Sugar Street

160

What appalling indecisiveness…. It might just as well have been a chronic disease. Every issue seemed to present a multitude of equivalent sides, making it almost impossible to choose between them. Neither metaphysical questions nor the simple operations of daily life were exempt. Perplexity and hesitation posed an obstacle everywhere. Should he marry or not? He needed to make up his mind but fluctuated so much that he felt dizzy. The normal balance between his spirit, intellect, and senses became disrupted. When the maelstrom finally calmed down, no progress would have been made, and the question — to marry or not would still lack an answer. Occasionally he felt distressed by his freedom and by his loneliness or resented a life spent in the company of dreary mental phantoms. Then he would yearn for a companion, and the loving family instincts imprisoned inside him would groan for release. He would picture himself a husband, cured of his introspective isolation, his fantasies dissipated… but also preoccupied by his children, wholly absorbed in earning a living, and oppressed by all the concerns of everyday life. Then, dreadfully alarmed, he would decide to stay single, no matter how much tormented loneliness he suffered. But indecision would soon rear its head again as he started to wonder about marriage once more, and so on and so forth. How could he make up his mind?

Budur really was a wonderful girl. The fact that she rode the streetcar today did not detract from her charms, for she had been born and raised in the paradise of those angels who had inflamed his heart in the old days. She was a meteor that had fallen from the sky, a truly outstanding girl, and an educated beauty of good character. She would not be difficult to obtain. If he chose to proceed, she would be a promising bride in every respect. All he had to do was to get on with it.

In addition to these considerations, he had to admit that she occupied a central place in his consciousness. Hers was the last image of life he saw on falling asleep and the first he greeted on waking. During the day, she was rarely far from his thoughts. The moment he saw her, the rusty strings of his heart began to vibrate with poignant songs. His world of lonely and confused suffering had been transformed. Breaths of fresh air had penetrated it, and the water of life flowed through it. If this was not love, what was it? For the last two monthshe had sought out Ibn Zaydun Street late each afternoon, traversing it slowly and training his eyes on the balcony until they met hers. Then they would exchange a smile, as was only appropriate for two colleagues. That had started as if by chance, but the continuation could only have been deliberate. Whenever he turned up at the appointed hour, he found her seated on the balcony, reading a book or glancing around. He was certain that she was waiting for him. Had she wished to erase this idea from his mind, she would have needed only to avoid the balcony for a few minutes each afternoon. What must she think of his visit, smile, and greeting? But not so fast…. Instincts are rarely mistaken. Each of them wished to encounter the other. This realization sent him into transports of joy and left him drunk with delight. He was filled with a sense of life's value. But this happiness was marred by anxiety. How could it help but be, when it had not yet been coupled with a determination to proceed? A current swept him along, and he yielded to it, not knowing where it would carry him or where he would land. A little reflection might have forced him to be more circumspect, but the joy of life sympathetically diverted him. He was intoxicated with gaiety but not free of anxiety.

Riyad had told him, "Get on with it. This is your chance". Ever since starting to wear an engagement ring, Riyad had spoken of marriage as if it was man's original and ultimate objective in life, saying conceitedly that since he was boldly embarking on this unique experience, he would be granted a new and more accurate understanding of life, one that would create opportunities for him to write about children and couples. "Isn't this what life is all about, you high-soaring philosopher?"

Kamal had answered evasively, "Today you've gone over to the other side, and so you're the last person from whom to expect a fair judgment. I'll miss having you as my sincere adviser."

Viewed from another perspective, love seemed to him a dictator, an d Egypt's political life had taught him to hate dictatorship with all bisheart. At his aunt Jalila's house, he surrendered his body to Atiya but then quickly reclaimed it, as if nothing had happened. This girl, shielded by her modesty, would be satisfied with nothing less than possessing his spirit and his body, forever. Afterward, there would only be one course for him to pursue: the bitter struggle to earn a living to support his wife and children properly a bizarre destiny transforming an existence rife with exalted concerns into nothing more than a means of "gaining" a living. The Indian sadhu might be a fool or a lunatic but was at least a thousand times wiser than a man up to his ears in making a living.

"Enjoy the love you once yearned for," he advised himself. "Here it is, resuscitated in your heart, but bringing lots of problems with it."

Riyad had asked him, "Is it reasonable for you to love her, to have it in your power to marry her, and then to decline to take her?"

Kamal had replied that he loved her but not marriage.

Riyad had protested, "It's love that consoles us to marriage. Since you're not in love with marriage as you say — you must not be in love with the girl."

Kamal had insisted, "No, I love her and hate marriage."

Riyad had suggested, "Perhaps you fear the responsibility."

Kamal had said furiously, "I already shoulder far more responsibilities at home and at work than you do."

Riyad had snapped, "Perhaps you're more selfish than I had imagined."

Kamal had inquired sarcastically, "What inspires an individual to marry if not latent or manifest egotism?"

Smiling, Riyad had retorted, "Perhaps you're sick. Go to a psychiatrist. He may be able to cure you."

Kamal had remarked, "It's amusing that my forthcoming article in al-Fikr magazine is 'How to Analyze Yourself "

Riyad had told him, "I admit that you puzzle me."

Kamal had answered, "I'm the one who is always puzzled."

Once, walking down Ibn Zaydun Street as usual, he had encountered his sweetheart's mother on her way home. He had recognized her at first glance, although he had not seen her for at least seventeen years and she was no longer the lady he had once known. She had withered in a most distressing way, and worry had marked her even before age could. A person would hardly have imagined that this emaciated woman scurrying by was the lady who had sauntered through the garden of the mansion, a paragon of beauty and perfection. Nonetheless the shape of her head had reminded him of A'ida, and the sight of her had affected him deeply. Fortunately, he had already exchanged a smile with Budur before seeing her mother. Otherwise, he would not have been able to. Then, for no particular reason, he had found himself remembering Aisha and the ill-tempered fit she had thrown that morning when searching for her dentures, after forgetting where she had deposited them before going to sleep the previous evening.

Then one day he noticed that, contrary to her usual practice, Budur was standing on the balcony. He perceived that she was preparing for an excursion. He asked himself, "Will she go out alone?" She immediately disappeared from view, and he proceeded on his way, slowly and reflectively. If she really did come out alone, she would be coming to see him. Perhaps this intoxicating victory would wash away the humiliation he had suffered years before. But would A'ida have done this, even if the moon had split apart? When he was halfway down the block, he turned to look back and saw her coming… by herself. He imagined that the pounding of his heart was audible to the neighbors and sensed immediately the gravity of the developing situation. One side of his personality strongly advocated flight. Their previous exchanges of smiles had been an innocent sentimental entertainment, but this encounter would be of unparalleled significance, bringing with it new responsibilities and the need to make a decisive choice. If he fled now, he would give himself more time for reflection. But he did not run away. He continued on with deliberate steps, as if drugged, until she caught up with him at the comer of al-Galal Street. As He turned, their eyes met, they smiled, and he said, "Good evening."

"Good evening."

Conscious of the ever mounting dangers, he asked, "Where to?"

"To see a girlfriend. She lives in that direction". She pointed toward Queen Nazli Street.

He replied recklessly, "That's the way I'm going. May I accompany you?"

Hiding a smile, she said, "If you want…."

They walked along side by side. She had not decked herself out in this lovely dress to visit a girlfriend. It was for him, and his heart welcomed her with passion and affection. But how was he to conduct himself? Perhaps she had wearied of his inaction and had ventured out herself to provide a propitious opportunity for him. He would have to avail himself of it out of respect for her or ignore it and lose her forever. It had come down to a word that if spoken would affect the entire course of his life or if withheld would have consequences he would rue for the remainder of his days. Thus, against his better judgment, he found himself put on the spot.

They had gone quite a distance, and she presumably expected something. She seemed ready and responsive — as if she did not belong to the Shaddad family. In fact, she was not a Shaddad at all. The Shaddad family was finished. Its time had passed. "The person walking along with you is just one of many unlucky girls," he reflected.

She turned toward him with a tentative smile and said gently, "It's been nice to see you."

"Thanks."

Then what? … She seemed to be waiting for a further step on his part. The end of the street was approaching. He had to make up his mind to commit himself or to say goodbye. She had probably never imagined that they would part without even a hopeful word. The intersection was only a few paces ahead. He was painfully aware of the disappointment she would suffer, but his tongue refused to cooperate. Should he say something, no matter what the consequences? She stopped walking, and her smile, which appeared more deliberate than natural, seemed to say, "It's time for us to part". His confusion reached a climax. Then she held out her hand, and he took it. He said nothing for a terrible moment and then finally murmured, "Goodbye."

She withdrew her hand and turned into a side street. He almost called out after her. For Budur to depart in this manner, spattered with failure and embarrassment, was an unbearable nightmare. "You're a past master of miserable situations," he chided himself. But his tongue was frozen. Why had he been following her for the past two months?

"Is it in good taste to spurn her when she comes to you herself? Is it nice to give her the same dismissive treatment meted out to you by her sister? When you love her? Will she pass a night similar to the one that, though long behind you, still lights up the gloomy past like a burning coal with its smoldering pain?"

He walked on, wondering whether he really wanted to remain a bachelor so he could be a philosopher or whether he was using philosophy as a pretext for staying single.

Riyad told him later that what he had done was incredible and that he would regret it. His inaction really was unbelievable, but did he also regret it?

Riyad asked, "How could breaking off with her have seeined so trivial to you after you had been talking of her as the girl of your dreams?" She was not the girl of his dreams, for that girl would never have come to him.

Finally Riyad told Kamal, "You won't be thirty-six much longer. After that, you won't be fit for marriage". Angered by this remark, Kamal succumbed to despair.