Karnak Café

Qurunfula

It was sheer chance that brought me to the Karnak Café. One day I’d made my way to al-Mahdi Street to get my watch repaired; the job was going to take several hours, so I had to wait. To kill the time I decided to look at all the watches, jewelry, and trinkets on display in the store windows on both sides of the street. And that’s how I came to stumble across the café.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you like the coffee?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you manage that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can still remember the tale of that Finance Ministry official.”

“Shhhh!” she interrupted with a whisper. “Do you mean ‘Arif Sulayman? He’s over there, just a few yards away from you. He’s the steward behind the bar!”

I sneaked a look in his direction as he stood there in his usual spot. He looked paunchy, and his hair had turned white; his expression was downtrodden and submissive.

Qurunfula obviously noticed how astonished I looked. “It’s not the way you imagine,” she said. “He wasn’t a victim of mine; he was a victim of his own weakness.”

With that she told me a story that sounded quite normal. He had been absolutely crazy about her, but she had never given him the slightest encouragement. He had never had enough money to hang around the dancehall all the time, so he had started dipping his hand into the state’s coffers. Among all the other customers he had looked like some rich heir, but she had never taken a single penny from him. The only relationship they had had was firmly based on the regulations and traditions of nightclubs. But matters had not proceeded very far before he was caught red-handed; he had been taken to court and given a prison sentence.

“It was a tragedy, sure enough,” she said, “but it wasn’t my fault. Years later he came out of prison. He showed up at the very same nightclub and told me that his life was in ruins. I felt sorry for the man and not a little anxious as well. I spoke to the club owner on his behalf and got him a job as a waiter. Once I stopped dancing and opened this café, I decided to hire him as wine-steward. He does a very good job.”

“Didn’t his old infatuation sometimes get the better of him?” I asked, stroking my moustache.

“Oh yes, it did,” she replied. “When he was a waiter at the nightclub, he kept on harassing me. That got him a really nasty beating. At the time I was married to a real elephant of a man who was a champion weight lifter. One year later, he married a dancer in one of the theater troupes; they’re still married and have seven daughters. Today I think he’s happy and successful enough.…” With that she dissolved into laughter. “These days we occasionally decide to exchange a love-kiss.”

“Thus is the past forgotten.”

“Then it happened that one of his former colleagues got an unexpected promotion to the rank of under-secretary in the Finance Ministry. That made him feel a real sense of grievance; he wanted to take revenge on the entire world. However, along came the 1952 Revolution, and his ex-colleague was pensioned off. With that he calmed down a lot and became one of the revolution’s great admirers.”

I became part of the Karnak Café family. The entire group felt like an integral part of me. Qurunfula gave me her friendship, and I reciprocated. She used to play backgammon with the old men: Muhammad Bahgat, Rashad Magdi, and Taha al-Gharib. I also made the acquaintance of the young folk, especially Zaynab Diyab, Isma‘il al-Shaykh, and Hilmi Hamada. I also met Zayn al-‘Abidin ‘Abdallah, who was public relations director at some company or other. Even Imam al-Fawwal, the waiter, and Gum‘a, the bootblack and sweeper, became friends of mine. I discovered the secret behind the economics of Karnak Café: it didn’t need to rely on the limited number of customers who came in, instead it counted on the owners and customers of the various taverns on al-Mahdi Street. That was why the drinks at the café were so good, in fact exceptional. There was another secret about the café too, namely that it was — and still is — a gathering-place for people with extremely interesting and provocative viewpoints; whether they yell or speak softly, they are expressing the realities of living history. Ever since I became a member of their company, the numerous conversations I’ve had there have been unforgettable, as has Qurunfula’s own sense of gratitude every time she has intoned, “Thank God who has brought us the revolution!”

Both ‘Arif Sulayman, the wine-steward, and Zayn al-‘Abidin, the public relations director, were fervent admirers of the revolution as well, each of them in his own particular way and for his own purposes. As far as the old men were concerned, they too were equally enthusiastic for the revolution, but they did occasionally introduce another note into the conversation: “The past wasn’t all that bad,” they would say with a properly nuanced caution.

The young folk used to gather in a corner; from it, bursts of enthusiasm would emerge with a great roar. As far as they were concerned, history began with the 1952 Revolution. Everything before then was some obscure and inexplicable “period of ignorance.” They were the real children of the revolution. But for its achievements, they would all have been loitering around the streets and alleys with no real sense of purpose. From time to time we would hear hints of opposition that suggested either the views of the extreme left or else a cautious mention under the breath of an affiliation with the Muslim Brotherhood. However, such ideas would soon be lost in the general hubbub. I was particularly struck by Imam al-Fawwal, the waiter, and Gum‘a, the bootblack. Both of them used to complain about how hard their life was, and yet they could both burst into song in praise of the great pre-Islamic cavalier, ‘Antar, and his various conquests; it was as if references to victory, honor, and hope could somehow make their poverty easier to bear.

Actually, everyone was eager to share this feeling of elation, even those whose hearts were being eaten up by envy and hatred. All the people sitting there inside the café had buried deep inside them some kind of bitter experience, whether humiliation, defeat, or failure. Their craving for a full glass would inspire them to challenge all their former foes. They would drink to the very dregs and then start dancing for the sheer joy of it. What’s the point of criticizing something with a whole load of drunks around? Bribery, you say? Pilfering, corruption, coercion, terrorism? Shit! Or, so what? Or, it’s an inevitable evil. Or, how utterly trivial. Come on, take another swig from the magic glass, and let’s dance together.

Whenever Qurunfula gets back from the hairdresser, she looks really beautiful. Her honey-colored eyes sparkle. On one occasion this prompted me to ask her a question: “Aren’t you married any more? Don’t you have any children?”

She didn’t say anything, and I immediately regretted letting the question slip. For her part, she noticed that I was embarrassed.

“See these people?” she said, pointing at the customers. “I love them, and they love me.”

Just then for no apparent reason she whispered to herself the words, “Love, love.”

“We all had good times being in love with the people we loved,” she went on sadly, “but the only thing that lingers is a sense of disappointment.”

“Disappointment?”

“Yes, disappointment. That’s what happens to a love that manages to escape from reality’s clutches, only to linger on as a tantalizing hope.”

“Have you ever been disappointed in love?” I asked discreetly.

“No, not exactly,” she replied, “but sometimes love plays the coquette with you.”

“But not in your glory days, surely?”

“Oh, it can happen any time.”

I was eager to hear more, but she decided to ignore my obvious curiosity. She spotted Zayn al-‘Abidin out of the corner of her eye.

“Just look at him,” she continued. “He’s in love with me. What does he want? He’s suggested that we go into partnership with the café and turn it into a restaurant. But what he’s really after is to get me into bed with him.”

“But the man’s so old, he’s preserved in oil!”

“Impossible dreams!”

“He might be rich, of course.”

“The state’s money. That’s the place you need to look for your blessings.”

I looked toward ‘Arif Sulayman, the wine-steward. It was a completely unconscious gesture, but she still noticed.

“He pilfered money for love’s sake,” she said. “But Zayn al-‘Abidin grabs it out of sheer greed and ambition. My dear, it takes all types.… Some people take merely in order to stay alive because the government doesn’t provide for them; others are simply greedy; still others are on the take because everyone else is doing the same thing. And while all these people are carrying on like that, the poor young people trapped in the middle go crazy.”

“So now we’re back to our original point,” I said with some emphasis.

“You realize that I’m in love, don’t you?” she asked me forthrightly.

True enough, I had noticed certain things, but now she had caught me red-handed.

“You’re no fool,” she said, “so don’t even ask me who it is.”

“Hilmi Hamada?” I inquired with a smile.

Without even excusing herself she made her way back to her chair; once there she threw me the sweetest of smiles. At one time I had thought it was Isma‘il al-Shaykh, but then I discovered that he and Zaynab Diyab were very close. After that things had become clearer. Hilmi Hamada was a very trim and handsome young man, always very excitable when there was an argument. Qurunfula was quite frank with me. She had been the one to make the amorous overtures, in fact right in front of his young friends. On one occasion she was sitting next to him and listening to him speak his mind about some political controversy: “Long live everything you want to live,” she yelled, “and death to anyone you want to see dead!”

She invited him up to her apartment on the fourth floor of the building (the café was on the first floor). Once there she gave him a sumptuous welcome. The sitting room was decked with flowers, there was a huge spread on the table, and dance music was playing on the tape recorder.

“He loves me too,” she told me confidently, “you can be quite sure of that.” She paused for a short while, then continued in a more serious tone, “But actually he has no idea how much I love him.” Then there was a flash of anger. “One of these days I expect he’ll just get up and leave for good … but then, what else is new?” That last phrase came out with a shrug of the shoulders.

“You’re aware of everything, and yet you still insist on going your own way.”

“That’s a pretty fatuous remark, but it might just as well serve as a motto for life itself.”

“On behalf of the living,” I commented with a smile, “allow me to thank you.”

“But Hilmi’s serious and generous too. He was the first person to get enthusiastic about my project.”

“And which project might that be, if you please?”

“Writing my memoirs. I’m absolutely crazy about the idea. The only thing holding me back is that I’m no good at writing.”

“Is he helping you write them down on a regular basis?”

“Yes, he is. And he’s very keen about it too.”

“So he’s interested in art and history?”

“That’s one side of it. Other parts deal with the secret lives of Egypt’s men and women.”

“People from the previous generation?”

“The present one as well.”

“You mean, scandals and things like that?”

“Once in a while there’s a reference to some scandals, but I have more worthwhile goals than just that.”

“It sounds risky,” I said, introducing a note of caution.

“There’ll be an uproar when it’s published,” she went on with a mixture of pride and concern.

“You mean, if it is ever published,” I commented with a laugh.

She gave me a frown. “The first part can be published with no problems.”

“Fine. Then I’d leave the second part to be published in the fullness of time.”

“My mother lived till she was ninety,” she responded hopefully.

“And may God grant you a long life too, Qurunfula,” I said, in the same hopeful tone.

There came a day when I arrived at the café only to find all the chairs normally occupied by the young people empty. The entire place looked very odd, and a heavy silence hung over everything. The old men were busy playing backgammon and chatting, but Qurunfula kept casting anxious glances toward the door. She came over and sat down beside me.

“None of them have come,” she said. “What can have happened?”

“Maybe they had an appointment somewhere else.”

“All of them? He might have let me know, even if it was just a phone call.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

“Perhaps not,” she said sharply, “but there’s plenty to be angry about.”

Evening turned into night, but none of them showed up. The following evening it was the same story. Qurunfula’s mood changed, and she became a bundle of nerves, going in and out of the café.

“How do you explain it all?” she asked.

I shook my head in despair.

“Oh, they’re just youngsters,” was Zayn al-‘Abidin’s contribution to the conversation. “They never stay anywhere for too long. They’ve gone somewhere else that suits them better.”

Qurunfula lost her temper and rounded on him. “What a stupid idiot you are!” she said. “Why don’t you go somewhere that suits you better as well?”

“Oh no,” he replied with an imbecilic laugh, “I’m already in the most suitable place.”

At this point I did my best to smooth things over. “I’m sure we’ll see them again at any moment.”

“The worry of it all is killing me,” she whispered in my ear.

“Don’t you know where he lives?” I asked delicately.

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “It’s somewhere in the Husayniya Quarter. He’s a medical student, but the college is closed for summer vacation. As you can tell, I’ve no idea where he lives.”

Days and weeks passed, and Qurunfula almost went out of her mind. I joined her in her sorrow.

“You’re destroying yourself,” I told her. “Have a little pity, at least on yourself.”

“It’s not pity I need,” she replied. “It’s him.”

Zayn al-‘Abidin avoided any further tirades by saying nothing and keeping his thoughts to himself. Actually, he was feeling profoundly happy about the new situation, but he managed to keep his true feelings hidden by looking glum and puffing away on his shisha.

One day Taha al-Gharib spoke up. “I hear there have been widespread arrests.”

No one said a word. After this moment of loaded silence I thought I would try to be as helpful as possible. “But these young folk all support the revolution,” I said.

That led Rashad Magdi to insert his opinion. “And there’s a not inconsiderable minority of them who oppose it.”

“It’s quite clear what’s happened,” Muhammad Bahgat suggested. “They decided to put the guilty ones in prison, so they’ve dragged all the friends in too. That way the investigation will be complete.”

Qurunfula kept following this conversation. The expression on her face was one of utter confusion, and it made her look almost stupid. She adamantly refused either to understand or be convinced by anything she was hearing. Meanwhile the conversation continued with everyone contributing their own ideas about what was happening.

“Imprisonment is really scary.”

“The things you hear about what’s being done to prisoners are even more scary.”

“Rumors like those are enough to make your stomach churn.”

“There’s no judicial hearing and no defense.”

“There’s no legal code in the first place!”

“But people keep saying that we’re living through a revolutionary process that requires the use of extraordinary measures like these.”

“Yes, and they go on to say that we all have to sacrifice freedom and the rule of law, but only for a short while.”

“But this revolution is thirteen years old and more. Surely it’s about time things settled down and became more stable.”

Qurunfula started neglecting her job. She would spend all or part of the day somewhere else; sometimes she didn’t appear for twenty-four hours at a stretch. It would be left to ‘Arif Sulayman and Imam al-Fawwal to run the café.

When she reappeared, she used to tell us that she had been to see all the influential people she knew from both past and present. She had asked them all for information, but nobody knew anything. “What you keep getting,” she told us, “are totally unexpected remarks, like ‘How are we supposed to know,’ or ‘I’d be careful about asking too many questions,’ or even worse, ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t offer any young folk hospitality in your café!’ What on earth has happened to the world?”

With that my own thoughts went off on an entirely new tack, the primary impulse being a feeling of profound sadness. Yes indeed, I told myself, this life we’re living does have its painful and negative aspects, and yet they are simply necessary garbage to be thrown away in contempt by the entire gigantic social structure. However, they should not blind us to the majesty of the basic concept and its scope. During the period when Saladin was winning his glorious victory over the Crusaders, how do we know what the average street-dweller in Cairo was living through? While Muhammad ‘Ali was busy creating an Egyptian empire in the nineteenth century, how much did the Egyptian peasants have to suffer? Have we ever tried to imagine what it must have been like during the time of the Prophet himself, when the new faith caused deep rifts between father and son, brother and brother, and husband and wife? Friendships were torn apart, and long-standing traditions were replaced by new hardships. And if we keep all these precedents in mind, should we not be willing to endure a bit of pain and inconvenience in the process of turning our state, the most powerful in the Middle East, into a model of a scientific, socialist, and industrial nation? While all these notions were buzzing inside my head, I had the sense that, by applying such logic, I could even manage to convince myself that death itself had its own particular requirements and benefits.

And then, all of a sudden one afternoon, the familiar, long-lost faces reappeared in the doorway: Zaynab Diyab, Isma‘il al-Shaykh, Hilmi Hamada, and some others as well. We never saw the rest of them again. Their arrival prompted an instantaneous outburst of pure joy, and we all welcomed them back with open arms. Even Zayn al-‘Abidin joined in the festivities. Qurunfula sank back into her chair, as though she were taking a nap or had just fainted. She neither spoke nor moved. Hilmi Hamada went over to her.

“I’ll get my revenge on you!” she sobbed and then burst into tears.

“Where on earth have you all been?” someone asked.

“On a trip,” more than one voice answered.

They all roared with laughter, and everyone seemed happy again. And yet their faces had altered. The shaved heads made them look peculiar, and the old youthful sparkle in their eyes had gone, replaced by listless expressions.

“But how did it all happen?” someone (maybe Zayn al-‘Abidin) asked.

“No, no!” yelled Isma‘il al-Shaykh, “please spare us that.…”

“Oh, come on,” yelled Zaynab Diyab gleefully. “Forget about all that. We’ve come through it, and we’re all safe and sound.”

There was one name that I kept hearing, although I have no idea how it came up or who was the first person to mention it: Khalid Safwan, Khalid Safwan. So who was this Khalid Safwan? A detective? Prison warden? Several of them kept mentioning his name. I caught brief glimpses of the expressions on their faces; under the exterior veil the suffering and sense of disillusionment were almost palpable.

True enough, life at Karnak Café resumed its daily routine, and yet a good deal of the basic spirit of the place had been lost. A thick partition had now been lowered, one that turned the time they had been away into an ongoing mystery, an engrossing secret that left questions of all kinds unanswered. Beyond that, and in spite of all the lively chatter and jollity, a new atmosphere of caution pervaded the place, rather like a peculiar smell whose source you cannot trace. Every joke told had more than one meaning to it; every gesture implied more than one thing; in every innocent glance there was also a feeling of apprehension.

One day Qurunfula opened up to me. “Those young folk have been through a great deal,” she said.

“Has he told you anything about it?” I asked eagerly.

“No,” she replied, “he doesn’t say a single word. But that in itself is enough.”

Yes indeed, that in itself was enough. After all, we were all living in an era of unseen powers — spies hovering in the very air we breathed, shadows in broad daylight. I started using my imagination to reflect upon the past. Roman gladiators, courts of inquiry, reckless reprobates, criminal behavior, epics of suffering, ferocious outbursts of violence, forest clashes. I had to rescue myself from these reflections on human history, so I reminded myself that for millions of years dinosaurs had roamed the earth, but it had only taken a single hour to eradicate them all in a life-and-death struggle. All that remained now were just one or two huge skeletons. It seems that, whenever darkness envelops us, we are intoxicated by power and tempted to emulate the gods; with that, a savage and barbaric heritage is aroused deep within us and revives the spirit of ages long since past.

At this particular moment all the information I had was filtered through the imagination. It was only years later and in very different circumstances that people finally began to open their hearts, hearts that had previously been locked tight shut. They provided me with gruesome details, all of which helped explain certain events that at the time had seemed completely inexplicable.

Zayn al-‘Abidin never for a moment gave up hope, making a virtue out of patience. He kept on watching and waiting for just the right moment. Needless to say, Hilmi Hamada’s return had completely ruined his plans. It may have been his fear of seeing his quest for Qurunfula end in failure that stirred an emotion buried deep inside him. In any case, it led him to cross a line and abandon his normally cautious demeanor. One day he put his suppressed feelings into words right in front of Qurunfula.

“It seems to me,” he stated recklessly, “that the presence of these young people in the café may be having a very negative effect on the place’s reputation.”

Qurunfula shot right back at him. “So when are you planning to leave?” she asked.

He chose to ignore her remark and instead continued in a suitably homiletic tone, “I do have a worthwhile project in mind, one with a number of benefits to it.” He now turned toward me, looking for support. “What do you think of the project?” he asked.

For my part I addressed a question to Qurunfula. “Wouldn’t you like to have a larger share in the national capital?”

“But it’s not just the capital he’s after,” she replied sarcastically. “He wants the woman who owns it as well!”

“Not so,” insisted Zayn al-‘Abidin. “My proposal only involves the business itself. Matters of the heart rest in the hands of God Almighty.”

She stopped arguing with him. It seemed as though she was totally consumed by her infatuation. Every time I watched her playing the role of the blind lover, I felt a tender sympathy for her plight. I had no doubt in my mind that that boy loved her in an adolescent kind of way; for her part she certainly knew how to attract him and keep him happy, while he was able to enjoy her affection to the full. But how long would it last? On that particular score she used to share some of her misgivings with me, but at the same time she felt able to tell me with complete confidence that he certainly wasn’t a gigolo.

“He’s as decent as he is intelligent. He’s not the sort to sell himself.”

I had no reason to doubt her word. The boy’s appearance and the way he talked both tended to confirm her opinion, although once in a while his expression would turn cryptic and even violent. But speculation of this kind was essentially pointless when one was faced with the incontrovertible fact that Qurunfula was well into the autumn of her years; at this stage in her life, money and fidelity were the only things she could now offer from among the many forms of enticement she had previously had at her disposal.

One time Zayn al-‘Abidin had a word in my ear. “Don’t be fooled by his appearance,” he said.

I immediately realized he was talking about Hilmi Hamada. “What do you know about him?” I asked.

“Look, he’s either a world-class schmoozer or a complete and utter phony!” For a few moments he said nothing, then went on, “I’m pretty sure he’s in love with Zaynab Diyab. Any day now he’s going to grab her away from Isma‘il al-Shaykh.”

I was troubled by his comments; not because I thought he was lying, but rather because they tended to confirm what I had recently been noticing myself, the way Hilmi and Zaynab kept on chatting to each other in a certain way. I had frequently asked myself whether it was just a case of close friendship or something more than that.

My friendship with Qurunfula was now on a firm enough footing for me to summon up the necessary courage to ask her a crucial question. “You’ve had a lot of experience in matters of life and love, haven’t you?

“No one can have any doubts on that score,” she responded proudly.

“And yet …,” I whispered.

“And yet what?”

“Do you think your love affair is going to have a happy ending?”

“When you’re really and truly in love,” she insisted, “it’s that very feeling that allows you to forget all about such things as wisdom, foresight, and honor.”

And that forced me to conclude that there is never any point in discussing love affairs with their participants.

And then the young folk disappeared again. As with the first time, it all happened suddenly and with no warning whatsoever.

This time, however, none of us needed to go through tortures of doubt or ask probing questions. Nevertheless we were all scared and disillusioned.

Qurunfula staggered under the weight of this new blow. “I never in my life imagined,” she said, “that I’d have to go through it all again.” That said, the sheer agony of the whole thing drove her upstairs to her apartment.

Once she had left, it was easier for the rest of us to talk.

“I may be totally innocent and old,” said Taha al-Gharib, “but now even I’m starting to worry about myself.”

Rashad Magdi’s expression was totally glum. “Listen,” he said with a jeer, “the leaders of the ‘Urabi Revolt in 1882 may have had some doubts about you, but not this time.”

“I wonder what’s behind it all?” asked Muhammad Bahgat.

“They’re all dangerous young men,” Zayn al-‘Abidin ‘Abdallah chimed in. “Why’s everyone so surprised at what’s happened to them?”

“But they’re children of this revolution!”

“There are lots of people opposed to the goals of this revolution who claim to be a part of it,” Zayn al-‘Abidin replied with a laugh. “When I was a boy and was heading for the red-light district, I told people I was going to the mosque.”

“May God forgive these people,” said Taha al-Gharib. “They certainly know how to scare folk, don’t they?”

A few days after this conversation had taken place, Qurunfula came over and took a seat beside me. She was looking utterly miserable. “Tell me what it all means,” she asked anxiously.

I understood full well what she meant, but I pretended not to follow her.

“Someone around here is passing on secret information!”

“Could well be,” I muttered.

“Rubbish!” she yelled. “It’s completely obvious. Everyone’s talking. The question is, who’s passing it all on?”

I paused for a moment. “You know the place better than I,” I said.

“I have no suspicions about my employees,” she said. “ ‘Arif Sulayman is indebted to me for his very life, and Imam al-Fawwal is a man of faith, so is Gum‘a.…”

“How about those old men sitting there on the sidelines?”

With that we stared at each other for quite a while. “No!” she said. “Zayn al-‘Abidin may be a wretch, but he has nothing to do with the authorities. In any case, he’s so corrupt himself, he’s scared to death of them.”

“There are scores of people who come in here every day,” I pointed out, “but we never pay the slightest attention to them.”

She sighed. “Nothing in the world is safe any longer.”

That said, the same grief-laden silence descended on the place again. She went back and sat on her chair, looking like a lifeless statue.

True enough, things like the ones we were experiencing were happening every day, but the effect is very different when the people to whom it is happening are considered part of the family. We began to be suspicious of everything, even the walls and tables. I was totally amazed at the state in which my homeland now found itself. In spite of all the wrong turns, it was growing in power and prestige, always expanding and getting bigger. It was making goods of all kinds, from needles to rockets, and broadcasting a wonderful new and humane trend in the life of humanity. But what was the point of all that if people were so feeble and downtrodden that they were not worth a fly, if they had no personal rights, no honor, no security, and if they were being crushed by cowardice, hypocrisy, and desolation?

Zayn al-‘Abidin’s nerves suddenly snapped for no apparent reason. “I’m so miserable,” he yelled. “I’m unlucky. I feel wretched. God curse the day I was ever born or came to this damned café!”

Qurunfula studiously ignored him.

“What have I done wrong?” he carried on. “I love you. What’s wrong with that? Why do you bad-mouth me every single day? Don’t you realize that it kills me to see you looking so sad? Why? Don’t spurn my love. Love is not to be spurned. It’s far more exalted and lofty than that. I feel really sorry for you, squandering the rest of your precious life so pitilessly. Why do you refuse to acknowledge that my heart is the only one that really adores you?”

Now Qurunfula broke her silence. “It would appear,” she said, addressing her comments to the rest of us, “that this man has no desire to respect my grief.”

“Me!” retorted Zayn al-‘Abidin. “I respect riffraff, hypocrites, criminals, pimps, and con men, so how could I possibly not feel respect for the grief of the woman who has taught me the way to revere sorrow by feeling sorry for her? Excuse me, please! Grieve away! Surrender to your destiny, wallow in the mire of what is left of your life. May God be with you!”

“Perhaps it would be better,” she said, “if you went somewhere else.”

“I’ve nowhere else to go! Where am I supposed to go? Here at least I can discover a crazy illusion, one that offers an occasional glimmer of hope.”

With that he started calming down and was soon back to normal. He looked very sheepish. As a way of drawing a veil over his outburst, he stood up with all the formality of a soldier, looked at Qurunfula, and apologized. After giving her a bow, he sat down again and started smoking his waterpipe.

Winter arrived, along with its biting cold and long nights. I remembered that the young folk used to meet here even during the wintertime — part of the academic year — even if it was just for an hour or so. Without them around, I thought to myself, this café is unbearable. The only people left now are those old men who have all completely forgotten about the other customers in prison; there they are, pretending to ignore the terror and politics by burying themselves in their own private worries. For them the only job left, it would seem, is sitting around and waiting for their final hour to come. Now they rue the passing of the good old days. Their only secret purpose in exchanging weird prescriptions is to postpone their appointment with death.

“ ‘Eat, drink, and be merry,’ the saying goes. That’s the best slogan for life.”

“Swill your mouth out with a cup of water! So much the better if you can squeeze half a lemon as well.”

“An ancient philosopher is alleged to have said that he was amazed that Egyptians ever became ill when they had lemons.”

“Modern medical research has confirmed that climbing stairs is good for your heart.”

“Walking’s good too.”

“And so is sex, so they say.”

“So what’s bad then?”

“Politics, news of arrests and imprisonments, and having to be alive at the same time as great men.”

“Yoghurt and fruit are terrific. As for honey on the comb, well, no words can possibly describe it adequately.”

“And laughter. Don’t forget laughter.”

“A cup of chilled wine just before bed.”

“Hormones are not to be sneezed at either.”

“And a sleeping pill, just as a precaution against bad news.”

“But reading the Qur’an, above all else.…”

Yes indeed, without having the young folk around, the café atmosphere becomes utterly unbearable. Even Qurunfula is not aware of quite how sad I’m feeling. She does not seem to realize that friendship is something powerful and that my own thirst is like love itself. Here I sit by myself, suffering through the pangs of boredom and loneliness as I stare at those silent, motionless chairs. All the while there is a longing in my heart and a profound sorrow. How much I long to chat with the young folk who normally sit on those chairs and recharge my own batteries on the sheer enthusiasm, creativity, and hallowed suffering that they offer.

One evening, I arrived at the café to find Qurunfula beaming and happy, unusually so. I was taken by surprise and felt a wave of hope engulfing me. I rushed inside and found myself face to face with my long-lost friends. There they all were again: Zaynab, Isma‘il, and Hilmi, along with two or three others. We all gave each other warm hugs, and Qurunfula’s laughter gave us all a blessing. We kept exchanging expressions of endearment, without asking any of the normal wheres, hows, and whys. Even so, the name of Khalid Safwan kept coming up again, that name which in some way or other had become an indispensable symbol of our current lives.

“Just imagine,” Qurunfula told me, “there was some kind of misunderstanding at the beginning of winter, but it was only at the beginning of the following summer that his true innocence emerged. But don’t ask any more. It’s enough for you just to imagine.… Never mind, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“And let’s assume at the same time,” I suggested, “that this café is one gigantic ear!”

With that we decided to steer clear of politics as far as possible.

“If we absolutely can’t avoid talking about some topic of national importance,” I suggested again, “then let’s do it on the assumption that Mr. Khalid Safwan is sitting right here with us.”

But this time what had been lost was even more palpable than last time. They were all so thin; it looked as though they had just completed a prolonged fast. Their expressions were sad and cynical; at the corners of their mouths there lurked a suppressed anger. Once the conversation had warmed up a bit, these outward signs of hidden feelings would dissipate, leaving them with their own thoughts and ideas. However, once the veil was lifted, all that remained was a sense of languor and a retreat from society. Even the steady relationship between Zaynab and Isma‘il was clearly suffering under the impact of some disease that was not immediately noticeable; and that aroused a profound sense of sorrow in me, not to mention a lot of questions. Good God, I told myself, here are the deities of hell concentrating all their attention on the very people with ideas and the will to carry them through. What is it all supposed to mean?

One time Qurunfula came over and sat beside me. She was looking pleased, but not entirely happy. By now I had realized that she only came over to sit with me when she had something she wanted to tell me.

“Let’s pray to God,” I said as a conversation opener, “not to let anything like it happen again.”

“Yes,” she replied sadly, “you should be praying to Him a lot. And while you’re at it, tell Him how desperately we need some tangible sign of His mercy and justice.”

“So what’s new?”

“The person who’s returned to my embrace is a shadow of his former self. Where’s Hilmi Hamada gone?”

“His health, you mean? But they’ve all gone through the same thing. They’ll get their health back again in a few days.”

“Perhaps you don’t realize what a proud and courageous young man he is. His kind usually suffers more than others.” She looked me straight in the eye. “He’s completely lost the ability to be happy!”

I did not understand what she meant.

“He’s completely lost the ability to be happy,” she repeated.

“Maybe you’re being too pessimistic.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied. “I wouldn’t feel so unhappy if it weren’t called for.” She let out one of her deep sighs. “Ever since I’ve been the owner of this café,” she went on, “I’ve taken good care of it: floor, walls, furniture, everything is the way it is because I have made it my business to take good care of things. Now these people are torturing their own flesh and blood. Damn them!” She grabbed my arm. “Let’s spit on civilization!”

For a long time I found myself wavering between my admiration for the great things that we had achieved and my utter repulsion for the use of terror and panic. I could see no way of ridding our towering edifice of these disgusting vermin.

It was Zayn al-‘Abidin who one day was the first to share some other news with us. “There appear to be some dark clouds on the horizon,” he said. He used to listen to the foreign news broadcasts and would often pick up rare bits of information.

We discussed the Palestinian raids and Israel’s promise to take reprisals.

“At this rate,” he went on, “we may well have a war this year or next.”

All of us had complete confidence in our own armed forces.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Taha al-Gharib commented, “unless, of course, America gets involved.”

That was as far as that conversation went. During this particular period the only event to disturb the atmosphere was a passing storm provoked by Hilmi Hamada that almost ended his long-standing love affair. He developed the idea that Qurunfula was treating him with too much sympathy and that such behavior infringed on his sense of self-respect. He utterly rejected such coddling and made up his mind to leave the café. It was only when his friends grabbed hold of him that he was persuaded not to do so. Poor Qurunfula was totally stunned. She started apologizing to him, although she had no clear idea of what she had done wrong.

“It’s unbearable to listen to the same refrain all the time,” he said edgily and then turned angry. “I hate hearing people sobbing all the time.” And, even more angrily, “I can’t stand anything any more.”

Everyone saw the problem as a symptom of the general situation, and so, until things settled down, we all made a great effort to avoid saying anything that might complicate matters. Needless to say, Zayn al-‘Abidin was delighted by the whole thing, but it did not do his cause any good. Hilmi Hamada’s anger did not last very long, and he may even have come to regret allowing his temper to boil over. Qurunfula was deeply affected by it all, but did not utter a single word.

“That’s the last thing I expected,” she whispered in my ear.

“Do you think,” I asked anxiously, “that he’s become aware that you talk to me about him?”

She shook her head.

“Has he ever acted like that before?”

“No, this was the first time and, I hope and pray, the last.”

“Maybe it would help if you stopped complaining and grieving so much.”

“If only you realized,” she sighed, “how utterly miserable he is.”

And then, right in the middle of spring, they all vanished for a third time.

On this occasion no questions were asked, and there were no violent reactions either. We just stared at each other, shook our heads, and said something or other that made no sense.

“Usual story.”

“Same reasons.”

“Same results.”

“No point in thinking about it.”

For a long time Qurunfula sat silently in her chair. Then she burst into a prolonged fit of laughter, until there were tears in her eyes. From our various seats we all stared at her in silence.

“Come on!” she said. “Laugh, laugh!” She used a small handkerchief to dry her eyes. “Why don’t you all laugh?” she continued. “It’s more powerful than tears; better for the health too. Laugh from the very depths of your hearts; laugh until the owners of every bar on this cheerful street can hear us.” She was silent for a moment. “How are we supposed to go on feeling sad,” she went on, “when these things keep happening as regularly as sunrise and sunset? They’ll be back, and they’ll sit here in our midst like so many ghosts. When they do, I swear I’m going to rename this place ‘Ghosts’ Café’.”

She looked over at ‘Arif Sulayman. “Pour all our honored customers a glass of wine, and let’s drink to our absent friends.”

The rest of the evening went by in an atmosphere of almost total depression.

In spite of everything, we put aside our own petty anxieties, all of which seemed purely personal when measured against the major events that were overwhelming our country as a whole. Rumors started to fly, and before we knew it, the Egyptian army was heading for Sinai in full force. The entire region erupted with pledges of war. None of us had any doubts about the efficiency of our armed forces, and yet.…

“America, that’s the real enemy.”

“If the army decides to launch an attack, warnings are going to come raining down on us.”

“The Sixth Fleet will be moved in.”

“Missiles will be launched at the Nile delta.”

“Won’t our very independence be in jeopardy?”

Indeed none of us had any doubts about our own armed forces. Certain civic values may have collapsed in front of our very eyes and the hands of my people may have been sullied, but we never doubted our armed forces. Needless to say, the entire notion was not without its naïve aspects, but our excuse was that we were all bewitched and determined to hope for the best. We were simply incapable, it seems, of calling into question the first ever genuine experiment in national rule, one that had brought to an end successive eras of slavery and humiliation.

So for the longest possible time we continued to cling to our zeal and enthusiasm. But then we had no choice but to wake up and endure that most vicious of hammer blows smashing its way into our heads, which were still filled with the heady intoxication of greatness.

I can never forget Taha al-Gharib’s reaction, he being the eldest among us.

“Here I am close to death,” he groaned, his expression a tissue of pain. “In a week or so I’ll be dead. O God, O God, why did You have to delay things? Couldn’t You have speeded things up a bit so that I would never have had to face this blackest of days?”

The hearts of our innocent people were seared with grief. The only hope still left in life was to attempt another strike and recover the land that had been lost. In spite of it all, I still heard people here and there who seemed to be relishing the moment. It was at that point that I began to realize that the struggle we were involved in was not just a matter of loyalty to homeland; even during the country’s darkest hours, the national effort was liable to be sidetracked by another conflict involving interests and beliefs. In the days and years that followed I kept close track of this tendency, until its basic tenets and variegated manifestations were clearly visible. The June War of 1967 was a defeat for one Arab nation, but also a victory for other Arabs. It managed to rip the veil off a number of distasteful realities and usher in a wide-scale war among the Arabs themselves, not just between the Arabs and Israel.

Some weeks after the June War, our friends returned to the café; or, to be more precise, Isma‘il al-Shaykh, Zaynab Diyab, and two others did. Even in the midst of so much grief on the national level, their return was the occasion for some temporary happiness. We all embraced warmly.

“Here we are, back again!” yelled Isma‘il al-Shaykh, and then even louder, “They’ve arrested Khalid Safwan!”

“Many people have been transferred from government office straight to prison,” commented Muhammad Bahgat.

Qurunfula was standing behind the table. “Where’s Hilmi?” she asked.

No one answered.

“Where is he?” she asked again, angry and insistent. “Why hasn’t he come with you?”

Still no one said a word. They all avoided looking at her.

“What’s the matter?” she yelled. “Can’t you speak or something?”

When no one said a word, she realized.

“No, no!” she screamed. She looked at Isma‘il. “Isma‘il, say something, anything, please.…”

She leaned over the table as though she had suffered a stomach rupture and stayed there for a while without saying anything. Then she raised her head. “Merciful God, have mercy … have mercy!”

She would have collapsed completely if ‘Arif Sulayman had not caught her and taken her outside.

“They say he died under interrogation,” said Isma‘il after she had left.

“Meaning that he was murdered,” commented Zaynab.

During those days that followed the June War, sorrow, just like joy, was soon forgotten. I offered my condolences to Qurunfula, but she did not seem to grasp the significance of what I was saying.

So this totally unforeseen tidal wave spread further and further. We all started following the news again and chewing the fat. As we suffered our painful way through the ongoing sequences of days, we placed the entire burden on our shoulders and proceeded on our way with labored, faltering steps. It was by sticking together that we continued to seek refuge from the sense of isolation and loneliness. It felt as if we had made a whole series of decisions about how to protect ourselves: against the blows of the unseen we would cling to each other; in the face of potential terrors we would share our opinions; when confronting overwhelming despair we would tell grisly sarcastic jokes; in acknowledging major mistakes we would indulge in torrid bursts of confession; faced with the dreadful burdens of responsibility we would torture ourselves; and to avoid the generally oppressive social atmosphere we would indulge ourselves in phony dreams. As hour followed hour, we found ourselves wading through a never-ending realm of darkness and on the verge of collapse, but never for a single second did we veer from our chosen course.

Among the café’s clientele, the ones who best managed to withstand this pestilential onslaught were Imam al-Fawwal, the waiter, and Gum‘a, the bootblack. Both of them adamantly refused to accept that the defeat was a reality; they kept on believing what the radio was telling them. They were still dreaming of Victory Day. But, as time went by, their sense of disaster began to dissipate, to be replaced by an increasing concern with matters of daily life. Gradually they came to adopt a more insouciant attitude, although deep down they both felt a lingering sorrow over what had happened.

The group of old men decided to retreat into the past.

“Never in all our long history have we been in such a sorry state.”

“At least in the past, we used to have the law as a haven. That was all we needed.”

“Even during the very worst periods of tyranny, there were always voices raised in opposition.”

“Those glorious days in the past, days of struggle, defiance, and sacrifice! How can we ever forget them?”

They kept going back further and further in time, until eventually they settled some time in the seventh century with the caliph ‘Umar ibn al-Khattab and the Prophet himself. They competed with each other to drag up the past, trying very hard to use the glories of yesteryear as a means of forgetting the present.

Zayn al-‘Abidin ‘Abdallah kept listening to their chatter with a mixture of interest and contempt. “There’s only one country with the solution,” he said, affording us the benefit of his opinion, “and that’s America.”

That seemed to strike a chord with ‘Arif Sulayman, the wine-steward, who registered his agreement.

“Everything will have to start again from scratch,” he declared with a sweeping gesture. “This period of recuperation we’re going through is simply the last twitches before death finally comes.”

The young folk were the only ones who neither gave themselves over to the past nor hoped for some goodwill gesture from America. Once they had all recovered from the blow of the June 1967 defeat, they all started talking, bit by bit, about a new struggle on the broadest possible scale, a conflict on a world-wide level between progressivist forces and imperialism. They said that people needed to be ready for a risky future; they talked about radical transformations in the basic internal fabric of society, and so on and so on.

Apart from large-scale issues, the one thing that drew my attention more than anything else was the obvious change in the relationship between Zaynab Diyab and Isma‘il al-Shaykh. It seemed as if some unknown disease had crept into their hearts, making them act almost like complete strangers. I came to the conclusion that they had both buried their former love for each other once and for all and had decided to go their separate ways, taking their lives and sorrows with them. All of which led me to return to my former opinion, namely that Zaynab was actually in love with Hilmi Hamada. As time went by, I started to believe that more and more.

I was delighted to notice that Qurunfula seemed to be recovering her old energy. Most of the time she was quiet and kept to herself. She would listen to the things we were saying, but would stay out of the discussions. By this time she was starting to look more staid and older.

So time went by, and some faces disappeared, while others alternated between presence and absence. Up till now things have for the most part continued without much change. Most recently, things have worked out in such a way that my own relationships with some of the regulars at Karnak Café have been strengthened. From them I’ve learned things that I did not know before. Inner secrets involving both events and the hearts of men have now become known to me, and I have drained the glass to the very dregs.