Khan Al-Khalili

50

The rest of June went by, ushering in the incredible heat of July. The family was still in mourning, and a general atmosphere of gloom pervaded the house. Out of pity for his parents Ahmad was still diligently searching for somewhere else to live; in fact, he was tired of Khan al-Khalili as well. The shock of Rushdi’s death had badly affected his sensitive nerves, and his old insomnia returned. This nervous sensitivity brought with it other symptoms: he could become emotional very quickly and often fell prey to worries that drove him into depression. Sorrows over both past and present clustered together inside his churning heart, and he was permanently fearful about what griefs, worries, and sorrows the future might be holding in store.

“Whatever happiness we may feel toward our loved ones today,” he told himself with his parents in mind, “is merely a pawn for the tears that we’ll be shedding when we say farewell to them on the morrow.”

He recited a line of poetry by Abu al-Ala’ al-Ma’arri: “If calamity does not strike at night, then fortune’s decision will find you on the morrow!”

His nerves were useless when it came to enduring fate’s vicissitudes or life’s troubles, and he was on the point of falling prey to his old illness. All of which helps explain why he was so keen to leave the quarter, added to which was the fact that sirens kept going off day and night (although the city was not actually bombed as had happened the previous September).

The general situation became much more tense when Axis forces kept on advancing, crossed the Egyptian border, and penetrated deep into the country. They moved on past Marsa Matruh which was generally reckoned to be the most significant defense point for Egypt, then overran Fuka and Dab’a. When the invasion got as far as al-Alamein, general panic reached its height. The city of Alexandria was now in the invaders’ sights, and people started saying that the necessities of war were such that they threatened to turn Egypt into a crumbling ruin watched over by hooting owls and a mosquito-breeding swamp.

On the day German forces reached al-Alamein, the friends gathered at the Zahra Café as usual. They were all delighted to see each other, and there was much laughter. None of them had thought about leaving the quarter or stocking up on food. Not a single one of them had bothered to assess the potential impact of an invasion on the city; or, if they had, they were treating the whole thing as something to joke about, as though it really did not concern them at all.

“The whole thing’s in God’s hands,” was the word of the hour, “so whatever happens to everyone else can happen to us as well!”

Ahmad Akif did not disagree with what they were saying. On that day in particular, he found being in their company especially enjoyable; it was as if their tiny gathering were serving as a kind of retreat whereby he could escape from the general alarm that everyone seemed to be feeling. He was afraid and happy at the same time. Thinking about what might happen, he started to worry. Before his eyes there loomed a situation in which everything would be turned upside down, all sense of responsibility would disappear, and values would collapse. Deep down he felt a nervous thrill. The anticipated invasion would do away with all his worries and sorrows. Along with everything else, all traces of the past, including his own, would be swept away.

“Just listen to the latest news,” said Sayyid Arif using the tone of someone in the know. “Rommel has divided his forces in two: one pointing toward Alexandria, the other toward the Fayyum oasis.”

“I’ve heard that Alexandria’s being bombarded by air and land,” said Ahmad Rashid. “People are leaving the city and going to Damanhur.”

“Are the English really done for?”

“They’re burning their papers and evacuating their women.”

“When will the Germans reach Cairo?”

“Tomorrow or the day after.…”

“Unless they move their victorious army toward Suez.…”

“I’ve heard for sure that parachute troops have been landing in the fields.”

“And what would any of you do,” asked Boss Nunu, “if one of those parachutists landed near you and asked you for directions to the war zone?”

“I’d take him straight to Sulayman Bey Ata’s house,” Sayyid Arif responded immediately, “and tell him ‘Look, here’s the British ambassador!’ ”

“You’d be much better off offering him some of those pills you take for your illness!” Sulayman Ata replied angrily.

“I’ll tell you what I’d do,” said Boss Zifta. “I’d take him to Abbas Shifa’s apartment and show him the biggest pair of you-know-whats in Egypt!”

“How long are we going to joke around like this?” asked Ahmad Akif in amazement. “Don’t you all realize that there’s a real threat of our having to leave our homes? We may well be sent out to some filthy villages.”

“Oh, for the wonderful life in the village!” yelled Boss Nunu in reply.

“Aren’t you afraid of death?” Ahmad Rashid asked.

“Let me live long enough,” said Boss Zifta, “and throw me at Rommel.”

“True enough,” said Boss Nunu, faking a serious tone, “the Germans are monsters. When they invade a country, they spread out all over the place and disguise themselves in a whole variety of ways. By tomorrow you may come across Germans wearing turbans or women’s clothes. By God, I’m worried in case I turn on the water faucet to perform my ablutions before I pray and a German diver comes out.…”

At that very moment, as if on cue, the air-raid sirens went off.

It was seven o’clock in the evening. They all leapt to their feet, and the smiles rapidly vanished from their faces. They all rushed for the bomb shelter, many of them afraid that this would be a really fierce and destructive raid, as usually happens before an invasion. They had only to remember Alexandria, Suez, and Port Said, not to mention Warsaw and Rotterdam. It took only a few minutes for the shelter to be bulging with people. Ahmad sat with his parents. Everyone was very scared. It was all too much for his mother, and he could see tears in her eyes. Twenty minutes passed in an agony of waiting, then the all-clear siren sounded. Everyone was astonished and looked relieved and happy.

“It was just a reconnaissance mission!” someone yelled, while others suggested that the plane had come close to Cairo but then turned round and changed direction.

Everyone made their way toward the exit, and Ahmad joined the crowd. Close by the exit he spotted Nawal holding the arm of her little brother, Muhammad. The two of them were laughing as they hurried back to their apartment. His heart gave a thump, something that usually happened whenever he saw or remembered her. He watched as she moved toward the exit and then disappeared around the corner. Suddenly he felt angry and miserable. The way she had been laughing infuriated him, as though he had caught her committing some foul crime. He was so upset that he decided not to go back to the Zahra Café until he had taken a walk to calm himself down.

As he strolled down al-Azhar Street, he started to feel calmer. Actually, his mood returned to normal much more quickly than he had expected and he asked himself why he had been so angry. What had upset him? Was it her laugh? Did he really expect her to spend her entire life weeping? Didn’t he laugh sometimes at work or in the café? Didn’t even his mother smile once in a while? Why shouldn’t Nawal laugh, and why should it annoy him if she did? No, the process of forgetting was the real culprit — that bitter pill that comes when mourning is finished and sorrow takes over; mourning for our pain, sorrow for ourselves. We tell ourselves that, thank God, we have forgotten; that is one of life’s laws.

He gave a deep sigh, but then a thought occurred to him, one that was by no means new but at the same time one he had been avoiding. He was afraid to confront it, but this time he told himself that it was useless to run away and pretend it wasn’t there. He had to confront reality. Did he still love Nawal? Why was his heart still pounding every time he saw her or thought of her?

He pondered all this as he continued his stroll, his pale face flushing in embarrassment as though his secret were now known to everyone. “Love,” he told himself, “was something buried under layers of anger, sorrow, and terrible memories. To be loyal to such a love, I would now have to trample underfoot both my sense of honor and my brother’s memory. That, of course, is out of the question. So, my brother and my pride stand between me and my love, and it is not worth my life to show such contempt for two things that are so very dear to me!”

But it was all true: he was still in love with Nawal; in fact, he had never stopped loving her even though his various sufferings might have kept the fact hidden from him. Even so, what would be the point of acknowledging such a love, even if it was the strongest force of all? How long could he tolerate being so close to the flame that was burning him up?!