Sugar Street

156

Twenty minutes before the lecture was to begin, Ewart Hall at the American University was almost full. According to Riyad Qaldas, Mr. Roger was a noted professor and especially memorable when discussing Shakespeare. There had been a suggestion that the lecture would contain political allusions, but that was hardly worth considering when the speaker was Mr. Roger and the topic William Shakespeare. Even so, Riyad was glum and despondent. Had he not invited Kamal, he would have stayed away. His distress was entirely natural for a man as preoccupied by politics as he was. With obvious passion, he whispered to Kamal, "Makram Ubayd has been expelled from the Wafd! Why are all these outrageous things happening?"

Kamal, who also still felt stunned by the news, shook his head dejectedly without any comment.

"It's a national catastrophe, Kamal. Things should not have deteriorated this far."

"Yes, but who was responsible?"

"Al-Nahhas! Makram Ubayd may be high-strung, but the corruption that has infiltrated the government is a fact that should not be hushed up."

Smiling, Kamal replied, "Let's not talk about corruption in government. Makram's revolt was less about corruption than about his loss of influence."

With a trace of resignation, Riyad asked, "Would a committed nationalist like Makram abandon the struggle on account of a transitory emotion?"

Kamal could not restrain his laughter as he replied, "You've abandoned your struggle for the sake of a transitory emotion."

Without smiling, Riyad insisted, "Answer me!"

"Makram has an emotional personality like a poet's or a singer's. If he can't be everything, he'd rather be nothing at all. He discovered that his authority was shrinking and rebelled by openly criticizir g instances of favoritism and by making an issue of it in the cabinet. So he precluded any chance for reconciliation and cooperation. It's regrettable."

"And what's the result?"

"No doubt the palace blesses this new split in the Wafd Party and will embrace Makram at an appropriate time, just as it has embraced other rebels in the past. From now on, we will see Makram playing a new role with the minority parties and palace agents. Otherwise, he will be out of the picture. They may hate him as much as they do al-Nahhas, or worse, and there are some who hate the Wafd because of Makram. But they will embrace him in order to destroy the Wafd. What happens then is anybody's guess."

Frowning, Riyad said, "A hideous picture! Both men were at fault, al-Nahhas and Makram. My heart senses that no good will come of this". Then in a lower voice he continued: "The Copts will have no one to turn to. Or they will seek protection from their archenemy, the king, and his defense of them will not last long. If the Wafd is now treating us as unfairly as the other parties have, what is to become of us?"

Pretending not to understand, Kamal inquired, "Why do you exaggerate the importance of this incident? Makram is not all the Coptic Christians, and the Copts aren't Makram. He's a political figure who has lost power, but the nationalist principles of the Wafd Party will never be abandoned."

Riyad shook his head sadly and answered sarcastically, "The papers may assert this, but what I'm saying is the truth. The Copts feel that they have all been expelled from the Wafd. They are searching for security, and I fear they will never find it. Politics has recently handed me a new puzzle similar to the one I've had with religion. I have spurned religion with my intellect and yet from ethnic loyalty have felt sympathetic to it with my heart. In exactly the same way, I will spurn the Wafd with my heart and feel sympathetically inclined toward it with my intellect. If I say I'm a Wafdist, I betray my heart. If I say I'm opposed to the Wafd, I cheat my intellect. It's a catastrophe I never dreamed of. Apparently Copts are destined to live forever with split personalities. If all of us were a single individual, he would go mad."

Kamal felt vexed and hurt. It seemed to him that all the different ethnic groups into which humanity was divided were acting out an ironic farce that would have a dreadful ending. In a voice betraying little conviction he said, "The problem ceases to exist if you thitik of Makram as a politician and not as the entire Coptic community."

"Do the Muslims themselves think of him merely as a politician?"

"I do."

Despite Riyad's despair, a smile flickered across his lips as he said, "I'm talking about Muslims. How does this relate to you?"

"Aren't our situations identical, yours and mine?"

"Yes, but with one difference: you don't belong to a minority". Smiling, he continued: "If I had lived when Egypt was first conquered by the Muslims and had been able to foretell the future, I would have urged all Copts to convert to Islam". Then he protested, "You're not listening to me!"

Kamal was not. His eyes were fixed on the entrance to the auditorium. Looking in that direction, Riyad saw a girl in the bloom of youth wearing a simple gray dress, apparently a student. She took a seat at the front, in the section reserved for women.

"Do you know her?"

"I'm not sure."

They had to stop talking, for the speaker had appeared on the stage and hearty applause resounded through the hall. Then the ensuing silence was so profound that a cough would have seemed an outrage. The president of the American University gave an appropriate introduction, and the professor began to speak. Kamal spent most of his time gazing at the girl'shead inquisitively. He had noticed her by accident when she entered, and the sight of her had surprised him, wrenching him away from the train of his thoughts. After propelling him twenty years into the past, she had brought him back, breathless, to the present. At first he had imagined he was seeing Aida, but there was no way this girl could be Ai'da, for she was certainly not much over twenty. He had not had enough time to examine her features, but her overall appearance sufficed: the shape of her face, her figure, her spirit, the expressive look of her eyes…. Yes, he had never seen anyone with eyes like this, except for Aida. Could she be Aida's sister? That was the next person lie thought of: Budur. This time he recalled her name. He immediately remembered how fond she had been of him long ago. But it was highly unlikely — if it truly was Budur — that she would know him. The important fact was that her image had awakened his heart and restored to it, at least for the time being, the full rich life it had once enjoyed. He felt agitated and, though he listened to the speaker for a few minutes, spent the rest of the time stanng at the girl'shead. Inundated by a wave of memories, he patiently savored all the assorted feelings that collided and wrestled with each other inside his psyche.

"I'll follow her to find out who she really is," he told himself. "There's no particular reason for doing it, but a bored man should be a good walker. I long for anything capable of wiping away the accumulation of rust from my spirit."

With this design in mind, he waited for his opportunity. Was the lecture long or short? He had no idea. When it ended, he confided his plan to Riyad, said goodbye, and set off after the girl, carefully pursuing her graceful step and slim figure. He could not compare the gaits of the two women, for he no longer remembered A'ida's clearly. He thought the girl's build was the same. A'ida's hair had been cut in a boyish bob, but this girl's hair was long and braided. Still, the black color was no doubt identical. Because of the crowd of people from the lecture, he was not able to scrutinize her face at the streetcar stop. She boarded number 15 for al-Ataba and squeezed into the women's section. Climbing aboard after her, he wondered whether she was on her way to al-Abbasiya or if his suppositions were merely confused dreams. A'ida had never ridden a streetcar in her entire life. She had two automobiles at her beck and call. But this poor girl… He felt as disconsolate as he had on first hearing the story of Shaddad Bey's bankruptcy and suicide.

The streetcar emptied out most of its load at al-Ataba. He picked a spot on the pavement near her and observed the long slender neck ofthat former era as she watched for the connecting streetcar. He noticed that her complexion was wheat-colored, verging on white … not the bronze of the vanished image. For the first time since he had begun his pursuit, he felt regretful. It seemed he had followed her to see the other woman. The streetcar for al-Abbasiya pulled up, and she prepared to board it. Finding the women's compartment full, she got into the second-class car. He did not hesitate but followed right behind her. When she sat down, he took the seat beside her. The places on both sides filled up and then the area in the middle was occupied by standing passengers. Although he derived immense satisfaction from his success in obtaining a seat next to hers, he was sorry to see her sit among the teeming masses of the second class, perhaps because of the contrast between the two images the former immortal one and this present one beside him. His shoulder brushed gently against hers whenever the streetcar moved suddenly, especially when it started or jerked to a stop. He gazed at her at every opportunity, examining her as best he could. The coal-black eyes, the eyebrows meeting in the center, the regular and charming nose, the beautiful face___It was just as if he were looking at A'ida. Was that really true? No, there was the contrast between their complexions, and a smidgeon of difference here and there. He could not say whether it was more of this or less ofthat. Even though the discrepancies were slight, they seemed as significant to him as the one degree that separates the temperature of a healthy person from an invalid's. All the same he was in the presence of the closest possible likeness to A'ida. He imagined that he could remember his former sweetheart more clearly than ever by the light of this lovely face. The girl's body was possibly just like A'ida's, about which he had wondered so often. Perhapshe was seeing it now. This one was svelte and slender. The girl's chest was only modestly developed, as was the rest of her body, which bore no relationship to Atiya's soft and full one to which he made love. Had his taste deteriorated over the years? Had his former love been merely a rebellion against his latent instincts? In any case he felt a happy, dreamy love that made his heart tipsy with inebriating memories. The occasional contact with her shoulder heightened his intoxication and his penetration into the private world of his thoughts. He had never touched A'ida, always considering her beyond his grasp. Yet this young woman walked through the markets and sat demurely among the crowds in the second-class section. He felt very sad. The contrast between the two women, although trifling, appeared critical. It exasperated him, disappointed his hopes, and decreed that his old love would remain a riddle forever.

Calling out, "Tickets and passes," the conductor appeared. The girl opened her handbag and took out her season pass to have it ready for the conductor. Looking stealthily at the pass, Kamal discovered that the girl's name was Budur Abd al-Hamid Shaddad and that she was a student in the Arts Faculty of the University.

"There's no longer any doubt. My heart is beating faster than it should. If only I could filch her pass… to preserve the closest likeness to A'ida. Oh, if only this were possible…. '36-year-old schoolteacher robs Arts Faculty student'? What a temptingly sensational headline for the papers! A failed philosopher close to forty! I wonder how old Budur is. She wasn't more than five in 1926, so she's in the twenty-first year of her happy life. Happy? No mansion, no automobile, no servants, no retinue…. She was at least fourteen when her family's disaster struck. That's old enough to understand the meaning of a catastrophe and to taste the pain. The poor child must have suffered horribly and felt terrified, experiencing the cruel feeling I'm so familiar with. Pain, although visiting us at different times, unites us now, much as our old but forgotten friendship once did."

When the conductor reached her, Kamal heard Budur say, "Here it is," as she handed the man her pass. The voice struck his ears like a beloved but long-forgotten melody, spreading a great sweetness through him and evoking many memories. It brought back to life a heavenly period of his past, and his senses circled for a long time in the divine realm of ecstasy, where dreams of a bygone era were plainly visible.

"This warm, melodious tune so full of the magic of musical delight… let me hear your voice. It's not your voice, my unlucky friend from the past. Fortunately, the mistress of that voice still enjoys a life as luxurious as her old one. The sorrows submerging her family have not reached her. But you have descended to us in the second class. Don't you remember your friend whose neck you would cling to while trading kisses with him? How do you live today, my little one? Will you end up like me, teaching in an elementary school?"

The streetcar passed the former site of the mansion, which had been replaced by an enormous new structure. Kamal had seen it a few times before during visits to al-Abbasiya after his historic break with the area — especially of late when calling at the home of Fuad Jamil al-Hamzawi.

"Al-Abbasiya itself has changed as much as your house, my little one. The mansions and gardens from the time of my love have disappeared to make way for shops, cafes, cinemas, and huge apartment buildings crammed with occupants. Let Ahmad, who is fascinated by observing the class struggle, rejoice, but how can I gloat over the misfortunes of this mansion and its inhabitants when my heart is buried in its rubble? And how can I despise that extraordinary creature, who has never tasted the adversities of life or the crowded living conditions of the people, when the thought of her is a beautiful idea before which my heart falls prostrate?"

The streetcar paused at the stop beyond the Wayliya police station, she got out, and he followed. Standing on the pavement there, he watched her cross the road to Ibn Zaydun Street, which was directly opposite. This narrow street was lined by old houses inhabited by the middle class, and its asphalt surface was covered with dirt, stones, and scattered bits of paper. She entered the third house on the left through a small door adjacent to an ironing establishment. He stood there, gazing at the street and the house in gloomy silence. This was where Madam Saniya, the widow of Shaddad Bey, resided. An apartment like that would not rent for more than three pounds a month. If only Madam Saniya would c ome out on the balcony, he could catch a glimpse of her and measure the changes that had affected her. No doubt they were significant ones. He had not forgotten the precious sight of her leaving the men's parlor of her former home, arm in arm with her husband, as they headed for the waiting car. She had sauntered forth grandly, wearing her fluffy coat and glancing about in a regal and self-assured fashion. "Man will never suffer from a more lethal enemy than time," he reflected. A'ida had stayed in this apartment during her visit to Cairo. Perhaps she had passed part of an evening on this stiabby balcony. She had quite possibly shared a bed with her mother and sister, for they certainly had only one.

"I wish I had learned she washere in time. I wish I had seen her again after our long separation. Now that I am liberated from her tyranny, I need to see her so I can learn the truth about her and thus the truth about myself. But this priceless opportunity has been lost."