Sugar Street

149

Yusuf al-Jamil came into the office only once or twice a week, since most of his energies were directed toward soliciting advertising and subscriptions. Similarly, Ibrahim Rizq remained in the editorial department for no more than an hour a day before he left for one of the other magazineshe helped edit. Most of the time they were alone: Ahmad and Sawsan. Once, when the chief pressman from the printshop came to get some copy, Ahmad was astounded to hear her call him "Father". Afterward, he learned that Mr. Adli Karim himself was related to the man, and this information was a thrilling surprise.

Even more stunning than Sawsan was her diligence. She was the heart of the editorial department and its dynamo. She did far more work than the mere editing of the magazine required, for she was always reading and writing. She seemed serious, bright, and extremely intelligent, and from the very first he was conscious of her forceful personality. So much so that in spite of her attractive black eyes and charmingly feminine body he occasionally imagined himself in the presence of a well-disciplined man with a strong will. Her industry motivated him to work with an assiduous zeal impervious to fatigue and boredom. He had assumed responsibility for translating excerpts from international cultural magazines as well as some significant articles.

One day he complained, "The censors watch us like hawks."

In an irritated and scornful tone, she replied, "You haven't seen anything yet! To its credit, our journal is deemed 'subversive' by the ruling circles."

Smiling, Ahmad said, "Naturally you remember the editorials Mr. Adli Karim wrote before the war."

"During the reign of Ali Mahir, our magazine was closed down once because of an essay commemorating the Urabi rebellion. In it the editor had accused the Khedive Tawfiq of treachery."

One day, in the midst of a conversation on another topic, she asked, "Why did you choose journalism?"

He reflected a little. How much of his soul should he bare to this girl, who, compared to the other women he knew, was one of a kind?

"I didn't go to the University to obtain a government job. I had ideas I wanted to express in print. What better vehicle could there be for that than journalism?"

Her interest in his response delighted him. She countered, "I didn't go to the University. Or, more precisely, I didn't have the opportunity."

He was also enthralled by her candor, which by itself sufficed to show how different she was from other girls. She went on: "I'm a graduate of Mr. Adli Karim's school, an institution no less distinguished than the University. I've studied with him since I finished my baccalaureate. Frankly, I think you've given a good definition for journalism, or the kind of journalism we're engaged in. Yet so far you have expressed your thoughts by relying on others, I mean by translating. Haven't you thought of selecting a genre that suits you?

He was silent for a time, groping for an answer, as if he had not understood her words. Then he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Essays, poetry, short stories, plays?"

"I don't know. The essay comes to mind first."

In a tone that said more than her words did, she observed, "Yes, but in view of the political situation, it's no longer an easy endeavor. Freethinkers are forced to speak their mind in clandestine publications. An essay is blunt and direct. Therefore it is dangerous, especially when eyes are scrutinizing us. The short story is more devious and thus harder to restrict. It's a cunning art, which has become such a prevalent form it will soon wrest leadership from all the others. Don't you see that there is not a single prominent literary figure who hasn't tried to make a name for himself in this genre, if only by publishing one short story?"

"Yes, I've read most of these works. Haven't you read some of the stories Mr. Riyad Qaldas publishes in al-Fikr magazine?"

"He's one of many and not the best."

"Perhaps not. My uncle Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, who writes for that same magazine, drew my attention to his stories."

Smiling, she asked, "He's your uncle? I've frequently read him, but…"

"Yes?"

"No offense, but he's a writer who rambles through the wilderness of metaphysics."

A bit anxiously he asked, "Don't you like him?"

"Liking is something else. He writes a good deal about ancient notions like the spirit, the absolute, and the theory of knowledge. That's lovely, but such topics provide intellectual entertainment and mental enrichment without leading anywhere. Writing should be an instrument with a clearly defined purpose. Its ultimate goal should be the development of this world and man's ascent up the ladder of progress and liberation. The human race is engaged in a constant struggle. A writer truly worthy of the name must be at the head of the freedom fighters. Let's leave talk about mysterious forces like elan vital to Bergson."

"But even Karl Marx began as a budding philosopher who rambled through the labyrinth of metaphysics."

"And he ended up with a scientific understanding of society. That's where we should commence not from his starting point."

Ahmad was uncomfortable at hearing his uncle criticized in this fashion. Motivated more by a desire to defend his uncle than by anything else, he said, "It's always worthwhile to know the truth, no matter what it is or what effects people think it has."

Sawsan responded enthusiastically, "This thought contradicts what you've written. I bet you're just saying it out of loyalty to your uncle. When a man's in pain, he concentrates on eradicating its causes. Our society is in deep pain. So first and foremost we must stop this pain. After that we can play around and philosophize. Imagine a man musing happily about abstruse points of philosophy while his life's blood drains away. What would you say of a man like that?"

Was this really a fair description of his uncle? He had to admit that her words struck a responsive chord inside him, that her eyes were beautiful, and that despite her strange earnestness she was attractive … very attractive.

"Actually, my uncle doesn't pay enough attention to these inatters. I've discussed them with him many times and have found him to be a man who studies the Nazi movement as objectively as democracy or Communism, without being for or against any of them. I can't figure out his stance."

With a smile, she said, "He has none. A writer can't conceal his convictions. Your uncle is like all those other bourgeois intellectuals who enjoy reading and pondering things. When considering the 'absolute' they may feel such distress that it hurts, but on the street they nonchalantly walk past people who really are suffering."

He laughed and replied, "My uncle's not like that."

"You know best. The stories of Riyad Qaldas are not what we need either. They are descriptive analyses of reality but nothing more. They provide no guidance or direction."

Ahmad thought a little before remarking, "But he often describes the condition of laborers, both farmers and factory workers. This means that in his stories the proletariat is in the spotlight."

"But he limits himself to description and analysis. Compared to real struggle, his work is passive and negative."

This girl was a firebrand! She appeared to be extremely serious. Where was her feminine side?

"What would you want him to write?"

"Have you read any modern Soviet literature? Have you read anything by Maxim Gorky?"

He smiled but did not reply. There was no reason for him to feel embarrassed. He was a student of sociology, not of literature. Besides, she was several years his senior. How old was she? She might be twenty-four, or older.

She said, "This is the type of literature you should read. I'll lend you some if you want."

"I'd be delighted."

She smiled and said, "But a liberated man must be more than a reader or a writer. Principles relate primarily to the will… the will above all other things."

Even so, he was aware of her elegance. Although she did not use makeup, she was as fastidious about her appearance as any other girl and her lively breasts were as attractive and fascinating as any other ones. But not so fast… didn't the principles that he espoused distinguish him from other men?

"Our class is perverse," he thought. "We're unable to see women from more than one perspective."

"I'm delighted to have met you and predict that we will have many opportunities to work together closely."

Smiling in a way that was quite feminine, she said, "You're too kind."

"I really am delighted to have a chance to get to know you". Yes, he was. But it was important that he not misinterpret his feelings, which might simply be the natural response of a young man like him.

"Be cautious," he advised himself "Don't create a dilemma for yourseli like that one in al-Ma'adi, for the sorrow it provoked has yet to be erased from your heart."