't I tell you that God is true . . . and that amazing, wondrous things happened during the day we spent in the cave?" The king said, "If you wish, my palace will be your home and refuge. Your every need will be met and every command obeyed." Marnush asked entreatingly, "All I seek, your majesty, is permission to depart immediately, because my wife and son have been anxiously awaiting my return for a week or perhaps longer." Yamlikha the shepherd took courage and said, "Me too, your majesty. . . . I have flocks grazing in a spot known only to me." The king's confusion and astonishment at what he heard were apparent on his face. He began searching around for Ghallias. Marnush quickly said, "I know the way to my house." He left at once, followed by Yamlikha. Mishilina, who remained, stepped toward the king and said, "As for me, your majesty, permit me to go to my room to change my old clothes and shave off my wild hair and long beard." He departed, leaving the king and the others frozen from astonishment. Then

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Ghallias hurried in. He turned to search for the men from the cave. He asked, "Where are the saints?" The king whispered distractedly, "Those saints are crazy." Ghallias, flabbergasted, said, "Crazy? God, forgive us. Where did they go, your majesty?" The king replied, "Where? . . . The first went home to his family. The second went to care for his flocks. The third stepped out to shave his head and chin." In amazement Ghallias wondered aloud, "What's all this you're saying, your majesty?" The king answered, "That's what happened."

Marnush returned after walking the streets of the city in search of his house. He discovered that everything in the city had changed during this long period of years. Yamlikha came back too after finding that the pasture where his flocks had been grazing had also been transfigured. There was no trace of sheep or goats there. Both men learned from the townspeople that life as they had known it in this city had become ancient history while they slept in the cave, not for a day or part of a day as they estimated but for hundreds of years. The two men returned in search of the third of their party, Mishilina, who turned up shortly, dressed in new clothes appropriate to the era. He had shaved off his beard and transformed his old appearance. They clustered around him, feeling the fabric of his garments. When they asked what had happened to him, he told them with a smile, "The explanation's simple. I requested some of the servants and retainers here to bring me a razor to shave off my beard and hair. They brought me that along with these new clothes. But they told me something amazing... . Have you discovered how long we slept in the cave?" Marnush said, "You've learned that too? Have they informed you that we slept three hundred years in the cave? Can you imagine that, Mishilina?" He replied joyously, "Why not? Nothing else matters, so long as my fiancée still lives in this palace." Yamlikha said, "All I know is that my flocks are not to be found and that I'm three hundred years old." He moved as if to depart, and Mishilina asked him, "Where are you going?" Yamlikha answered in despair, "To the cave." "Why?" demanded Mishilina. Marnush inquired, "Why leave us and go off? Have you really looked everywhere for your sheep? You know I won't believe what's

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said about these legendary years until I see for myself what has become of my house, my wife, and my son." Yamlikha retorted sharply, "Don't ask me anything. . . . Even you have become strangers to me now . . . you who were the last r e m n a n t of my world that has disappeared like a dream. Ages and generations have been snuffed out in what seemed a single night. Oh, if you blind men only knew what I have seen just now in the streets of Tarsus—if this still is Tarsus. If you had seen how people in strange clothes thronged around me. . . . Their faces were all unfamiliar to me, and they stared at me in an alarming way. They seemed to examine me as if I were a jinni f r o m the spirit world. Wherever I went, I f o u n d them following me with wary, inquisitive looks. I was not able to converse with any of them. When I tried, the only response I received was a silent, dismayed look. I thought I would starve to death before anyone offered me food. They doubtless consider me a creature that does not eat or drink. Surely if I wished somewhere to settle no one would stay near me. When I appeared in a place suddenly, everyone turned tail, leaving me alone to stare at me f r o m afar, always in exactly the same wary and curious manner. I even heard an almost mute, strangled baying. When I investigated, I discovered that my dog Qitmir had also been surr o u n d e d by dogs of the city. They were glaring at him and smelling him, as if he were some extraordinary beast. He was trying unsuccessfully to evade them. The poor creature finally ran to a nearby wall and d r o p p e d u n d e r it, terrified and exhausted. The other dogs were in hot pursuit but stopped just out of reach to glare at him some more. O n e of them wanted to go closer to sniff at him but was restrained by fear. This is how it's been for me and my dog Qitmir in our new life. You two are blind and cannot see. Since I can no longer show you what I see, you can stay in this world if you want. I'm all alone here. Nothing ties me to this age. You may not yet have begun to feel the onset of old age, but I sense the b u r d e n of three h u n d r e d years crushing my spirit. Farewell, brethren of the past. Remember our beautiful age, the age of Dekiyanus. Now I wish you God's peace and happiness with your youthful hearts in your new life." Yamlikha departed slowly and sadly, while Mishilina and Marnush gazed silently after him until he disappeared from view.

Mishilina kept hoping to see the princess and to speak with her, since he assumed that this young woman was his fiancée, to whom

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she bore a remarkable likeness. He met with her tutor Ghallias and asked, "Where's the princess? Didn't you tell her that I requested an audience with her yesterday and that I must see her tonight, no matter what? I'm almost insane from being near her without seeing her. My isolation is practically killing me. If only Marnush at least were here, but he hasn't returned yet since going yesterday to search again for his house, his wife, and his son." Ghallias did not answer but merely whispered, "Saint!" several times as he gazed at Mishilina in astonishment. Mishilina started repeating Prisca's name. T h e n he said, "Doesn't she want to see me? Woe to her and to me if she has betrayed the trust. . . . " Ghallias understood these words in a different sense from that intended by Mishilina. O n bended knee, his face averted, he said, "Saint, she has been faithful to the t r u s t . . . of her sainted great a u n t . . . . You may ask the soothsayer, if he is still alive. He declared that the princess would resemble her great aunt to a remarkable degree." Not understanding what the royal tutor meant, Mishilina asked, "Great aunt? Her great aunt? Who's that?" Ghallias replied, "Her great aunt Prisca, Saint Prisca. T h e day our young princess was born, the soothsayer prophesied that she would resemble her great aunt. For this reason, they named the baby Prisca." Still not comprehending, Mishilina flared up, "What's all this sniveling drivel, you ignorant old coot?" Marnush returned shortly thereafter. H e was g r o a n i n g from pain and dragging his body along. He wailed, "Mishilina. . . my son died and left me, Mishilina. My family died, Mishilina. My family died three h u n d r e d years ago. That's what they told me in the city. T h e y took me to the ancient, decaying tombs of my family. Yes . . . Yamlikha was right. This isn't our world, not the one we knew. This is another frightening one with n o place in it for us. T h r e e h u n d r e d years passed while we slept in the cave. We thought it was a single night, or a day, or part of a day. Farewell, Mishilina." As Marnush started to leave, Mishilina asked him fearfully, "Where are you going?" Separating from his friend, Marnush replied, "To the cave, like Yamlikha. . . . Adieu, Mishilina." Mishilina was left alone. In his consternation he remarked, "Poor Marnush . . . I fear he's gone mad." He bowed his head in sorrow for a time. T h e n Princess Prisca appeared, all by herself, crossing the chamber. When she caught sight of Mishilina, she stopped fearfully.

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Noticing her, Mishilina said, "Here you are finally, dear Prisca. I've been waiting and searching for you a long time." The princess stood as still as a statue, speechless f r o m fright. Mishilina asked her critically, "Is this the way you welcome me after a long absence? . . . All the same, I must admit that seeing you at this m o m e n t makes me very happy, dear Prisca. B u t . . . why are you staring at me this way? Is there something about my appearance that startles you? What do you see that has changed about me? Do you think I look scary?" As she gazed at him, the princess whispered, "No. You don't look scary. You're no longer the specter you appeared to be yesterday with your long beard and wild hair. Now you're a young man . . . a young man. . . . " She said this admiringly. Mishilina grew angry because she still insisted she had not seen him before. He suspected that she was deliberately pretending not to know him. So he told her, "If you're going to continue to pretend not to know me and not to remember about our relationship, then I absolve you of any obligation with regard to the pact binding us together." Prisca asked in astonishment, "What pact?" He said sadly, "Don't you even know that? Our engagement. . . have you forgotten?" Looking at him anxiously, she replied, "Alas . . . now I'm convinced that you're crazy." With restrained anger he said, "I thank you, princess. Being crazy is better than being a traitor to love." Prisca said calmly, "I'm a traitor? What is this alleged treachery? Speak! Let me see what stage your insanity has reached. The amazing thing is that you no longer frighten me. Yes, I don't fear your charming insanity. Indeed, I love to listen to your yarns. Tell me what treachery is mine? Whom have I betrayed? You?" Mishilina said sorrowfully as if to himself, "Prisca. . . . No . . . alas, you're not Prisca." Smiling she said, "Let's not worry about that. This is not a very interesting form of insanity. Tell me about the betrayal." Sighing he replied, "Oh, Prisca, you didn't used to be this clever." Smiling she asked, "When?" He answered bitterly, "Then everything between us is finished . . . in this insipid way." After looking at him for a long time, Prisca said, "How much more amazing and weird these words of yours would be if you had retained your appearance of yesterday: your beard and hair and strange clothes. But I'll let you in on a secret. I would have been unable to approach you or listen to you the way I'm doing now."

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In pain, Mishilina asked, "Who taught you this tone? How have you been transformed into a totally different woman in such short time? Where are your modesty, your diffidence, and the angelic voice that was scarcely audible?" She inquired in astonishment, "Diffidence and angelic voice? What makes you think I had those?" Mishilina said, "That's how you were when love raised you above this earth." With bewildered amazement she repeated, "Love?" Mishilina said, 'Yes. . . . The love that in you was stronger than any human belief, since the belief of angels . . . is love." She said, "This is the finest thing I've heard you say, saint." Sadly he replied, "All the same, those aren't my words." She asked, "Whose are they then?" "Yours," he responded. "Yes, you said that." Perplexed, she asked, "Mine? When was that?" He responded, "A day when you were not so clever but had a deeper heart." She said, "How do you know my heart's not deep?" He said, "Your eyes give it away. I used to see things in them that I don't see now. They spoke eloquently at a time when your words were innocent and limited . . . when you could not express yourself verbally as well as you do now." Prisca looked at him for a long time. Then she cried out as if suddenly realizing something. She said, "Oh. . . . Yes! My God! I understand. Yes, I've understood now. Everything...." Mishilina asked, "What have you understood?" Prisca replied, "I've understood that I'm not the Prisca you're talking about. My God, everything you've said does not apply to me . . . but rather to the other one." Baffled he said, "The other one? What other one? I don't understand." She said, "Have you forgotten you're three hundred years old? Have you forgotten that you stayed in the cave for three hundred years?" He replied, after gazing at her for some time, "What are you getting at?" Gazing back at him, she said as if to herself, "Believe me. I forgot that myself just now." He asked, "Prisca, what are you saying?" She replied, 'Your fiancée Prisca, whom you loved, has died. She died three hundred years ago." Not understanding, he asked, "Died?"

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Prisca asserted, "Yes, she died the pure virgin you left her. She was faithful to your sacred trust. She waited all her life . . . for you naturally. She was true to her promise and waited for you until she died in her fifties. I do resemble her, but I'm not her. They named me Prisca in her honor. Didn't anyone tell you the story of the soothsayer who read my fortune when I was born and predicted that I would resemble Saint Prisca, who had lived three hundred years before? Now that you know everything, go weep for her. No doubt she's waiting for your tears. Farewell." He stood there transfixed, as though at his wits' end, and murmured to himself, "I don't see anything now. There's no need for me to understand any truth. T h e astounding facts I hear are of no more significance to me than a passing smile or breeze. What are three hundred years, what is the value of all these proofs establishing that you're not my beloved fiancée? T h e only thing that matters to me now is that I'm alive in this reality . . . that I'm happy here . . . and that my heart is here." Ready to depart, Prisca said, "So stay here then." He asked fearfully, "What about you?" She retorted, "You are no concern of mine." He said despairingly, "Don't go. Don't leave so soon. Don't go." She asked, "What do you want from me? I'm not your fiancée or your lover. You must wake up. The time has come for you to open your eyes." He replied, "I don't want to see. Don't leave me, Prisca. Don't leave!" She said sadly, 'You must leave, fiancée of my great aunt." He agreed, "Yes . . . this is appalling." She said, "Yes, lover of my great aunt, an abyss separates us. Do you know how old I am: just twenty." Hiding his face in his hands, he said, "What you're saying is atrocious." She asked, "You see? While we dwell in the world of the heart, all we see is light, but when we remember the physical body we return to the realm of the intellect and see the human suffering that awaits us." He said, " Y e s . . . yes. Now that I look with my eyes I sense the enormity of what has befallen me. Neither Marnush nor Yamlikha was afflicted to the same extent. Only a step separates me from you. Only one night stands between us. But this step is actually an endless ocean and this night countless generations. When I stretch my hand out to you, I imagine you beautifully alive there, but a colossal, terrifying entity lies between us. It's history. . . time . . . three hundred

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years. Farewell, Prisca . . . my love whom I have found only to lose again in a single moment." Prisca gazed after him as he walked away and finally disappeared. In a faint, hollow voice, she said, "Adieu, Mishilina." «-T

Mishilina went to join his companions Yamlikha and Marnush in the cave. They would sleep there once more, leaving behind this world, which they no longer considered theirs. This was a different one, where they had not found anyone they loved. They returned to their cave and delivered themselves to God's care, awaiting death. They thought death better for them than a life to which no interest or objectives tied them . . . a life that was a form of nonexistence, as they realized, since nonexistence is nothing but a life lacking interests or objectives. «—w Prisca arrived accompanied by her tutor Ghallias. She came in haste, hoping to arrive before Mishilina died. He was breathing his last, and Prisca heard his death rattle. She said, "There's a wheezing sound. . . . " Ghallias replied, "That's impossible, your majesty. They are lifeless corpses, as you can see. Almost a month has passed since they shut themselves up in here with no food." But Prisca heard the death rattle again and said, "My God, someone's still alive." She rushed toward the bodies to search for Mishilina, calling him. Mishilina responded in a weak, faint voice, "Prisca." Now she shouted with insane delight, "You spoke my name. Are you alive? Are you still alive, Mishilina? Don't die, Mishilina. Don't die. Don't!" She turned to scream at Ghallias: "Hurry, Ghallias. A little water. Bring some milk. Some food! Quickly! I beg you." Ghallias sped off to carry out her wishes. Mishilina was struggling to breathe, but Prisca insisted, "No, don't give up. Live. Live for me. Don't die. I love you. Nothing will separate me from you. The heart is stronger than life . . . than time." But Mishilina could not hold out any longer. He uttered his final words: "A. . . las . . . Pri. . . sea. . . . " Prisca placed his head gendy on the floor. She bowed her own and wept silently as she whispered, "Till we meet again, my darling."

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Ghallias entered with a pitcher of milk but saw what had happened. He whispered, "O Lord, it's too late." Prisca whispered, "Yes. It was impossible for love to unite us in this world. It's impossible here. Until we meet again in another world where nothing can come between us." Ghallias said, "Your faith dazzles me. You speak as though totally confident of the truth of what you say . . . indeed, as if you were someone who had seen and lived in that other world." Prisca replied, "Yes. If only you had understood the story of Orashima the way I did . . . but you don't understand anything. Don't you remember that I told you the story of Orashima the fisherman and asked you, 'Where was he during the four centuries before his reappearance?'" Prisca fell silent for a moment. Then she continued, as if seeing the events she recounted unfold before her eyes: There in Japan, at a beach named Busha, the calm blue sea stretched away endlessly one summer's day as the young fisherman Orashima set out in his skiff, cast his nets, and waited. He spent most of the day there without catching anything. Late that afternoon when it was time for his sad, unsuccessful return, Orashima found that a sea turtle had fallen into one of his nets. He was delighted but remembered that the sea turtle is venerated by the sea king and lives a thousand years. For these reasons, killing it is forbidden. So the young man freed the turtle gently and returned it to the water, after reciting a tender prayer. He did not catch anything more. It became very hot, and a still silence pervaded sea and sky. Orashima fell asleep, leaving the boat to drift slowly. At that time, there ascended from the sea—like a dream—a beautiful maiden with long black hair. Skimming over the waters, she approached like a gentle breeze. When she stopped by the head of the drowsy youth, she leaned over and woke him with a light touch. She said, "Don't be afraid. I am the sea king's daughter. He has sent me to thank you for your kindness in allowing the sea turtle to live. Now come with me to my father's palace on the island where summer never dies. If you wish, I'll become your wife, and we'll live happily ever after." Orashima was amazed by what he heard. The beauty of the sea king's daughter dazzled him, and he entrusted his fate to her. She took one of the oars and he grasped the other. They began rowing in silence toward the south and that island where summer never dies. When they finally reached it, the young man observed wonders unseen before by human eyes. He was surrounded by amazing beauty . . . palaces ornamented with the rare gems of the sea and with its glittering treasures. Banquets were thrown in his honor, and he re-

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ceived astonishing curios and precious presents from the inhabitants of the sea kingdom. The king's daughter became his wife after celebrations lasting for a year. Orashima's happiness was overwhelming for three y e a r s . . . . Then he began to remember his family, whom he had left in his hometown of Busha when he set out to fish. He begged his wife to allow him to visit his homeland for a single day in order to see his family before returning to her. After that he would never leave her again. His wife wept silently and then told him, "Since you want to leave, do, but I dread your departure very much. I'm afraid we'll never see each other again. I'll give you a small box that may help you return to me, if you heed my instructions. Do not open it. Absolutely do not open it, no matter what happens. If you do, you will never be able to see me again." Orashima promised her sweetly and bade her farewell. Then he departed. The beautiful island where summer never ends began to fade away behind him, like a dream. When he reached his own land he was amazed. He attempted in vain to find a single face he recognized among all those he encountered on the road. Everyone stared at him with amazed astonishment. He passed by an aged gentieman, whom he asked about Orashima's family. Taken by surprise, the old man was speechless for a moment. Then he shouted, "Where do you come from, young man, that you don't know the legend of Orashima, who went out to fish four hundred years ago and never returned? If you visit the cemetery, you will find a stone memorial decayed by time." Orashima felt very confused. He suspected he was dreaming or experiencing some kind of mirage or magic. He began to wonder, "What's the meaning of this?" He remembered the small box he had and thought something inside it might resolve this mysterious secret . . . the secret of time . . . how four hundred years could seem like three. He remembered what his wife, the daughter of the sea king, had told him and how he had promised not to open the container. So he held off a little, but doubt began to torment him. Was there some magic in the box? Was he under a spell? Was he merely a man who had lost his mind? Unfortunately, he decided to ignore his promise and opened the box. He found nothing inside except smoke . . . cold white smoke that rose slowly into the air, like a summer cloud, before heading off over the silent sea toward the south. Then Orashima realized that he had destroyed his happiness with his own hands and that he would never be able to return to his beloved wife, the sea king's daughter. Prisca ceased her narration of this tale. Then Ghallias objected, "Your majesty, I still don't see evidence in this story that love can soar over time and generations."

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Prisca replied, "That moment has passed. You won't see it in this life." Ghallias knew that Prisca had decided before coming to the cave to bury herself alive in it with Mishilina, so she could journey with him to live in a new world where they would be together, sheltered by their immortal love. Ghallias therefore told her, "Your majesty, I fear my conscience will torment me. . . . God knows how I have begged you, how I have attempted to sway you from this decision, how I have tried to convince you to abandon the execution of this plan to come to the cave and entomb yourself...." He heard drumbeats announcing the arrival of the king's procession and the beginning of the celebration decreed to mark the erection of a temple over the cave where Marnush, Mishilina, and Yamlikha were buried, to honor them as saints. Prisca bade her tutor Ghallias adieu before he departed to leave her alone with the saints. She told him, "Ghallias, if you teach people my story and history, then recite it as I have instructed you." Ready to leave, Ghallias said, "Yes . . . that you're a s a i n t . . . " Prisca interrupted him, "No, no, you kindly fool. This isn't what I told you " Ghallias corrected himself: "That you were a woman in love." 'Yes," Prisca agreed, 'That's all you need to say."

Notes 1. The emperor Decius, see Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chap. XXXIII (423-455 A.D.). 2. The Arabic spelling of this name differs slightly here from that of The People of the Cave or "Visiting the Angry Princess." 3. Jamblichus, in Gibbon, The Decline. 4. Qur'an, Sura of "The Cave," 18:22.

The Case of the Twenty-First Century

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OT TOO LONG AGO AN AMERICAN JOURNALIST VISITED ME. HE

explained that he was touring many countries to investigate the reasons for the worldwide hatred of America. I gazed at him as he drew from his pocket a small notebook in which to record my answer. He was a young man of less than forty, tall with broad shoulders, like one of the heroes of the American cinema. I thought men like that existed only in mythic movie time, but here I was seeing a live specimen, incarnated as a j o u r n a l i s t . . . . I did not make him wait long, since the answer did not require much reflection when the Vietnam War with all it hideousness was on everyone's mind. I told him at once that the world hates America because it holds her responsible for lighting the fires of war today. Wherever you go in Asia, Africa, the Far East, or the Middle East, you find a box of matches in America's fingers. She plays with them and attempts to solve her problems with them, allowing smoke to stain the peaceful sky. He recorded this in his notebook. Then he raised his head to ask, "Do you believe that it would be possible for America to solve its problems without relying on these wars?" With obvious conviction I told him, "That's her mission." The idealism of my reply astonished him and made a good impression on him. He quickly jotted down my words. Then turning to-

For this American translation, Tawfiq al-Hakim suggested an alternate title to this story: 'The Case of the Statue of Liberty—America."

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ward me, he said, "This is brilliant. . . b u t . . . from a practical point of v i e w . . . " I told him, "I'm speaking from a practical point of view. The mission of peace in the hands of a powerful state is the best practical solution to all problems. If a powerful nation wishes to be loved and to conquer the hearts of the world, she should put aside the box of matches and free the dove of peace. This dove has two wings: One is named justice and the other freedom." "Thanks," he said closing his notebook and stuffing it in his pocket. He rose to say goodbye and left. I imagined the affair concluded. Two days passed. Then on the third day, he returned to tell me that he had been thinking a lot about the mission of a great power in our current age and its responsibility toward humanity and that he wanted to treat the topic with great seriousness. He was asking for my assistance in this. I asked him, "My assistance? In what?" "In making this mission a reality." When he saw my bewilderment, he hastened to say, "Naturally, the issue's not easy. A great nation like America is not a single person with whom you can reach an understanding. It's an extremely complicated amalgam of contradictions. . . . Have you ever visited America?" "No, I replied, "and I don't want to." "But you must want to . . . and especially now. Listen: Why not accompany me there? It won't cost you anything. I'll take care of all your expenses there and b a c k . . . door to door. And don't cite your age and health for an excuse, as people have suggested. I'll surround you with luxury and comfort. I have a relative who's an advisor to the president. . . . He can arrange for you to visit the White House and to discuss this important topic with the president in person." "Leave me alone. I beg you." I said this graciously and with a smile but also most decisively. He did not give up. He persisted in attempting to persuade me: "This is your mission too . . . you who speak of missions. It would not be a tourist trip or a holiday junket. The anxious world today needs believing thinkers. If you truly believe in a certain mission, then make some effort on its behalf when there's an opportunity. Give me your passport and I'll prepare everything for you and reserve places for us in an airplane." I could not keep myself from laughing: "With such haste? Am I a suitcase you can carry away just like that?" "Why drag your feet?" "Are you afraid the ailing world will expire before we arrive? Besides, what role do I have in all this? A person hearing you would imagine that I'm a doctor flying in with a c u r e . . . . "

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"Each person who believes in a worthy idea is a physician to some degree. Let's go. Why waste time? You won't lose anything by making this trip, and your fresh eye may perceive in one glance the future of our society." I bowed my head to think. Then I said, "I wouldn't be able to stay more than a week." "That's enough." "There's no need to visit the White House. I don't hobnob with heads of state." "As you wish." I quickly found myself railroaded into this trip. All preparations were completed in the twinkling of an eye. The next thing I knew I was at the a i r p o r t . . . then in the air. The accursed journalist was beside me, smiling, whereas I could scarcely believe what I was doing. How had all this come about? The stewardess passed by with some candies, but I turned them down. I remembered that sweets and airplane food are not good for my health. But it was too late now. It was pointless to think about this. My journalistic companion reached out to take a piece of candy. Casting a contemplative look at the face of the pretty stewardess, he observed, "She has beautiful eyes." I paid no attention to him and pretended to sleep, for I was suddenly in an ill humor. I was depressed at being wrenched away in this fashion from my country, home, and customary pursuits only to find myself on an insane voyage for the sake of an ill-defined goal. How had he been able to convince me? This was not the first time I had been invited to visit his country and other lands as well. I had always been too lazy or lethargic. What had happened this time? Had I been ensnared by a word I myself uttered: our "mission"? Now I argued privately with myself: Had I been serious when I made my great proclamation? Of course I had been, but. . . not serious enough to undergo any inconveniences for its sake . . . at my age. . . . How embarrassing! Praise God, no one heard me. All the same, why should I criticize myself when in fact I had responded to the call? But, what call? . . . How did I know that this was not a literary adventure like any of the others on which journalists and writers embark? Perhaps this youthful journalist had invited other victims on previous occasions, using similar tactics . . . or a method tailor-made to e a c h . . . . If this actually was the case, now that it was too late to turn back, I would at least resolve not to write a single word about this visit or this country. For a boy reporter to trick an author in his seventies and drag him from plane to plane . . . When my inner reflections reached this point, the trip seemed a foretaste of hell and the journalist beside me a devil. I could not bear to look at him. My anxiety and distress increased. I wished I could retrace my steps to my home and throw myself down on my comfort-

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able bed. But the plane was in the air. All I could do was to savor my regret and recite the proverb: "You have only yourself to blame when you listen to children."

Throughout the voyage, I conversed as little as possible with the journalist. Whenever I sensed that he wanted to talk, I pretended to be asleep. So he amused himself by reading at times and by flirting with the stewardess at others. As the trip neared its end, he cried out, "We're now flying over the Statue of Liberty." I rose at once to crane my neck to catch a glimpse out the window, but it was night and I did not see anything. My memory rehashed what I had read about this huge monument: a gift from France to the United States . . . created by the French sculptor Bartholdi, who named his work, "Liberty Illuminating the World," . . . placed by the United States in the New York harbor in 1886. Yes, clearly in that era America had been admired. The world expected liberty from her to illuminate the world. The airplane finally landed and came to a stop at the airport. Shortly thereafter, I was in the hotel the journalist had chosen for my stay in New York. I was tired and decided to go straight to my room, where I ordered a light supper and retired to bed. I awoke early the next morning, rang for tea, dressed, and descended to the lobby to await my companion the journalist, so we could agree on an itinerary for the visit and commence the first day. My eye glanced around at morning newspapers in the hands of various guests. These had banner headlines: "Statue of Liberty." The words, "seizure" and "disappearance" or similar expressions seemed to figure in the whispers and conversations surrounding me. I told myself that this was impossible, for the Statue of Liberty is not a needle that can disappear or a toy that can be seized. There was surely some mistake, for my comprehension of English, especially in America, is potentially faulty. My companion soon arrived, holding a morning paper, which he was busy reading. When he spotted me, he came over, greeted me, and—pointing to the paper—remarked before I could open my mouth, "Imagine . . . the Statue of Liberty." "What happened? Has it disappeared?" I asked with an intensity that astonished him. Even so he continued, "It seems that this is the cause célèbre of the season. I've been out of the United States for about three months on my tour of the world. I return to find this bizarre case." "Could you explain in two words what it's all about?" "Here, read the story yourself."

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I took the paper from him and glanced over the headlines to get a quick idea. There were four large photographs of two men and two women, in their thirties or slighdy younger. There was also an enormous picture of the Statue of Liberty. The screamer headline proclaimed: "Fierce debate between prosecutor and defense over crime's description." A second said, "Today court decides about specifying charges." A final headline added, "Accused: criminals or reformers?" I did not read further but sensed that something was attracting me to this case. I immediately asked my companion, "Could we attend this trial?" "If you wish. When you're with me, everything is possible." "Let's go then!"

«—* We sped off to the courthouse, where my journalist companion did not even need to show his press card, since he was well known there. We were quickly admitted and found ourselves in the courtroom. The judge had not arrived, for his seat was still vacant, but the jurors were present along with a sizable audience. We were shown to seats in one of the rows reserved for spectators. When I looked at the defendants, I found the four whose pictures had been in the papers. Two men, who I assumed were from the defense team, were speaking with the defendants. In no time at all, the judge entered the chamber, took his place next to the American flag, and opened the session with a brief summary of what had occurred the previous time. The disagreement concerning the precise nature of the charges, he assumed, might well drag on. In the interest of time, he was therefore recommending that the court hear the witnesses, the evidence for the charges, and the arguments for and against these. Eventually the nature of the charges would be pinpointed. A defense attorney rose to object: "In this case, the accused are being held without charges. . . . I therefore request their immediate release until such time as exhibits and evidence may justify charges against them." The prosecutor rose to reply, "I object to their release. They were arrested flagrante delicto." The defense attorney responded, "Flagrante delicto in what?" "In destruction." "What evidence is there that they had destruction in mind?" "What did they have in mind?" "Transporting the statue from its current location . . . as their statements have indicated."

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"Theft then." "This description does not apply either. There was no intent to gain possession of the statue." "To what location did they propose to transport the statue?" "To a location matching its message of liberty illuminating the world. They wished to move it to a place where liberty is free to illuminate." The judge intervened: "This approach will condemn us to endless wrangling. I have no choice but to terminate this disagreement by labeling the case one of attempted destruction of government property. It will be incumbent upon the defense to establish any alternative interpretation. I have made this decision. We will now begin to hear the prosecution witnesses." As the prosecutor flashed a triumphant smile, the defense attorney rose to ask the judge, "Will you allow a recess for a few hours? This decision comes as a surprise to us." The judge agreed to adjourn the trial until after noon. He rose to depart and the audience drifted out. We left, the journalist and I, to lunch in a restaurant near the courthouse. He now realized that I intended to return to follow the trial. My interest in it was only natural. He and I had both perceived that behind this case was another greater and more profound one. When finishing our coffee, we glanced at the clock and then rose to return to court. As we took our seats, the trial was resuming. The judge ordered the first witness to come forward. A man marched to the stand, military-style. He was one of the guards from the statue. Once sworn in, he sat down and was asked by the judge for his statement. The guard responded, "The night of the incident, I was on duty. At about three A.M. I heard the sound of an engine from a motor boat. Using my binoculars I made out a man in a swimsuit in the boat. A moment later another man in a diving suit appeared from the water, followed by two women, also in diving gear. They were grasping the end of a long line. They all climbed into the boat. Feeling suspicious, I shouted at them and fired into the air to prevent them from fleeing. My colleagues arrived, and we searched the boat, where we found a detonator. We called in divers, who followed the line under the water until they located sticks of dynamite attached to the lower part of the boulder on which the statue stands." The judge then asked the witness to identify the people in question, and the guard pointed to each of the defendants in turn. Then he was shown exhibits consisting of the sticks of dynamite, the ropes, and the detonator, for his identification. Finally the judge allowed the prosecutor to question the witness.

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He asked, "What did you understand to be the defendants' objective?" "Blowing up the statue, of course." "What did you understand from their starting the boat's engine?" "That they were preparing to flee by boat the moment the divers returned and pushed the detonator." "Then if you had not heard the engine, this disaster might have occurred?" "Absolutely." "Thank you." Turning toward the jurors, the prosecutor proclaimed, "It's clear, as you can see, that the accused were planning to blow up the statue and that they actually executed their plan. They had completed virtually all its steps. There is no other way to understand this case." He then stepped down so the defense team could question the witness. One of the defense attorneys asked, "In what place exactly did the defendants attach the sticks of dynamite?" "The lower part of the boulder . . . under the water." "This amount of dynamite might damage the section of the boulder under the water, but would it have sufficed to demolish the statue, which rises ninety-three meters above the water?" "I don't know. . . . I'm not an expert." "Visitors are allowed into the statue building and can climb up inside it. Would it not have been possible for the defendants to leave explosives inside or to have hidden a time bomb there?" ' T h e security is tight." "Would that prevent someone from trying?" "Naturally not." ' T h e n it would have been possible, if that was what they really intended?" "Yes." "Why did you fire into the air?" "To prevent them from escaping." "What indications did they give that they planned to flee? Or did you merely imagine this?" "The sound of the engine proved to me that their boat was ready to depart." "Did you hear the engine as the boat first approached the statue building?" "No, because I was in a distant location." "Are you certain that the engine was turned off and restarted for a quick departure?" "I simply heard it running."

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"Isn't it conceivable that the motor had been running all the time?" "That's possible." ' T h e n why did you assume they wanted to flee?" "I didn't want to take any chances." "That was your decision . . . but on their side, did they give any indication of a desire to flee?" "No." "Thank you." At this juncture the prosecutor asked in a tone of only lightly disguised sarcasm, "What point is the the defense attempting to make?" The defense attorney retorted, "I wish to establish that our clients had no intention of fleeing, since they considered they had done nothing illegal. The witness did not state that the dynamite placed on the lower extremity of the boulder was enough to demolish the statue. He . . . " The prosecutor interrupted: "These issues are the special province of the expert witness, who is currently present in the courtroom. I therefore request permission from his h o n o r the j u d g e to call this expert witness." The judge agreed. The expert came forward, was sworn in, and took his seat. The instruments of destruction were shown to him. When the expert had examined them, the prosecutor asked, "Have you inspected the site where the dynamite was placed?" "Yes," he replied. "It was at a depth of ten meters beneath the surface of the water." "What amount of damage could this dynamite have caused to the structure of the statue?" "It's not possible to estimate the exact potential harm, but the explosion would certainly have shaken the structure severely." "Is it not probable that a severe shaking could lead to the statue's downfall?" "Everything is possible under such circumstances." "What do you infer to be the goal of a person or persons planting explosives in this way?" 'To cause destruction, naturally." "Could this deed have had any other goal, such as moving the statue from one place to another?" 'To move it to another location? A statue of this size? By such childish methods? That's a good joke." "Then it would be impossible for anyone to consider such a hypothesis seriously, especially persons as cultured and educated as the defendants, who graduated from Harvard University with advanced degrees?"

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"I believe that there could be no serious consideration of such a goal by such methods. To move this statue from its current location would be a complicated technical feat, which only the largest engineering firms could tackle." The prosecutor whirled around to face the jurors and said, "I think you all should be convinced now that it is not possible there should have been any other goal behind the actions of these defendants except destruction of government property." One of the defense attorneys rose to question the witness: "Does simply planting sticks of dynamite cause an explosion?" "I don't understand the question." "Would this dynamite have caused an explosion merely by being placed there, as is the case with a time bomb?" "No, of course not. The detonator would have to be pressed." "And if it was not pressed—if there was no intention or desire to press the detonator?" "In this case . . . " The prosecutor bobbed up to demand, "What's all this talk? The defense wishes us to think the defendants placed the dynamite and then sat in front of the detonator to wait for the guards to arrive and arrest them?" The attorney replied immediately, "This is exactly what happened." Turning to the jurors he continued, "If our clients had any real intention of causing destruction, they would have pressed the detonator the moment the guards appeared. They had more than enough time." The prosecutor asked sarcastically, "What was your clients' intention? To move the statue to another location?" The defense attorney replied calmly, "Transportation of the statue does not imply something physical but a metaphorical and symbolic move. We are confronted by a new generation, who are pure, cultured, and sincere. They feel that a statue called 'Liberty Illuminating the World,' in its current physical and social setting, is misleading, a lie." The prosecutor countered, "This pure, innocent generation has now had recourse to the destruction of property. . . . " A cry of protest was raised by the defendants, and the judge used his gavel to call for silence. The defendants whispered to the defense team for a moment. After that, one of the attorneys rose to approach the judge, saying, "With the consent of our clients, we ask the court to allow them to testify." The judge turned to ask the prosecutor, "Does the prosecution have any objection?" "No," he replied. "No objection."

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Then the judge announced, "Court is adjourned until ten o'clock tomorrow morning, when the testimony of the defendants will be heard." He rose and left the bench. Then the rest of us traipsed from the courtroom into the street. «—p My journalistic companion asked what we should do that evening, presenting me with a host of suggestions. I was not enthusiastic about any of them, since staying out late exhausts me. I had not endured the hardships of this journey in order to take in the night spots, to tour theaters and clubs, or to attend receptions. The tour I wanted was into opinions, ideas, and systems of thought. I had begun to discern that my goal and objective were concealed in this court case. Little by little, it was opening to reveal the inner truth we had been seeking, this society's essence, which we wished to learn, and those contemporary problems that were fermenting and bubbling beneath the surface of the culture. We would devote ourselves to this case. The best thing was for me to retire early so I would wake up alert and energetic. I had a light meal and walked a bit with my comrade to get some exercise before sleeping. The lights of the bars and nightclubs explode on the streets of New York from billboards, which are aglow with a rainbow of different colors that glitter and pulse rapidly to ravish the eye before ravishing the day's earnings from a person's p o c k e t . . . the consumer society they call it. A huge waterwheel of human beings rotates all day long, as these people endlessly pour their sweat back into the spring. This perpetual fountain never runs dry, but where does the overflow go? Here's the question. . . . I returned to my hotel and read a little in bed until drowsiness triumphed and I fell asleep. When I rose the next morning, I discovered that the newspapers had printed in large letters the news that the defendants would testify in today's session. A little before ten A.M., my colleague and I were in the courtroom. Everyone took a place in the chamber. T h e judge entered and began the important hearing that people were awaiting so eagerly. The first defendant was called to take the stand. The judge asked him to make his statement. The defendant said, "We four have been friends since studying at Harvard University. My companion and I were in economics and the two women were in humanities and philosophy. We saw them only at the club around the swimming pool, where we all competed with each other in diving. After we graduated with honors, we were able to land fine positions in large corporations. Then we were drafted and

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sent to Vietnam, where coincidence reunited us with the women, who were working in one of the units. The four of us met from time to time and exchanged views. We were amazed at the conformity of our opinions and the similarity of our feelings about the hideous terror in which we lived. We began to ask ourselves why all this was happening. When we returned to the States, we decided to do something that would make the world listen. The best pulpit we could imagine was a courtroom. We chose the Statue of Liberty as a symbol of a broader problem. We prepared everything with great precision to make this appear to be a crime of destruction . . . so we would have access to a courtroom where we could speak out and broadcast our words to the general public through the media. And this is what has happened." The judge then turned to ask the prosecutor if he wished to question the witness. The prosecutor leapt to his feet, replying, "Of course . . . there are many questions that must be raised when we are confronted by the ingenious innocence with which the defendant has wished to cloak his crime. The best approach is to treat the facts one at a time. I wish, first of all, for you to describe your family life." With mild irony, the defendant replied, "My family life has been very normal. There has been nothing extraordinary about it. My father did not divorce my mother. My mother did not let me roam the streets alone. In brief, I've been the sort of youth who does not fit the description of what is now termed deviance." Slightiy disconcerted, the prosecutor continued, "Who accused you of being a defiant? I'm asking you an ordinary question, which you should answer straightforwardly. All the same, I'll consider that you've replied to the first and ask now: What large corporation did you work for when you graduated?" "Portheed S t e e l . . . . I was in the financial section." "Were you a successful employee there?" "Yes, but I became disenchanted with my work once I sensed the strong ties between this corporation and the Pentagon. I came to understand the reason that wars are waged and why and for whom hundreds of thousands of young Americans and millions of children, old people, and women in Asia are dying." 'You were able to see this from your work in the company?" "Naturally, for the company's budget was one of my section's responsibilities. When I saw that military contracts totaled more than a billion dollars and that we were extremely influential with the government, it was easy to learn who had a vested interest in waging war."

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"Don't you know that the system of government in our nation is democracy?" "Yes, I know . . . but I began to learn also that the military industrial complex constituted the fingers inside democracy's rubber gloves." "Didn't you ever examine the political reasons that made the Vietnam War a national necessity?" "I investigated and asked: Why don't we leave Asia to the Asians? Why is it necessary to force ourselves in there? Why should we prevent them from choosing the system they want? The answer was economic independence. We did not want them to be economically independent." "Don't you know that their economic independence would spell the destruction of our national economy?" "No . . . it would mean the destruction of the multinationals, which grow bloated on the blood and resources they suck from Africa and Asia." "What business of yours is all this?" "I have a right to be concerned about these wars that will never end now that Asia and Africa have awakened and begun to defend their resources, which are their life. The military industrial complex will not voluntarily abandon the rape of these resources. The multinationals will accept no reduction in their bloated profits and size, because any shortfall would hinder payment to workers of wages high enough to keep them happy and would rule out profits bountiful enough to placate the shareholders. Then the multinationals would collapse. They must defend their existence too. So there will be wars into which we young people are shoved to die or to kill others. Thus we find our society to be a jungle in which predators fill their stomachs by killing others." "So you want to change this society?" "Yes . . . because it would be an insult to human dignity for this society to survive into the next century." 'You confess then that you wished to change this society? By which means did you want to change it? Through destruction and sabotage?" "By destroying outdated thought." "By violence?" "No . . . since we reject war, we cannot endorse violence." "Are you a hippie?" "I'm a pacifist. I call for peace." "This hasn't stopped hippies from committing murders. What do you think about that?"

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"Naturally, none of us young people can agree with that. If you refer to the murder of Sharon Tate and the bloodbath that took place in her house, each of us shuddered with disgust when reading the recollections of the defendant Manson. He's a kind of Rasputin, blending Christ with Satan and confusing heaven with bloodshed. He's one of a kind. He proves nothing and represents no one. He speaks only for himself." "Don't you find other hippies with repulsive behavior that is also a kind of assault on society?" "They are more destructive of themselves than of anything else. If they intend to destroy society by destroying themselves, this is a sacrifice like any other. When they find that their only choices are to die willingly in wars to benefit capitalist cartels or to perish against their wills in these conflicts, these both seem equivalent to them." "So you support destruction? Of society and of self?" "I have no love for the commission of crimes of any type." "Have you ever used marijuana or other habit-forming narcotics?" "No, and I dislike for young people to use them, no matter what their motives are. I believe that only a small percentage out of the millions of hippies use drugs, make love in public, or commit similar indecencies that are exaggerated and publicized by those who have a vested interest in combating the anti-war youth movement by smearing the reputation of this revolution." "Are you an advocate of this revolution?" "Yes, I advocate every revolution against filthy wars and against those who spearhead them from the military industrial complex." "Why are young people revolutionaries?" "Because they will experience the twenty-first century and wish to transform society in preparation for it. We young people cannot allow this corrupt society to cross the threshold into the new century. We will do everything necessary to ensure that the new century is based on new ideas. The French Revolution prepared the way for the nineteenth century with new ideas and new structures for society, and the socialist ideas of the nineteenth century opened the way for the twentieth...." "What in your opinion will characterize society in the coming century?" "It's hard for the revolution to discern clearly the image of the society to come. Did the revolutionaries in France, when they destroyed the Bastille, for example, have a clear idea of what society would be like in thirty years?" "So destruction of the Bastille was, in your opinion, the most important step in the revolution?"

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"It was a symbol. . . merely a symbol." "Like demolishing the Statue of Liberty?" "We haven't reached that point yet." "What point have you reached?" 'The seed of the revolution . . . has begun to sprout in this society." "Do you refer to a revolution in this society's structure?" "Yes." "What is the difference between destruction and revolution?" "My two female comrades will be better able to answer that than I am, since they studied humanities and social s c i e n c e s . . . . " "When you were studying in the university, were you a student revolutionary?" "No . . . I was an ordinary student." "When did you begin thinking about a revolution?" "After we returned from Vietnam, as I have already mentioned." "All the other young people who did not go to Vietnam—how did the idea of revolution catch on with them?" "I don't know." "Are there leaders who direct this movement?" "Not to my knowledge." "Which one of you proposed the idea of destroying the Statue of Liberty?" "We all thought of it at the same time." "Who sketched out the plan of action?" "I did." "Where did you obtain the dynamite and the detonator?" "My father works for a contracting firm. I was able to obtain these items from the company's warehouses." "With your father's knowledge?" "No." "So you stole them?" "I borrowed them. . . . Naturally we had no intention of using or keeping them." "Of course not.. . . Your intentions were always entirely innocent. Who placed the sticks of dynamite on the boulder?" "I did . . . with the assistance of the two women comrades." "What was your fourth companion's task?" "We left him in the boat, because he's not a good diver." "Who was chosen to press the detonator?" "No one . . . because, as we have said, we had no intention of setting off an explosion." "If this really was your intention, why did you use real dynamite and bring along a real detonator?"

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"We actually thought of using fakes but decided that such a subterfuge would be discovered immediately and that the whole plan would be ruined, since we would not be granted a trial." "Now that you have your own trial, what is the important message you wish to proclaim from your pulpit?" "We want people to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that there is a cause, a serious one. This is the cause or case of the twentyfirst century, the century that will be free of enmity, of racial and societal divisions, and of capitalistic cartels. It will be a century of love, peace, and human b r o t h e r h o o d . . . . The revolution has commenced within this hostile, threadbare society. Nothing will stand in its way until the glad tidings of the new society appear. We ask all people from now on to join our revolution against the old ideas that are not appropriate for life in tomorrow's world. They should prepare themselves to accept this inevitable change. Otherwise, they will be swept away by the rising generations, along with the debris of this century of violent oppression." "Do you have a clear idea of how to change our current society?" "I don't understand the question." "Is the revolution you claim will change society to be a popular social one, a parliamentary political one, or an armed intervention?" "Nothing like this could be imagined in America." "Then what is this revolution?" "It's a revolution of new ideas for a new generation."

The judge adjourned the session to the following day, but by then I was unable to leave my bed. I had fallen ill from eating American restaurant food that my digestion could not tolerate. When I next saw my companion the journalist, I told him frankly of my desire to return home by the first plane. He attempted to convince me to wait until we learned the verdict in this case, but I told him the verdict did not interest me. What was important was the case itself, since I had learned many things from it. He gave in and made the airline reservations for me. Then he bade me a fond farewell. In no time at all I was soaring over the Statue of Liberty, reviewing in my mind's eye the ideas advanced on behalf of this monument. I returned safely to my homeland. Once I recovered my health, I grasped my pen and started to record in these lines what I had seen and heard.

About the Book

F

OR MORE THAN FIVE DECADES, TAWFIQ AL-HAKIM ( 1 8 9 8 - 1 9 8 7 )

was a dominant, influential, and controversial voice in modern Arabic and Egyptian literature. He is perhaps least known for the short story; yet, he pronounced his short stories a good introduction to his thought, and they are an excellent demonstration of his impressive skills with lively dialogue and the light-hearted but serious analysis of ideas. An Arab critic has suggested that the short story was in fact the genre for which (along with comedy) al-Hakim was best suited—but that since he wished to make a totally original contribution to Arabic literature, he concentrated on drama, then considered less respectable in Arab literary circles. This first collection of al-Hakim's stories to be published in English includes 27 of the author's best works written from 1927 to 1984. Whether inspired by literature or by Egyptian social conditions, the stories range from mock-autobiographical to science fiction and from folk fantasy to allegory and philosophy. The work was translated by WLLLLAM MAYNARD HUTCHINS, principal translator of Naguib Mahfouz's internationally acclaimed Cairo Trilogy. Professor Hutchins has also translated al-Hakim's Return of the Spirit and Plays, Prefaces, and Postscripts, and he is currently working on a new book, Critical Perspectives on Tawfiq al-Hakim.

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