The Mirage

3

I took no notice of the one affliction that had been visited on her life. One day she told me the story of her marriage. She did so with great caution and care, especially in view of the fact that she was narrating the happy memories, rare though they were. She would mention them hurriedly, tersely and with restraint, as though deep down she feared me, or as though she feared that the pleasantness of the memory might mitigate the intenseness of my loathing for my father.

It was on the Ismail Bridge that my father had seen her for the first time. Some days in the late afternoon, my mother and grandfather would take an excursion in the Victoria. One day they were passed by another Victoria, in whose front seat there sat a young man with one leg crossed over the other. He appeared to take pride in his youth and his wealth — or, more properly speaking, in the wealth he anticipated. His glance fell upon her face, and before long he had steered his carriage behind theirs and begun following them to our house in Manyal. Whenever the two of them left the house, they would happen upon him in the road as though he’d been waiting. I didn’t allow this chapter of the story to go by without comment. I asked her about how flirtation took place in those days. She received my question warily. However, I kept after her until she gave in to me, surrendering to the geniality of the recollections. She told me that he would cast her furtive glances that subtly concealed a smile. Or he would turn toward her with interest as he twisted his luxuriant black mustache. At the same time, he never overstepped the limits of propriety. I mused for some time, lost in the wilderness of dreamy imagination and feeling astonished, bewildered, and distressed. Then I looked up at her — our sole comfort during those days being that of endless conversation — and I asked her with a smile how she used to receive these flirtatious overtures. Not missing the mischievousness in my question, she giggled. Her body shaking from head to toe as it did whenever she laughed, she told me that she would ignore them, of course, and look straight ahead. She would register no response at all, as though she were a statue clad in a white veil. Unconvinced of what she was telling me, I said I was asking about the inward, not the outward; about the heart, not the face. I was tempted to tell her frankly what was going on in my head. However, my courage failed me and shyness tied my tongue. Yet if I’d consulted my heart, I would have known the answer. After all, my own heart was part of hers, and the same blood flowed through both. Indeed, the two of them beat as one. And could I possibly have forgotten the many times when I myself had remained unmoved as a statue even though my heart was ablaze?

The young man came forward and asked for her hand. He had neither a job nor an education. In fact, he had no money, at least not at that point. However, he was one of two sons of a man who was both well known and well-to-do. When my grandfather learned that the young man’s father had agreed to the proposed marriage and was prepared to support his son and his family, he was thrilled with the engagement and delighted with this old, respectable family’s wealth and prestige. He was told that the suitor was as ignorant as a plebeian. “What does he need with an education?” he replied. He was told that he had no job. “And what does he need with a job?” he asked. In fact, he was told frankly that he was a young man with untamable passions and that he was a riotous drunkard. And to this his reply was that he knew that he was just a young man, and not a monk. My grandfather wasn’t greedy or covetous. However, in addition to his being somewhat dazzled by the name of the family that wanted to become related to him by marriage and his confidence in their fine reputation, he wanted happiness for his daughter, and he believed that money would be sufficient to achieve it. Besides, my grandfather himself hadn’t finished primary school, and had a penchant for drinking and gambling.

Thus it was that his daughter became the wife of Ru’ba Laz, or Ru’ba Bey Laz, as he was generally known. My grandfather supposed that by marrying off the younger of his two daughters, he’d relieved himself of his duties toward her. However, barely two weeks after their wedding night, my mother returned to my grandfather’s house, tearful and broken-hearted. Hardly able to believe his eyes, my grandfather was exceedingly upset. Then he learned that less than a week after his wedding, the young man had resumed his former way of life in pubs, that he wouldn’t come home before sunrise, and that he’d beat her violently on the day she left his mansion.

My grandfather was appalled. Despite his strict military upbringing, he was tenderhearted and was ever so solicitous toward his two daughters. Consequently, he was enraged over what had happened and took off straightaway for the Laz mansion, where he loosed the full force of his force on both the young man and his father. My mother stayed in my grandfather’s house until she gave birth to my older sister. After this, a group friendly with both sides went to work to patch things up and bring the couple back together. Their efforts were crowned with success, and my mother and her baby girl returned to the Laz mansion once again. Her stay there lasted for two months, after which her patience ran out and she left once more, broken-winged, for my grandfather’s house. The fact is that she hadn’t known more than a few days of comfort. She had persevered, however, resigning herself patiently to the situation in the hope that the passing of the days would reform what was corrupt. But he only grew worse, and no longer could she see anything in him but a rowdy drunkard who held nothing sacred. So, despairing, she sought refuge in her father’s house. The man tried to get her back, admitting his addiction to drink and trying to convince my grandfather that married life would be possible even with his addiction. However, my grandfather took a hard stance with him and insisted that he divorce her. Some months passed and my mother gave birth to my older brother. She went on living under her father’s wing, enjoying his affection and tender, loving care.

During those days she heard bizarre reports concerning Ru’ba Laz according to which, in a moment of impetuosity and greed, the reckless young man had tried to poison his father in the hope of hastening his portion of the inheritance. However, the father had discovered the crime through the cook and banished his son from the mansion. He then decided to set half his bequest aside as a religious endowment and bequeath the other half to his elder son. It appears that he may not have been willing to bequeath all of it to the elder brother for fear of endangering him by stirring up his younger, wicked son’s rancor against him. Be that as it may, it thus happened that after having dreamed for so long of a vast fortune, Ru’ba Laz woke up to find himself in relative poverty. All he possessed now of this world’s vanities was a quarter of a family endowment that he had inherited from his mother (who wasn’t his brother’s mother), which came to around forty pounds a month, and a two-story house in Hilmiya into which he had moved after being evicted from his father’s home. The news brought anxiety and distress to my grandfather’s household, troubling the hearts of those who feared for the future of the man’s two young children. As a result of the disinheritance, the support they received was reduced to a mere pittance, and their future looked bleak. My grandparents and my mother consulted together concerning the matter, and it was decided that my grandfather would meet with Laz senior and attempt to win his sympathy on behalf of his two innocent grandchildren in the hope that he might change his will for their benefit. My grandfather went to Laz’s mansion and spoke with the man. But he was met with a hard heart and deaf ears. In fact, the man cursed both his son and his son’s progeny in my grandfather’s presence, whereupon he returned home, saddened and enraged.

One of the ironies of fate was that Laz’s father died the very year in which his son had tried to do away with him. Seven years then passed. My sister Radiya was eight years old and my brother Medhat was seven or thereabouts. Those days witnessed an event that changed the tranquil course of our family’s life. As fate would have it, the change took place as a result of a trivial incident of the sort that happens when one is walking down the street. As my grandfather was leaving a gambling establishment on Imad al-Din Street a little before dawn one day, he saw a bunch of hooligans gathered around a gentleman and beating him as he stumbled about in their midst, fuming and reeling. My grandfather shouted at them to leave the man alone, then approached them in a rage. He was joined shortly thereafter by a policeman. The mob scattered, and who should my grandfather see but Ru’ba Laz with a bloodied nose and in an obviously drunken state. Despite being startled and disconcerted, my grandfather came up to the man without hesitation and supported him with his arm, seeing that he was on the verge of falling. By this time all that had transpired between them in the past had been forgotten, or nearly so. At the same time, and in spite of the man’s unpredictability and riotousness, he’d been consistent in sending financial support to his two children. Consequently, there was no enmity between the two men. My grandfather summoned him over to his Victoria and he obeyed. Then my grandfather instructed the driver to go to Hilmiya. A peculiar silence fell over the two men along the way, and neither uttered a word. When the carriage reached the house, my grandfather cleared a space for Ru’ba Laz to get out, but he grabbed hold of my grandfather’s arm and invited him inside. My grandfather declined apologetically given the lateness of the hour. Still inebriated, the man wouldn’t take no for an answer and insisted that my grandfather come in with him. Against his will, he surrendered to the younger man’s wishes, and as dawn’s blue threads began mingling with the darkness, the two of them made their way together to the reception room.

Ru’ba Laz threw himself down on a chair, then drew my grandfather toward him and sat him down on a seat near him. Before long his silence had left him and he was overcome with agitation and emotion. With a heavy tongue loosed by a combination of alcohol and anguish, he said, “Did you see how those rascals punched and slapped me? Do you see what an insult this is to my dignity? After all, I’m Ru’ba the son of Laz, denizen of this old, venerable residence! That’s the world for you, Uncle. But why should I call you my uncle? I’m over forty years old now, and you’re barely over fifty, so it would be more fitting for me to call you my brother. But I call you my uncle out of admiration and respect, since you’re like a father to me. May God forgive me — you’re greater and more venerable even than that! Pardon me for the things I’m saying. After all, words are trivial things. As for being kicked by a gang of thugs, it’s a serious matter, wouldn’t you agree? My father died angry with me, and they say that no one who’s been deprived of his parents’ approval will ever achieve happiness. Is that really true, Uncle? Even if one of those two parents was my father? Lord, I’m fed up with this world. It’s nothing but fever, delirium, and madness without end. Oh, what I’d give for calm and peace of mind. Isn’t this what they call regret? Give me your hand, Uncle, and let’s swear by this new morning to make a new start, without wrongdoing or debauchery. Send me my wife and children and let my family live with me. Please!”

His eyes grew redder and redder until my grandfather thought he was weeping, and he felt he had no choice but to comply with his request. By the time the Victoria took off with him in the direction of Manyal, the streets had begun filling little by little with people coming out in pursuit of their daily bread. As the carriage moved along, he closed his eyes with satisfaction and thought at length about the matter. He wanted to see his daughter become the mistress of a household of her own. That very month, my mother was sent back to her former husband and the family was reunited. However, this new life only lasted for two weeks. In fact, it may not have lasted for more than a single day. As for the remainder, my mother endured it patiently until, fearful that the wild drunkard might do harm to her two young children, she picked them up and fled back to my poor grandfather. In a violent rage, he betook himself forthwith to the phony repentant and raked him derisively over the coals. Ru’ba Laz listened to him in silence. Then he told him that his wife was to blame for not wanting to live with him, and that his only fault was that he got drunk. My grandfather took leave of him in a miserable state, divorce certificate in hand.

It was then that their married life ended once and for all, and I was the fruit of that bogus repentance. My grandfather once said to me jokingly, “You came into this world on account of my stupidity and no one else’s!” Many indeed are those who have come into this world on account of stupidities.

I grew up in my grandfather’s house, which was the only home I ever knew. In fact, the only family I knew was my grandfather and my mother. By the time I was old enough to be aware of what was happening around me, my father had reclaimed my brother and my sister and my grandmother had died. I only learned that I had a father based on the things my mother said about him in bitterness and sorrow, and my hatred for him grew with the passing of the days. Then, as if he hadn’t been cruel enough to my mother already by taking back his son and daughter, he prevented them from seeing her. Year after year passed without her catching even so much as a glimpse of them. At the same time, we heard it said that the man virtually imprisoned himself at home, fleeing from the world and those in it by keeping himself in a state of perpetual inebriation.