The Mirage

20

My aspirations revolved around two things: having a good income — which was coming eventually — and winning a bride. I to be the type that’s tormented by ambition, and if I’d had any ambition at all during the dream days of the past, it had been buried in the warehousing section of the Ministry of War, where a bonus of half a pound was considered a distant hope at best. No, I wasn’t moved by high-aiming ambition. However, my soul longed for happiness and peace of mind, a pleasant life, and a loving, upstanding wife. There was nothing new in my life apart from the fact that I’d begun performing the five daily prayers regularly after having neglected them from time to time. Perhaps it was my lovesickness that readied me for such unsullied communion with God five times a day. At the same time, though, my soul experienced no release from its old pain. In fact, given the moments of frenzied enjoyment that I continued to steal by night, prayer actually caused my pain to increase. I was no longer able to give it up. On the contrary, I surrendered to it more completely than ever before, yet regret had no mercy on me even for a day. There’s nothing more miserable than to be tormented by regret when you’re a person of faith.

It was this ongoing struggle that led me to take a long look at myself and my life. When I did so, I was appalled at first to see what a monotonous existence I led, a day of which was equal to a year, and a year equal to a day. Hadn’t an entire year passed since I began work at the ministry without a single new development? A lifetime was passing by in a boring job to which I’d been doomed, and in a forlornness that was dissipated in only two circumstances: when I was at the tram stop, and in conversation with my mother at home. Even these brief moments of happiness weren’t without a tinge of misery and pain. When I was with my beloved, I was haunted by the specter of my mother; and when I was with my mother, I was frightened by the specter of my beloved. This generated an unsettling angst mingled with remorse, and I was enveloped by a cloud of melancholy that refused to leave me. When I think back to those days, I blame myself, not because there was no good reason for my unhappiness, but rather, due to my usual bad habit of blowing my pains and sufferings out of all proportion, and because never in my life have I faced anything with the required courage and resolution.

As for my mother, she couldn’t pinpoint a reason for the glumness in me that caused her so much anxiety. I don’t know how many times she said to me sorrowfully, “Why do you seem sad sometimes? For the life of me, I can’t imagine what it is that you lack. You wanted to be a government employee, and you’ve become one. God’s blessed you with loving care and concern from your grandfather, who provides a comfortable life for us. And in your service you have a mother who would gladly give you her very life if you asked her to. Not only that, but you have youth and good health, which I pray you’ll enjoy for long years to come. So what do you lack?”

I was amazed that she would be asking what I lacked. It was true, of course, that she’d enumerated for me an abundance of blessings. However, the value of these blessings was lost on me. They were, to me, like the air that we breathe every moment of our lives without it ever occurring to us to be thankful for it. Instead, I thought constantly about what I lacked, blinded to what I already had by what I was bent on attaining. I seemed to have been destined not to know anything about life’s true wisdom, and I’d never gone beyond the narrow confines of my own soul. And herein lay the secret of my malady. It was this that had cut me off from life’s joys and pleasures and all that these entail by way of virtues, meaning, and friendship. Toward others I harbored feelings of alienation and fear. In fact, such feelings caused me to view the entire world as an enemy that lay in wait for me. It may be that the only thing that would have satisfied me would have been for the world to abandon its own concerns and devote itself to making me happy! And since it wasn’t able to do that, I shunned it out of a sense of helplessness and fear and declared myself its enemy. I crawled into my shell, ignorant of the people, hopes, and virtues that filled my soul. Even in the face of love, which was the first noble sentiment ever to inspire me, I stood motionless and terrified, waiting desperately for it to make the first move.

Then came my mother’s turn, albeit belatedly. I started rebelling against her, although my rebellion remained a smoldering ember that emitted no sparks. It grew out of the peculiar attitude she took toward anything that reminded her of the fact that, sooner or later, I would marry. I’d first picked up on it myself when, during one of her formal visits, my aunt spoke of her hope that I might marry her daughter, who’d become a young woman. I saw my mother receive the suggestion in such an observably bad temper that she wasn’t able even to maintain the atmosphere of goodwill and courtesy that ought to prevail between two sisters, and my aunt left in a huff.

I noticed it again when a matchmaker who used to visit us during the clothes shopping seasons suggested that she find me a suitable bride. I saw my mother explode at the woman with such rage that her tongue was tied in astonishment and bewilderment.

I observed these things in horror and speechless indignation, and could find no satisfactory explanation for it. I had no desire for my maternal cousin, nor for any of the brides that the matchmaker might have chosen for me. However, what I sensed was that my mother hated the thought of my marrying at all and, fearing for my hopes, I was enraged.

One day, seemingly apprehensive in the face of my anger, she said to me, “These woman aren’t interested in your happiness. They’re just looking for a way to make their daughters happy!”

What she said made no sense to me, and in her eyes I discerned the hope on her part that I’d express my indifference to the matter. However, I had enough courage to remain silent.

In an anxious-sounding tone she said, “Marriage is a way of life established by God, and it won’t do for someone to marry before he’s a full-grown man.”

And I wondered to myself resentfully: If I haven’t become a full-grown man by the age of twenty-six, when will I? I wished I could say what was on my mind, but my courage failed me, and I didn’t say a word.

She looked searchingly into my face, then went on uneasily, “I want you to have a bride who’s truly worthy of you, one whose beauty will dazzle people’s eyes, whose good morals are praised by all, who’s from an aristocratic family, and who’ll provide you with a sumptuous mansion to live in.”

Concealing my rage, I asked, “And where is such a bride to be found?”

“We’ll find her some day, God willing!” she said, biting her lip.

I said to myself: If this isn’t setting me up for failure, then I don’t know what is. Seething inside, I imagined her face surrounded by a halo of fury, and I thought to myself bitterly: When my mother gets angry, her beauty disappears, and the kindness seeps out of her face.