The Mirage

24

I wasn’t able to resist the new urge. Nothing could stand in the face of it, and not my conscience, my repentance, or my inborn fear of God did me a bit of good. I felt hopeless about my life: my job was truly abominable, my love life was one long sigh of discontent, and the days passed heavily without consolation or hope. My eyes would behold and my heart would beat, but my will was incapacitated by weakness and fear. Alcohol-induced euphoria was my only consolation, and I gave myself over to it heart and soul. This miserable consolation was short-lived, however, and fate wasn’t favorably disposed to my enjoyment of it.

One Friday in the early autumn of that year, my mother and I sat talking as usual. The doorbell rang and the servant opened the door, then came and summoned me to meet a certain “bey.” I went to the door right away and found a distinguished-looking man who must have been sixty or seventy years old. After a courteous greeting, I looked at him questioningly.

“Are you Kamil Effendi?” he asked.

“I’m Kamil Ru’ba,” I replied as I looked searchingly into his face. “This is the house of Colonel Abdulla Bey Hasan.”

Taking me by the hand, he led me outside, then leaned toward me and said, “May God grant you length of days. Your grandfather has died, son.”

I stared into his face in shock, too tongue-tied to respond.

Patting me on the shoulder, he said sorrowfully, “Be brave for your mother’s sake, son, and be the man we know you can be. Your grandfather was sitting with us at the Luna Park Café the way he did every morning. He got short of breath and asked for a glass of water. A few minutes later his head fell onto the table and we thought he’d fainted, but then it became clear that he’d gone to be with his Maker.”

“Where is he now, sir?” I cried hoarsely.

“We’ve brought him with us in a car,” he said softly.

No sooner had the man spoken than I saw four men at the bottom of the staircase carrying my grandfather. As they slowly and cautiously ascended the stairs, I rushed toward them in a daze. With trembling limbs, I helped them carry him the rest of the way and we brought him into the flat. I saw my mother at the other end of the living room as she screamed in alarm. Rushing toward us, unfazed by the presence of strangers, she asked us apprehensively, “What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with him?”

However, she heard no reply. Or rather, in the silence she heard a reply.

Then she let out a loud shriek.

“Baba! Baba!” she wailed in lament.

We laid him down on the bed, after which the men came up to him one after another and kissed him on the forehead. They extended their condolences to my mother, then withdrew silently from the room. Some of them asked me if I needed anything, and I thanked them. Then the man whom I’d met at the door volunteered to tell me about the usual procedures in such situations. He told me he would inform the Ministry of War and that it would be preferable for the funeral to take place at ten o’clock the next morning. I rushed back to my grandfather’s bedroom, where I found my mother in bitter tears, and I broke into tears with her. However, she wouldn’t allow me to stay in the room. In order to distract me from my grief, she instructed me to inform my maternal aunt and my brother by telegram, and to deliver the news to my sister. I left the house to carry out these duties, then came back accompanied by my sister Radiya and her husband. Radiya’s husband was the best of helpers in taking care of the necessary procedures, or rather, he took care of them himself, while I contented myself with tagging along in a daze.

No sooner had darkness fallen than the house was filled with family members. My maternal aunt and her husband came, as did my brother Medhat, his wife, and my paternal uncle. The only person who didn’t come was my father. When Medhat informed him of my grandfather’s death, he said, “May the remainder of his days be added to yours. Please convey my condolences to your mother, your brother, and your sister, since I don’t attend funerals or weddings.”

Of all the family, my mother was the most grief-stricken by my grandfather’s loss. After all, she’d never been apart from him in her entire life, the only exception being the three months she’d spent grudgingly in my father’s house.

And that’s how my grandfather died. He’d enjoyed a long life and hadn’t been debilitated by old age or illness. He passed away in his cozy perch at the coffee shop surrounded by his loyal, loving friends, and with an ease only rarely enjoyed by those who depart from this life. Whenever he came to mind, I would bow my head in reverence for his memory, calling down God’s mercy and forgiveness upon his great soul. He was my grandfather, and he was my father. He was the wing of compassion that had sheltered me, and beneath that wing I’d enjoyed a life of abundant provision. I hadn’t forgotten that once, during certain dark hours of my life, I’d accused him of having raised me badly, or of having allowed my mother to ruin my life with her coddling. But when I reflected on the matter, I couldn’t help but excuse him, since I’d come into the world when he was over sixty years old. Besides, it’s a very difficult thing indeed to know one’s grandfather as he really is. In general, grandfathers appear surrounded by a halo of veneration and sanctity due to the fact that the family members who preserve their histories tend to be among those who hallow and revere them. However, even based on what I myself had observed of his life, I could praise him to the skies. His good health, his love for order and military precision — though without being harsh or overly strict — had always been things I admired intensely, and his tender solicitude toward us had softened the blow of many an affliction. Suffice it to say that I never tasted life’s bitterness until we’d escorted my grandfather to his final resting place. No matter how long I live, the image of him during his final days will never be erased from my mind: old age had crowned him with a head of snow-white hair, bestowing upon him an air of dignity and splendor and causing his green eyes to twinkle with humor and compassion. I wasn’t surprised at his friends’ grief over him, and I realized — although I may have missed it myself — that he was one of those people who love and are loved in return, who know others intimately and who are known intimately in return. It was a God-given aptitude of which I’d been deprived, and which I’ve longed for all my life.

His funeral was scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning, and when it came time for the inevitable leave-taking, the balcony was filled with weeping women and the cannons were fired in a salute to his tomb. His bier was borne atop a cannon in front of which a military band marched. As he disappeared into the grave, I cast his body a parting glance and sobbed like a little boy.