The Mirage

31

I spent the first half of the day loitering in the streets, so full of despair, rancor, grief, and shame that I could hardly breathe. I went home at the usual time so that my mother wouldn’t wonder what had brought me home early. After lunch I felt drowsy and fell into a deep slumber that lasted until early evening. Then I left the house, my soul so heavy it was as if I were carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wondered where I should go, and I could find only one reply. The pub beckoned to me in the most tempting way, and my heart urged me to obey its summons. However, I hadn’t forgotten the current reality, namely, that if I went on the much-desired drinking spree, my budget that month was sure to be broken, and I wouldn’t have enough spending money to last me until my next salary. At the same time, the summons was impassioned and irresistible. It seemed to me at that wretched moment that an hour’s bliss was better than a life devoid of good. I ran my hand over my gold watch, and suddenly it occurred to me that I could sell it if I needed money. The thought brought me a sense of relief, and I smiled for the first time that day. The following moment had me wondering what I’d say to my mother if she happened to miss my watch — and she was bound to miss it sooner or later. I groaned irritably at the thought. My mother! My mother! Always my mother! I said to myself angrily. I’ll do what I want. I boarded the tram without hesitation, and on the way, my mind was drawn back for no obvious reason to a memory of my grandfather. I thought back to the days of ease and luxury that I’d lost when he passed away, and I found myself wishing that, rather than being so generous toward me, he had raised me instead on parsimony and the bare minimum. If he had, I wondered, might I not be better at coping with my present circumstances? I recited the Fatiha over his beloved spirit, then got off the tram at Ataba and headed for the vegetable market where my humble pub was located.

No sooner had I taken off my coat and sat down at an empty table than the Greek waiter brought the carafe. My pub was a plebeian sort of place, of that there was no doubt. However, it was rather respectable, too. For alongside the carriage drivers and working class folk, you’d find a gathering of middle-aged government employees whose life circumstances and family obligations didn’t permit them to frequent expensive pubs. Among the latter was an elderly man who was fond of singing and merrymaking. The minute he got tipsy he’d wax eloquent, repeating old tunes like “Over Love How I Used to Weep” and “How I Miss You!” His voice wasn’t without a touch of sweetness, and his performances always put a smile on everyone’s face. In fact, a group of those present would always volunteer to sing the refrain in a sweet harmony.

I started drinking, and as usual I was filled with a feeling of contentment and joy — the feeling I found nowhere but among fellow drinkers at the pub. The pub was the only place where I experienced relief from the ponderous burden of timidity, halting speech, anxiety, and fear. While there I enjoyed such happiness and peace of mind, it was as though I’d just returned to my kith and kin after a long, burdensome sojourn among strangers, and I wished I never had to leave them. It wasn’t long before I was flooded with that magical bliss and my being was filled with rapture. The employee entertainer hadn’t begun his singing yet, and he was talking to his friends in a loud voice that was audible to everyone sitting around him. After all, why shouldn’t they all share in the conversation just the way they shared in the singing?

“Just imagine, folks,” he said. “The doctor advises me to give up drinking!”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“He’s found that I’ve got high blood pressure and hardening of the arteries.”

“Drink fenugreek tea first thing in the morning and you’ll be healthy all your life.”

“He told me if I kept on drinking, I was sure to die.”

“How long one lives is in God’s hands!”

“And I said, ‘Even if I stop drinking, I’m sure to die some day too!’ ”

“For an answer like that, you deserve a carafe of cognac, provided it’s on you!”

“Would you believe I saw that same doctor one evening sitting and drinking whiskey at the St. James?”

“They’re all like that! They snatch your money and tell you, ‘Stay away from the booze,’ then they take it to the St. James and buy themselves a couple of bottles.”

The aging employee straightened up in his seat slightly, then began tapping on the table and shaking his head. Then he broke into song: “Treat the one you love right, good-lookin’!” People looked his way and the chorus made ready to repeat the refrain. As for me, I was drinking, talking to whoever engaged me in conversation, and laughing to my heart’s content. My head spun fast as usual, bliss danced in my heart, and I went flying off into the firmament of pleasure and indifference. I went on this way for a long time, or maybe a short one — I can’t really tell, since a drunk man loses his sense of time. Then I bade farewell to my friends and left the pub with the music still ringing in my ears. I went wandering aimlessly for a while, then hailed a carriage and got in without a thought for my suicidal budget. After telling the driver to take me to Manyal, I smoothed down the back seat and spread out my legs in a pompous, sultan-like posture. I didn’t feel the chill in the air, and I found the carriage’s dreamy movement relaxing and delightful.

Then, responding to a playful urge, I said to the driver with feigned circumspection, “A woman is waiting for me on the street, and I’m going to take her with me.”

“I’m at your service, bey,” he replied.

Meanwhile I thought to myself sardonically: Everything’s just fine! A comfortable carriage, an amenable driver, and the cover of darkness. All we need now is the woman!

Then, capitulating again to an urge to mislead, I said, “She’s a high-class lady, so let’s find ourselves a safe street.”

He rejoined with a laugh, “I think Garden City is the safest place nearby!”

“You’re wrong!” I exclaimed, “Her villa is in Garden City!”

“We’ve also got Roda Island coming up,” he replied with interest, “though the weather is chilly and I’m an old man who can’t stand the cold.”

“Not to worry,” I said reassuringly. “I’ll pay you a whole pound!”

The man thanked me enthusiastically, thinking he’d fallen on an unanticipated treasure. I laughed to myself as I ran my fingers over the one riyal that was all I had left till the end of the month. Some time passed, then I saw the beloved apartment building — my sweetheart’s building — approaching. A strange sort of wakefulness stirred in my heart, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the place. I wasn’t free to look at her anymore — though looking at her had been my sole consolation in life — since what had transpired between me and her would-be suitor. I could no longer look up at the balcony or the window. Do you suppose His Eminence the director of operations had spoken to her father yet? Had my beloved really become engaged? Didn’t she remember her other devotee — silent and pathetic though he’d been — as she moved into her new world? Didn’t she feel the slightest bit of sorrow over him? Wanting to get even with the whole world, I was gripped with dismay and dejection, and I sat motionless until the carriage reached our street. I instructed the driver to stop, got out and paid him eight piasters.

He took them from me in astonishment. “And what about the other trip?” he mumbled questioningly.

I chuckled softly in spite of myself, then went my way. I ascended the staircase wearily, then opened the door with a key that I had in my pocket and closed it carelessly behind me. I proceeded to the bedroom and turned on the light, and my eyes fell on my mother as she slept. The depth of the slumber to which she’d succumbed was clear evidence of the effort she’d been expending in her long, arduous days. I stood there for a moment looking searchingly into her face.

“Mama!” I called out to her.

“Who is it? Kamil?” she murmured as she opened her eyes.

Then, calmly and nonchalantly I said, “I’m drunk.”

She stared uneasily into my face, then sat up in bed, distraught, and said, “You scare me to death with that kind of joke.”

“It’s no joke,” I said indifferently. “I drank two carafes of cognac.”

She slipped out of bed and came up to me in alarm, not taking her eyes off mine for a second, until I could feel her breath on my face. Then she went pale and said with a trembling voice, “Why have you done this to yourself? How can you obey Satan after having repented to God?”

I didn’t utter a word, and fell even deeper into my stupor.

“Take off your clothes,” she said. “Let me help you.”

As she proceeded to undress me, I was silent and perplexed. Why had I exposed myself in this odd way? I wasn’t so drunk that I wouldn’t have been able to control myself. On the contrary, I knew I’d come home on previous nights in a far more drunken state, and in spite of this, I hadn’t done anything untoward. In fact, I’d taken the greatest of care not to waken her. So what had come over me on this particular night? The strangest thing of all was that my mind had been clear even after I’d entered the flat, and it hadn’t occurred to me to waken her until I’d caught a glimpse of her. When she answered my summons, I’d said what I said without hesitation and, perhaps, without realizing what I was doing. Yet I’d been moved by an irresistible force! At the time I hadn’t felt any remorse. I’d just stood there inert as a stone, scrutinizing her face with its pained expression as she took of my clothes. Then I moved away from her toward the clothes rack, got my pajamas, and put them on without saying a word. I got into my bed and slipped under the covers. She came up to me and put her hand on my forehead.

Her voice still trembling, she asked me, “Are you all right? Shall I make you some coffee to clear your head?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t want anything at all.”