The Time and the Place: And Other Stories

His Majesty

A son of the earth, a scion of weeds, he had been brought up and had grown and developed in the garden that had once surrounded the old square of al-Ataba. From the unknown he had sprouted, to be tended by filthy hands that fed him with a crust, clothed him in a galabeya and robbed him of his humanity. Then one day, when he had grown big and strong, a passerby pointed him out and said to his companion in a loud, laughing voice, “He looks just like the king!”

The king! He knew there was a king, and from a distance he had seen the king’s mounted escort. What did the man mean? The pointing and the surprised glance occurred again. Did he really resemble the king? Can such a thing really happen? He hurried off and found a mirror at the entrance of a furniture shop in al-Azhar Street, and took a look at himself, to see the king. So this was the king! Neither the raggedness of the galabeya nor the filthy state of his face could mask his appearance.

Having washed his face and combed his hair, he began to go back and forth across the square. He obtained one success after another, being pointed out and prompting comments. He continued on, smiling proudly at his priceless appearance. With the passage of time he became known in the district as “His Majesty,” “His August Majesty.” People scoffingly explained the extraordinary likeness by the well-known promiscuity of the late king, father of the present one. Who was to know whether perhaps…? Was it not conceivable that…? Was it so out of the question that…? Thus it was that scornful remarks attributed to him the honored blue blood of the Mohammed Ali dynasty. He himself knew nothing about either a father or a mother, so anything was possible. Found lying on the ground, naked or in a bundle, he had grown up in the arms of nature, like his earliest forebears in olden times.

He toyed with the surmises about his wonderful yet unknown origin, expecting from his likeness the greatest blessings. The fact was that his imposing appearance lessened for him the agony of being a vagrant and to a great extent spared him blows from the truncheons of the police. He was also the most generous of vagabonds, the most upright of pickpockets. “If one day you are exalted by good luck,” his companions said to him, “don’t forget us!”

He promised to do well by them and to protect them, and he became even more attached to his fantastic dreams. His fame eventually reached the police station. The detectives set off and came back to report, “The right height, appearance and complexion — it’s a miracle.”

The superintendent himself decided to have a look. Standing before the young man, he scrutinized him in stupefaction, and after dismissing him, the superintendent found himself thinking about him as a real problem. Was it possible to disregard him as some insignificant joke? Should he not be put under surveillance so that he could be arrested red-handed? Not certain either way, the superintendent thought it best to communicate the facts to one of his superiors at the Ministry of the Interior with whom he had a close relationship. Investigations were carried out. The highest security centers were thrown into confusion and came to regard the matter with the greatest seriousness. “The affair may reveal doubles as yet unknown to us, at which point we shall be asked, ‘Where were you, gentlemen?’ ”

“What’s to be done?”

The decision was made to apprehend the young man and place him in the Tor prison camp, as a danger to public security who had to be put away. In this manner the problem was disposed of, the minds of the police were put at rest, and Farouk the Second was almost forgotten.

The July Revolution came about, and hammer blows were struck at the ancien régime. A journalist wrote about someone resembling the deposed king lying forgotten in a prison camp, and the words brought about the young man’s release. He returned to his life of vagrancy, this time without illusions, though he gave thanks to God for his freedom.

Certain magazines published his picture, and he achieved a fame he had never dreamed of. A film company decided to produce a film depicting the corruption that existed in the time before the Revolution, and the king was to appear in it in a marginal role behind the events. The young man was invited to audition for the part. His performance proved satisfactory owing to the simplicity of it, and he achieved a not inconsiderable reputation. Even so, the road to success was not opened to him, for he was not shown to possess any particular talent.

The authorities came to the conclusion that there were too many stories about the young man and that his picture was being published too often. And so a new problem arose, one that no one had taken into consideration. “Our people are good-hearted,” it was said with farsightedness, “and it is not unlikely that there are some who are sympathetic toward the king in spite of his corruption, and the existence of this young man could be a spur to such sympathy….”

“Then the publication of his picture should be forbidden.”

“The most appropriate thing is for him to disappear completely.”

The young man thought he had been born anew in order to meet a new age. The small role he had played in the film set his ambitions ablaze, and he expected boons and blessings with each day the sun came up. Whenever he felt the bitterness of impatience, he comforted himself with the thought that God had not created him with this appearance without some profound purpose….

But without apparent reason, he disappeared: no one any longer saw him at his usual times and places. It seems that he disappeared for good.