The Mirage

27

What was standing between my beloved and me? Poverty. I could see no other answer to my question, since it was the only obstacle I couldn’t be considered responsible for. At least, this was what I believed. How could I get money, then? I pondered the matter glumly. Then where should my thoughts take me but to my father! This was the person whose death I’d long wished for, but wishing had gotten me nowhere. So why not visit him? Why not ask him for the money I needed? The thought seemed bizarre, unbelievable, especially for me, who feared him more than anyone else. Never in my life had I expected anything from him. However, during those days anxiety and fear were taking me to the limits of my endurance, love ran in my blood, and I had a growing, increasingly dismal sense of life having passed me by. I feared that if I got to be thirty years old without marrying, I’d be a goner. Such worries tormented me, and the sweet glances bestowed on me by my beloved brought with them both happiness and a silent rebuke. So in the end I felt I had no choice but to think seriously of visiting my father.

I went without announcing my intention to my mother, and I found my way to Hilmiya with the help of the tram conductor. When I reached Ali Mubarak Street, I recalled immediately the way I’d come with my grandfather nine years earlier. I glimpsed the large house with the tall treetops looming up behind the wall that surrounded it. I also saw the gatekeeper, so aged now that he was little more than a black specter, sitting in front of the gate. But when I was two steps away from him, my courage failed me, and instead of turning to go in, I kept on walking. Gripped by a sense of futility, I told myself to go back where I’d come from. After all, what was the use of making an attempt that was doomed to failure! I didn’t flee far, however, and perhaps it was despair itself that shored me up with an unanticipated strength. Hence, I headed back toward the gatekeeper with renewed determination, reproaching myself for the weakness of will that would deign to come between me and a house to which I had an undeniable right. I hailed the gatekeeper, and he returned my greeting without rising to his feet.

In a tone not altogether lacking in self-importance, I said to him, “Kamil Ru’ba Laz. Inform the bey, please.”

The gatekeeper rose with a smile and invited me into the garden, then left to announce me to the bey. It was the same garden, still redolent with the fragrance of lemon, still roofed with date palm crowns, and still able to infect one’s soul with a sense of melancholy and forlornness. I looked toward the veranda at the end of the garden and saw the gatekeeper beckoning to me, so I came forward, fighting off my tension. As I ascended the steps, I was met with the familiar scene: the man, the ornamented coffee table, the long-necked bottle, and the glass. He extended his hand with a half-smile on his face, and I greeted him. Then he invited me to have a seat, so I sat down on a chair to the right of the coffee table. Casting him a quick glance, I saw that his portly body had grown flaccid and that his full face had grown more bloodshot. His eyes had an absent, dazed look about them, while old age had etched furrows across his forehead and around his eyes and left his cheeks looking withered and limp.

I wasn’t pleased by his appearance. However, I made sure that nothing of what I was feeling showed on my face. I looked strangely at the half-full bottle. As I recalled how it had looked to me during the first visit, I said to myself: How quickly corruption finds its way into a person’s heart! He was wrapped in a silk robe to ward off the autumn dampness that would descend at that time of the afternoon, and I was certain that he was up to the gills in liquor. I felt worried, wondering what sort of madness had moved me to undertake such a futile visit. He began looking over at me with interest, or perhaps it was just curiosity. Amazed at this peculiar encounter between father and son after a lifetime of separation, I wondered in bewilderment and disbelief what’s said about the love between parents and children.

Quite naturally, I didn’t know how to begin the conversation. However, he saved me from my dilemma by starting to talk first.

In a thick voice he said, “So, how are you? Your grandfather has died. He was a nice man, and I have pleasant enough memories of him in spite of the things that happened. I didn’t attend his funeral, which many would consider unforgivable. But someone my age should be exempted from obligations. The same thing applies to both the elderly and children in that respect. Don’t forget, though, that nobody’s expected to attend my funeral — except, perhaps, Uncle Adam the gatekeeper. And it isn’t unlikely that he himself will be too busy searching my pockets and stealing whatever money he thinks he’ll find there. Will you attend my funeral?

His question took me by surprise after an anxiety that had gripped me in response to his drunken tone of voice, and I could see that the task before me was going to be arduous and fearsome.

Nevertheless, I said to him, “May God grant you a long life.”

He guffawed, and I saw that he’d lost his molars. I was offended by both his appearance and his laugh.

Then he went on, saying, “What a loyal son you are! It’s a lovely thing indeed for you to love your father and pray for him to have a long life! Kindness to one’s father is a virtue I didn’t have much of myself, unfortunately, and if I’d been a bit hypocritical or a bit more patient, I’d now be among the country’s well-known and well-to-do — like your paternal uncle, damn him. Have you noticed how he wasn’t content with the money he’d inherited (may God preserve it!)? No, he had to monopolize your brother Medhat, too — that bull — and marry him to his daughter! I used to think he’d be the divorcing kind like his father, but he seems like the type that bows and scrapes for women. And now he’s turned into a peasant farmer who lives the same sort of life his flocks do. He may be dreaming of a vast fortune after his uncle dies, but he’ll be disappointed. After all, his wife has six sisters, and every one of them would be considered a great catch for some stud enamored of money and women. That’s why I say it’s a miserable thing to have daughters. It’s a huge shame, no matter what they say about how marriage is half the religion. Unless, of course, the other half is divorce!”

Then, changing his tone, he continued, “Why don’t you propose to one of your paternal cousins? Don’t you know that every one of them is due to receive an inheritance of at least a hundred pounds a month? But enough of all this. Let me look at your face a bit, since I hardly recognize you. My, my, what a fine young man you are. All you lack is a mustache. Why haven’t you grown one? Besides, you’re handsome. But you’re thin and pale, as though you don’t get enough to eat. It’s a shame for a young man your age to be skinny. Even so, it makes a father happy beyond words to see his son a man, and especially if he’s only seeing him for the first or second time. Don’t you think I’m an extraordinary father? I’ve got three children, yet I’m abandoned and alone. But I’m not bitter about my luck, since it’s a happy thing to be alone. Not once have I ever spent time with anyone but that we’ve parted as enemies. They usually say I’m at fault, and I say they’re at fault. In any case, God will judge between us on the Day of Resurrection. Now, don’t be surprised if you hear me quoting from the Qur’an. That’s thanks to the radio. I’ve distanced myself from the world, but the world insists on invading my house through the radio. Welcome, welcome! You’re a loyal son, Kamil. But you should take care of your health and eat enough so that you can put on some weight. Didn’t your grandfather leave a fortune?”

I was apprehensive and discouraged, not knowing how to broach the subject I’d come to speak about in the wake of all this wild prattle. And my apprehension and misery intensified when, during his harangue, I saw him filling the glass again. However, taking advantage of the opportunity afforded by his last question, I said definitively, “My grandfather didn’t leave anything at all.”

He nodded his flushed bald head as if to say, “That’s what I’d expected.”

Then he said, “A high salary, few dependents, and a huge pension. And then he doesn’t leave anything. He was a gambler, God have mercy on him, and the gambler prefers to lose his cash at the table rather than save it up in the bank. Deep down he was nothing but a child who loved to play. And I don’t blame him, since I for my part am a drunkard. The difference between the gambler and the drunkard is that the former is a practical man who speculates, cheats, wins, and loses, whereas the latter is the theoretical type who dreams and dreams and dreams. If the gambler aspires to wealth, he gambles with his fortune by playing, then usually loses it. He consoles himself with the hope of recouping his loss, but all he does is lose more and more until, when he dies, he leaves nothing but a heavy debt. And the strange thing about it is that all gamblers lose, so I don’t know who wins! As for the drunkard, if he aspires to wealth, he finds it ready and waiting for him without it costing him more than thirty piasters, namely, the price of a bottle like this one. Do you say it’s just an illusion? So be it. Is there anything in this world that isn’t an illusion and a fantasy? Where’s your grandfather? He was a concrete reality, but where is he now? Roll up your sleeves and look for him, but you won’t find a trace of him. Look for him in the house, at the coffee shop, at the casino. Look for him in the grave itself, and I bet you my life that you’ll find neither hide nor hair of him. So how could he have been real? God have mercy on him! And what have you all done since he died? Are you still a student?”

Concealing my rage and distress behind a wan smile, I said, “I got a job at the Ministry of War.”

He raised his glass with a chuckle, saying, “To your future! Well done! Our family is an illustrious one, but we haven’t had a single government employee. So you’re the one blazing a path for us into government circles!”

Feeling cornered, I said wearily, “I’m just a petty employee, and I don’t get a salary worth mentioning.”

He shot me a wary look from beneath his gray eyebrows, then said indifferently, “Don’t worry. A child always grows up. The wisdom of the world decrees that children grow up and that adults turn back into children. It seems that God created a single limited fortune that neither increases nor decreases. However, people’s shares in it may change. Otherwise, everyone would get rich. So be patient, son, and don’t busy yourself thinking about money. Thinking about money is a perilous thing that was nearly the death of me once. I find it amazing that people love money the way they do. At present I’m not a lover of money. The only thing I love is liquor. If everyone loved liquor the way I do and made light of money, the world’s problems could be solved with a single word. Imagine with me a happy town. They divide it down the middle, then build houses on the right, pubs on the left, and government buildings in the center. And people’s sole duty is to drink. Now that’s a town that lives and lets live. Won’t you have some, son? No? So what vices have you taken up? A man’s true value consists in the evil he does. Suppose I died tomorrow and hadn’t been a drunkard. What might people say about me? Nothing! However, being what I am, they’re sure to say, ‘He was a drunkard!’ In fact, even if I gave this money of mine away in charity, no one would say a word about me. People forget good things quickly, even if they’re the ones who did them. The only thing that immortalizes you is evil. What do you say?”

Having no choice but to reply, I said, “We should fear God and obey Him.”

He affirmed what I’d said with a feeble-looking nod of his round head.

“Right you are!” he continued. “That’s the secret of existence. However, if what they say about God is really true, we’re all in for a black fate! Even so, I have great confidence and assurance. I only feel otherwise if I get indigestion, and when that happens, the whole world looks cold and dismal. In any case, I don’t believe God torments His servants. How can I believe that a great God, glory be to Him, would burn a creature like me in hell just because he loved liquor! Don’t you like what I’m saying? You’ve come to keep me company, yet I can see the boredom in your face. What do you suppose caused you to remember your father now after forgetting him for a lifetime?”

My heart was beating wildly and I couldn’t bear to keep quiet any longer. It may not have been prudent of me to broach my topic after that particular question. However, I said unthinkingly, “I find myself in hard straits, and if bad circumstances were what separated us, you’re still my father in spite of those circumstances.”

He burst out laughing, and for the second time I hated the way he looked. Then, in that crazed tone of his that robbed his hearer of all confidence in what he was saying, he continued, “You’re right. This whiskey contains a precious wisdom. Like the world, it’s bitter. However, the wise man is the one who gets used to it and cultivates a taste for it, just as wise men grow accustomed to the world and cultivate a taste for it. Woe to those who shrink from its bitterness, since they won’t be able to endure life. As I said, son, you’re right. By God, I’m pleased by your tact and the fine way you’ve prefaced what you have to say. You’ve boycotted me willingly for thirty years or nearly that, so don’t call me to account for my mistakes, since drunkards put no store by such reckonings. After all, one plus one doesn’t necessary equal two. One may be equal to ten. As I said, you stay away from me a lifetime, then you come to me apologizing with polite words. In any case, I accept the excuse. And why shouldn’t I? The fact is that I don’t regret people’s staying away from me. As for the straits you’re complaining of, they’re very important to me. Whatever distresses my son, distresses me. So, what do you mean, son?”

Something in me told me to leave, since I couldn’t see any benefit in his delirious ranting. But I rejected the idea angrily. After all, it pained me to think of turning on my heels after having come this far. So I gathered my strength, exerting a greater effort than I could usually endure to keep my timidity and nervousness at bay.

Then I said softly, “I want to get married.”

In response, the drunk man resumed his odious guffawing. Then he said in astonishment, “Why doesn’t our family ever get over this pernicious malady? Your sister was on pins and needles for me to choose a husband for her the way I ought to. Then she ran off with a strange man and married him. And that brother of yours had hardly started to sprout whiskers when he found himself in his bride’s arms. I’m not trying to justify myself, since I tried to be a husband once, twice, and a third time. What a strange family! Maybe you need money in order for this marriage you want to come about? I wouldn’t rule it out, since marriage, even if it is a malady as I’ve said, is something we spend huge sums on. This alone is sufficient evidence of human beings’ madness. And maybe you’ve put yourself through the disagreeable experience of seeing me in order to ask me for money that you can use to tie the knot. I don’t think it unlikely. But where will I get the money you’re asking for? Have people told you that I’m rich and prosperous? I don’t deny that I have a monthly income of forty pounds in addition to the rent I get from the second floor of the house. However, don’t lose sight of my expenses. Take the cook, for example, who robs me of twenty pounds a month. If it occurs to me to check up on him, he makes my head spin with a long bill that I can’t make heads or tails of. Then there’s liquor, too, of which I need two bottles a day, and that comes to more than fifteen pounds a month. What’s left after all that is just barely enough to pay for other necessities such as clothes, cigarettes, salaries for the gatekeeper and the servant, and fare for the carriage that takes me down some nearby streets when I get tired of staying at home. I’ve got nothing in the bank. In fact, I treat my indigestion with folk remedies. Don’t ask me for money, son. God knows I say this to my regret. Why don’t you follow your brother’s example and marry without having to pay a cent? And if you really want my advice, don’t get married at all!”

As he glanced over at me with his drifting eyes, he looked repulsive and detestable. He got out his pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit it, then began smoking it with relish. He began watching the cigarette smoke with his lackluster eyes, and it seemed as though he’d forgotten me. Then it occurred to me that he was deliberately tormenting me. I was filled with bitterness and anger, but I sat there motionless, all the while feeling more and more desperate and disappointed.

A long silence ensued, during which he turned toward me and cast me a vacuous look. Then his broad mouth broke into a smile.

“Won’t you have a smoke?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

We fell silent again. Wouldn’t it be best for me to go? I wondered. And indeed, I would have jumped up to leave if it hadn’t been for something unexpected that happened just then. As I gazed at him in bewilderment and alarm, a look of fatigue came over him, his forehead began dripping with perspiration, and his eyes roamed the place as though they didn’t see a thing. I saw a nervous twitch to the right side of his mouth, after which his right eye teared up. I expected something frightening to happen, the nature of which I couldn’t identify. However, the condition passed quickly. His face relaxed and his eyes recovered the negligible bit of life that generally appeared in them. Then he looked my way again. The vague fear I’d felt left me, only to be replaced by a return of the desperation, disappointment, and hatred I’d been feeling before. I pondered with incredulity the reality before my eyes, namely, that this man was my father, the man who had brought me into the world. This called to mind other, related, realities that appeared to me in concrete images which caused me pain and grief. I hurt so much, I was in a near-daze for a while. Then, unaware of myself, I heaved an audible sigh.

Awakening anew to my presence, he asked me for the second time, “Won’t you smoke?”

I shook my head in the negative.

“What a good boy you are!” he exclaimed mockingly. “Your only fault is that you want to get married. Talk to me about this idea of yours. Is it just a desire to marry, or have you got a particular girl in mind?” (At this point, my heart beat wildly, and I almost got tears in my eyes.) “That’s how it seems to me. So, how is love these days? No doubt it’s still treated with the greatest of seriousness, and still has same power to pull the wool over people’s eyes. Nevertheless, I’ll say it again as a man with experience: marriage is bondage. Imagine a woman owning you. My advice to you is not to get married at all. Take it from me as a man who’s been there. Marriage is bondage. Imagine a woman owning you, and never mind what you’ve been told to the effect that you’re the one who’ll own her, since it’s a stinking lie. She’ll wear you out, rob your money, take away your freedom. And as if that weren’t enough, she’ll gradually take control of your spirit and everything you own to take care of her and her children! Then if you die, she’ll go looking for another man even before her tears have had a chance to dry. Marriage is a ridiculous affair that I couldn’t bear for more than one night!”

My heart reeled at the force of the thrust, which pierced to the quick, and in spite of myself, I uttered a groan from the depths of my being. He looked at me stupidly, and I glared back at him. I was so enraged I nearly threw the bottle in his face. However, I wasn’t the type of person who acts on such thoughts, and I felt defeated by my weakness. I also felt an urge to cry, which I resisted as best I could.

“Have I hurt you, son?” he asked in astonishment.

“Good day!” I shouted at him as I rose to my feet in a rage.

The very next moment I regretted having let these words escape. Even so, I left the place without looking back. I headed for the street, fuming and cursing all the way: I couldn’t bear it for more than one night! God! If a thousand blows had come down on the back of my neck in a public square, they wouldn’t have hurt me the way that one statement had! I was so distraught, my eyes welled up with tears and I let myself cry, taking cover in the darkness that had fallen like a pall over the universe. There was no hope of his helping me in any way. His death alone would be able to change my life. Indeed, there was no hope whatsoever in anything but his death. As I got on the tram, my wandering mind went to work as usual, dispelling my anxieties with its unruly dreams. I saw myself sitting with Medhat and my sister Radiya dividing up my father’s estate after his death. I suggested that we sell the big house, to which they agreed immediately, and in the twinkling of an eye I became the owner of a thousand pounds. Yet my mother didn’t appear in the dream even once. I met with my sweetheart’s father and spoke to him courageously of my desire to marry into his family, and everything went without a hitch. Thoughts like these brought me a satisfaction that relieved the tension that had been generated by that frightening, ill-fated visit. However, I quickly recalled how the dream hadn’t even acknowledged my mother’s existence. A tremor of fear and revulsion went through my body and my heart shrank in bitterness and remorse. How could I have allowed that satanic thought to pollute my soul again? The feeling of indignation and anger stayed with me the entire way home, and I repeated over and over, “O Lord, bless me by granting her a long life!” But it did me no good. I returned home divided and troubled, and I didn’t feel at peace with myself until I’d planted a long, fervent kiss on her forehead.