Sugar Street

142

Seated in a large chair on the latticed balcony, al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad gazed alternately at the street and at al-Ahram, the newspaper spread across his lap. The gaps between the spindles of the latticework allowed patches of light to fall on his ample house shirt and on his skullcap. He had left the door to his room open so he could hear the radio from the sitting room. He appeared gaunt and wasted, and the dull look in his eyes suggested sorrowful resignation. From his perch on the balcony, he seemed to be discovering the street for the first time. In the past, he had never experienced it from this angle. Back then, he had slept most of the time he was at home. Nowadays the only amusement he had left, except for the radio, was sitting on the balcony and peering out between the spindles to the north and the south. It was a lively, charming, and entertaining street. Moreover, it had a special character distinguishing it from al-Nahhasin, which he had observed for roughly half a century from his shop, the one he had owned. Here were the establishments of Hasanayn the barber, Darwish the bean seller, al-Fuli the milkman, Bayumi the drinks vendor, and Abu Sari', who grilled snacks. Known for their location on this street, they were also the features by which Palace Walk was identified.

"What good companions and neighbors… I wonder how old these men are. Hasanayn the barber has a good build, the kind that rarely shows a man's age. Almost nothing about him has changed except his hair, but he's certainly over fifty. God's grace has preserved these men's health. And Darwish? Bald… he always was. But he's in his sixties. What a powerful body he has! I was like that when I was sixty, but now I'm sixty-seven. That's old! I've had my dothes cut down to fit what's left of my body. When I look at the photo hanging in my room, I can't believe I'm that same person. Poor blind al-Fuli is younger than Darwish. Without his apprentice, he wouldn't be able to make his rounds. Abu Sari' is an old man. Old? But he's still working. None of them has given up his shop. It's a shattering experience for a man to abandon his store. Afterward all you have left is sitting in your house, staying home day and night. If only I could go out for an hour every day! I have to wait for Friday and then I need both my stick and Kamal to assist me. Praise God, Lord of the universe, in any case. Bayu-mi's the youngest of them and the luckiest. His prominence began with Mary am's mother, and mine ended with her. Today he owns the most modern building in the neighborhood. That's what became of Mr. Muhammad Ridwan's home. Where it once stood, Bayumi has built a juice shop lit by electricity. A man's good fortune may start with a woman's treachery. Glory to God who gives all things. May His wisdom be exalted. Everything's been modernized. The roads have been paved with asphalt and illuminated with streetlights. Remember how pitch-black the nights were when you used to return home? What a long time it's been since you did that! Every shop has electricity and a radio. Everything's new, except me, an old man of sixty-seven who can only leave his home once a week. Even then I'm short of breath. My heart! It's all the fault of my heart that loved, laughed, rejoiced, and sang for so many years. Today it dictates calm, and there's no way to reject its decree. The doctor said, 'Take your medicine, stay home, and keep to the diet I've prescribed.' I told him, 'Fine. But will that make me strong again? Or give me back at least some of my strength?' He replied, 'Warding off further complications is the most we can hope for. Any exertion or movement puts you at risk.' Then he laughed and wanted to know, 'Why do you want to regain your strength?' Yes, why? It's ridiculous and pathetic."

All the same, al-Sayyid Ahmad had answered, "I want to be able to come and go."

The physician had commented, "Every condition has its own special pleasures like sitting quietly. Read the newspapers, listen to the radio, enjoy your family, and on Friday ride to the mosque of al-Husayn. That's enough for you."

"The matter's in God's hands," he thought. "Mutawalli Abd al-Samad is still stumbling about in the streets…. He says, 'Enjoy your family.' Amina no longer stays home. Our roles have been reversed. I'm confined to the latticed balcony while she roams around Cairo, going from mosque to mosque. Kamal sits with me for fleeting moments, as if he were a guest. Aisha? Alas, Aisha, are you alive or dead? And then they want my heart to recover and to feel contented."

"Master…"

He turned around and saw Umm Hanafi carrying a small tray with a bottle of medicine, an empty coffee cup, and a glass half rilled wi th water.

"Your medicine, master."

Kitch en fragrances wafted from the black dress of this woman who in the course of time had become one of the family. Picking up the glass, he poured out enough water to fill the cup halfway and then, after removing the medicine bottle's stopper, added four drops to the water in his cup. In anticipation of the taste, he made a face and then swallowed.

"May it bring you health, master."

"Thanks. Where's Aisha?"

"In her room. May God grant her forbearance."

"Call her, Umm Hanafi."

In her room or on the roof… what difference did it make? The radio's cheerful songs were in ironic contrast to the mournful atmosphere of this otherwise silent dwelling. Al-Sayyid Ahmad had been confined to the house for only the last two months. A year and four months had passed since Na'ima's death. When the mari had asked to listen to the radio in view of his urgent need for entertainment, Aisha had replied, "Of course, Papa. May God find ways to console you for being forced to stay home."

Heanng the rustling of a dress, he turned and saw Aisha approaching in her black attire. Although the weather was warm, she had a black scarf wrapped around her head. Her fair complexion had a strange blue cast to it. "That's a symptom of her depression," he thought. Then he said tenderly, "Get a chair and sit with me a little."

But she did not budge and replied, "I'm comfortable like this, Papa."

The recent past had taught him not to try to make her change her mind about anything. "What were you doing?"

A blank expression on her face, she answered, "Nothing, Papa."

"Why don't you go out with your mother and visit the blessed shrines? Wouldn't that be better than staying at home alone?"

"Why should I visit shrines?"

He seemed astonished by her response but said calmly, "You could entreat God for solace."

"God is with ushere in our house."

"Of course. I mean you shouldn't spend so much time alone, Aisha. Visit your sister. Visit the neighbors. Find some amusements for yourself."

"I can't bear to see Sugar Street. I have no friends. I don't know anyone anymore. I can't stand to visit people."

Turning his face away, the man said, "I want you to be brave and to take care of your health."

"My health!" she exclaimed almost incredulously.

He persisted: "Yes. What's the point of sorrow?"

In spite of her agitated condition, she did not abandon the decorum she observed with him and replied, "What's the point of life, Papa?"

"Don't say that. God's reward for you will be great."

Bowing her head to hide the tears in her eyes, she replied, "I want to go to Him to receive my reward. It won't come in this world, Papa". She started to withdraw quietly but before leaving the balcony stopped a moment as if she had remembered something and asked, "How's your health today?"

He smiled and answered, "Fine, praise God, but what's important is your health, Aisha". Then she was gone.

How could he relax in this house? He glanced down at the street again, and finally his eyes came to rest on Amina, who was returning from her daily circuit. Modestly attired in a coat and a white veil, she proceeded at a slow pace. How she had aged! Since he remembered that her mother had lived to a ripe old age, he was not especially concerned about his wife'shealth. But here she was at sixty-two looking at least ten years older than that.

It was quite a while before she arrived and asked him, "How are you, master?"

Raising his voice loud enough to allow the desired sharpness to reverberate in it, he said, "How are you yourself? God's will be done! You've been out since early this morning, lady."

She smiled and replied, "I visited the shrines of al-Sayyida Zaynab and of al-Husayn. I prayed for you and for everyone else."

Now that she was home, his composure and peace of mind returned, for he sensed he could request anything he wanted without hesitation. "Is it right for you to leave me alone all this time?"

"You gave me permission, master. I haven't been gone long. It's necessary, master. We're badly in need of prayer. I entreated my master al-Husayn to give you back your health so you can go and come as you wish. And I also prayed for Aisha and the others."

She got a chair and sat down. Then she asked, "Have you taken your medicine, master? I told Umm Hanafi…"

"I wish you had told her to do something nicer for me than that."

"It's for your good health, master. At the mosque I heard a beautiful talk by Shaykh Abd al-Rahman. Master, he spoke about atonement for sin and how misdeeds can be wiped away. His words were very beautiful, master. I wish I could remember as well as I once did."

"Your face is pale from your walk. It's just a matter of time before you become one of the doctor's regular patients."

"Lord protect us! I only go out to visit the tombs of members of the Prophet's family. So how could any harm befall me?" Then she added, "Oh, master, I almost forgot. They're talking about the war everywhere. They say that Hitler has attacked."

The man asked with interest, "Are you certain?"

"I heard it not once but a hundred times. 'Hitler attacked,… Hitler attacked.'"

To make her think she was not telling him anything he did not already know, the man observed, "People have been expecting this from one moment to the next."

"God willing, it won't affect us, will it, master?"

"Did they say only Hitler and not Mussolini? Didn't you hear that other name too?"

"Just Hitler's name."

"Will it affect us?" he asked himself. "Who knows?"

"May our Lord be gracious to us," he said. "If you hear someone selling a special edition of al-Balagh or al-Muqattam newspapers, buy one."

"It's like the days of Kaiser Wilhelm and the zeppelin. Do you remember, master? Glory to God the everlasting."