Novels by Naguib Mahfouz, Page 2

  Trembling, he rescinded our engagement and Halima was given in marriage, between one day and the next, to the third chamberlain. In a stupor I withdrew within myself, wondering about Halima’s heart, about her innermost feelings. Did she share my pain or was she intoxicated and dazzled by the glitter of wealth? In my loneliness I found myself saying, “I have been betrayed by religion, betrayed by my mother, betrayed by Halima. God’s curse be upon this adulterated land!”

  Everything looked gloomy. From the simplest of individuals like Sheikh Adli al-Tantawi right up to the Sultan himself, and including every kind of person and behavior, all deserved the Flood, so that a new and clean world might replace them. I was not touched by my mother’s sympathy and sadness or by the maxims Sheikh Maghagha sprinkled upon me. The world appeared loathsomely jaundiced, not to be borne or lived in.

  “You should marry as soon as possible,” my mother told me. “Perhaps God is keeping in store for you something better than you yourself chose.”

  I shook my head in rejection.

  “Begin to work without delay,” said Sheikh Maghagha.

  Again I shook my head, to which the man said, “No doubt you have a plan?”

  “To undertake a journey,” I said, giving expression to the emotions that flooded me.

  “What journey?” inquired my mother in alarm. “You’re hardly twenty years of age.”

  “It’s the most suitable age for traveling,” I said. Looking at my teacher for a while, I went on, “I shall visit Mashriq, Haira, and Halba, but I shall not stop, as you did because of the civil war that had broken out in Aman—I shall visit Aman and Ghuroub and Gebel. How long would I require for that?”

  “You would require at least a year, if not more,” said Sheikh Maghagha al-Gibeili, regarding my mother with concern.

  “That’s not too much for someone seeking wisdom,” I said resolutely. “I want to learn and to return to my ailing homeland with a remedy to heal her.”

  My mother was about to speak, but I forestalled her by saying firmly, “It’s a decision I shall not go back on.”

  The dream gained mastery of me and my sense of reality vanished. The land of Gebel presented itself to the eye of my imagination like some much-loved star mounting its throne behind the other stars. The eternal desire for travel ripened in the flame of continued pain. Sheikh Maghagha al-Gibeili, yielding to the inevitable, invited the owner of the caravan to take dinner with us. He was a man in his forties by the name of al-Qani ibn Hamdis, and he was strong of build and judgment.

  “I would like him to go with you and to return with you,” said Sheikh Maghagha.

  “That depends upon his wish. We stay in each land ten days, so he who is content with that proceeds on with us, and he who wants to stay longer remains behind. In any event there is a caravan every ten days.”

  “Ten days anywhere is long enough,” said Sheikh Maghagha to me.

  “I think so,” I said.

  As for my mother, she concentrated on the question of safety.

  “A caravan,” said the man simply, “is never subjected to attack. The inhabitants themselves enjoy a mere hundredth of the protection afforded to strangers.”

  I began making preparations for the journey, whilst seeking guidance from my teacher, Sheikh Maghagha. Thus I filled one case with dinars, a second with clothes, and a third with odds and ends including notebooks, pens, and books. I thought it best that my mother’s marriage to the sheikh should take place before I set out. However, the sheikh moved to the mansion so that it should not be left empty. I attained a new mood and thought less about my sorrows. The journey dominated my senses, and an unlimited scope for hope was opened up before me.

  2

  The Land of Mashriq

  My mother bade me a warm and tearful farewell, saying, “Would that God had spared us all this, but it was your wish.”

  “In any event, I have not left you on your own,” I said to myself, and Sheikh Maghagha al-Gibeili accompanied me to the excise tax square, which we reached just before dawn and where we saw the caravan by the light of torches. The darkness spread all around us, breathing in the breezes of spring, while above us the vigilant stars exchanged glances. Sheikh Maghagha whispered in my ear, “Don’t fail to catch Ibn Hamdis’ caravan.”

  At the same time the voice of the owner of the caravan was raised as he called, “Departure is right after the dawn prayers.”

  “All your companions are merchants,” he said to me as we shook hands, “and you are the only traveler amongst us.”

  That neither pleased nor displeased me. The call to prayer hovered above our heads, so we made our way towards the market mosque and arranged ourselves in ranks for the last community prayers we would have the chance of performing. We hurried out of the mosque to the caravan and took our places with the traveling bags. The column of camels began to move off to the rhythm of the singing of the cameleer and my heart became immersed in the tender pain of saying farewell. Deep within me there stirred memories of my mother and of Halima, wrapped around in a grief that encompassed my whole motherland. In the heart of the darkness I mumbled, “O God, bless the steps I take.”

  The darkness began to clear and streaks of light loomed on the horizon until it became tinged with a smiling redness, and the eyebrow of the sun emerged, unrolling light over a limitless desert. The caravan showed itself like a dancing line on a cosmic surface challenging sublimity. My body plunged into a successively monotonous movement under waves of gushing light, a gliding breeze, a heat that rose upwards giving warning of its ferocity, and a constant landscape of yellow sands and a clear blue sky. I took refuge within myself from the single panorama and sank into insistent memories, bitter emotions, and rosy dreams. At every spring of water we would make a stop for food, ablutions, prayers, and conversation. I got to know a few of the merchants accompanying me, who cast strange glances upon the sole traveler.

  “I shall go right to the land of Gebel,” I explained boastfully.

  “And what is Gebel?” one of them inquired scornfully.

  A second man said proudly, “We’re in the lands of Islam.”

  A third said, “Trading is part of being civilized and God has ordered that we should be civilized.”

  A fourth said, “The Prophet, may the blessings and peace of God be upon him, was a merchant.”

  “And he was also a traveler and a man who emigrated from his place of birth,” I said, as though making excuses for myself.

  “You’ll fritter away your fortune in traveling and will return home poor.”

  “He who believes in work will not know poverty,” I said, suppressing my anger.

  I had a respect for trading, but I believed that life was as much a journey as it was commerce. The days followed one another, long and heavy, hot during the day, cold at night. I saw the stars as I had never seen them before, sublime, enchanting, infinite, and I knew that my sadness for my mother was greater than I had imagined and that my love for Halima was too strong to be influenced by the night and the day and the stars and looking towards the unknown. We had been going for nearly a month when from afar the walls of Mashriq came into view, at which al-Qani ibn Hamdis said, “We shall camp at the Blue Well and shall enter the land at midnight.”

  We prepared ourselves, and when we had prayed the evening prayer, I heard someone whisper, “The last prayer until we return from the lands of idolatry.”

  I was extremely disturbed, but I was preparing myself for a new and long life, so I said to myself, “God is forgiving and merciful.”

  Just before midnight the caravan approached the new land. We were met at the entrance by a man naked but for a loincloth. In the light of the torch flares he appeared tall and thin; my companions said he was the director of customs. The man spoke in a stentorian voice. “Welcome to Mashriq, capital of the land of Mashriq. It greets traders and travelers, and he who keeps himself to himself will meet only with what is good and beautiful.”

  The caravan entered b
etween two ranks of guards. The traders continued on to the market, while a guide took me to the inn of the foreigners. The guide made the camel kneel down in front of a large pavilion like a barracks. When he carried my traveling bags inside, I realized that it was the inn. It was divided into two wings separated by an extended reception hall; each wing contained adjoining rooms whose sides were constructed of hair cloth. The room chosen for me was simple, even primitive; its floor was sandy, and it possessed a bed (which consisted of a wooden board laid on the ground), a chest for clothes, and cushions in the middle. No sooner had I finished checking through my bags than I hurried to bed with the eagerness of someone deprived of normal sleep for a full month. I slept deeply until woken by the day’s heat. As though unwell, I rose from my bed and passed through into the reception hall, which was crammed with guests, all of whom were seated in front of their rooms having breakfast. A short man, slightly stout, wearing only a loincloth, came up to me. “I am Fam, the owner of the inn,” he said, smiling. “Did you have a good night?”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said, with the sweat pouring down my forehead.

  “Shall I bring you breakfast?”

  “I’d really like to have a wash,” I said with longing.

  He led me to the end of the reception hall, and drew back a curtain, where I found what I needed for washing and for combing my hair and small beard. Returning to my room, I found that Fam had brought a small round table and was laying out breakfast for me.

  “Can I make my prayers in my room?” I asked.

  “Someone might see you,” he warned, “and you would run the risk of trouble.”

  He brought me a dish with some dried dates, milk, and barley bread. I ate with pleasure till I had satisfied my hunger.

  “I used to love traveling,” he told me.

  “Are you from Mashriq?” I asked.

  “I’m originally from the desert. Then I took up residence in Mashriq.”

  I was delighted to find he was a former traveler.

  “The land of Gebel is the ultimate goal of my journey,” I said.

  “It is the goal of many. But material considerations prevented me from reaching it.”

  “What do you know about it, Mr. Fam?” I inquired eagerly.

  “Nothing,” he said, smiling, “except that it is sometimes described as the miracle of the age. And yet I have never met a single man who has visited it.”

  An inner voice told me that I would be the first human being to be given the chance of touring the land of Gebel and of making known its secret to the world.

  “Are you staying long in Mashriq?” he asked.

  “Ten days. After that I shall proceed with the caravan of al-Qani ibn Hamdis.”

  “Excellent. Go, look, and enjoy your time. It’s enough for you to wear a loincloth and nothing more.”

  “I can’t go out without a cloak,” I said disapprovingly.

  “You’ll see for yourself,” he said, laughing. “I forgot to ask you your name.”

  “Qindil Muhammad al-Innabi.”

  He raised his hand to his head in salutation and went off. At noon I left the inn wrapped round in a light, loosely woven cloak and wearing my turban to protect myself from the sun. I was astonished at the heat of spring and wondered what the heat of summer would be like. On leaving the inn I was appalled by two things: the nakedness and the empty space.

  The people, women and men alike, were as naked as the day they were born. Nakedness there is a commonplace; it attracts no attention and arouses no interest. Everyone goes his own way, finding nothing strange about it, apart from foreigners like myself who are wearing clothes. Their bodies are bronze-colored and thin, not gracefully so but apparently from undernourishment, though they mostly looked contented, even cheerful. I found it difficult to avoid a sense of abnormality in the clothes I was strutting around in; I found even greater difficulty in turning away my gaze from exciting spectacles of nudity which fired my blood. “What land is this that hurls a young man like me into the flames of temptation!”

  The other strange thing was this vast, empty space; it was as though I had moved from one desert to another. Was this in truth the capital city of Mashriq? Where were the palaces? The houses? The streets? The alleyways? Nothing but open ground, with grass growing along the edges, on which cattle grazed. Here and there were groupings of tents set up haphazardly; in front were gathered women and young girls, spinning or milking cows and goats. They too were naked; and though possessed of a certain beauty this was hidden by filth, neglect, and poverty. In fact I criticize too harshly the outward signs of misery in this pagan country, which, being pagan, did perhaps have some excuse. But what excuse could I make for similar signs in my own Islamic country? “Look, record, and admit the bitter truth.”

  While my eyes were roving round in surprise and perplexity, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a sensation of being passionately in love, a feeling drawn out of the depths by the lover hidden within me. The memory of Halima overpowered me and her image enveloped the vastness with the warmth of sunrays. For a time I was at a loss; but then I became aware of a young girl running from the direction of the inn, and moving like an arrow towards a dense crowd, where she sank into the torrential mass and disappeared from sight. Perhaps I had spotted her previously; perhaps I had spotted her while I was occupied with the sights and she had made her impression when I was half asleep or in a daze. It was she who was behind the deep emotional agitation that swept over me. She was in truth Mashriqi, bronze and naked, but in her face she very closely resembled Halima, my lost love. I decided to be content with the thought that she was the Halima of Mashriq, and that I would see her again. I roamed about from place to place, seeing nothing new, enduring a lassitude that became more and more intense, with my heart crushed by grief and distress and my imagination searching for the Halima of Mashriq.

  Away from home, I am remolded in a new form; in the depths of me there come into existence bold, impetuous longings to satisfy desires, to pursue adventures. I relinquish one civilization and give myself over to a new one. I yearn for life far away from observers: observers who, while manifesting themselves outwardly, also throb within oneself.

  In the afternoon I found myself on the edge of a new empty space, not knowing how my tired feet had led me there; a clean, empty space devoid of cattle and herdsmen, bordered on both sides by tall, bulky trees, the like of which I had not seen before. Deep inside was a palace with a surrounding wall. The entrances to it were guarded by ranks of heavily armed horsemen. In the open square there was only a party of strangers like myself gazing in astonished admiration. How had this palace come to be put up among the tents? It was without doubt the palace of the king of Mashriq, and it was of course not permitted for one to visit it. I had thought that the ruler of Mashriq was nothing but a tribal chief living in a tent of suitable size and elegance.

  “Is this the king’s palace?” I asked one of the strangers.

  “It would seem so,” he answered with interest.

  In truth it was no less grand than the palace of the Sultan in my homeland, though it looked strange and out of place in its surroundings.

  The weather began to cool and to unveil its spring face. But feelings of tiredness and hunger erupted like a ghoul, so I made my way back to the inn. I found Fam sitting on a bench of palm leaves at the entrance. He met me with a smile and asked, “Did you have your lunch in the market?”

  “I haven’t yet found where the market is,” I said hastily, “and I’m dying of hunger, kind sir.”

  I sat down at the round table in front of my room and Fam brought me barley bread, a slice of beef fried in oil and vinegar, and a plate filled with dates, persimmons, and grapes.

  “Shall I bring you some date wine?” he asked.

  I was just going to set about the food with appetite. “God forbid,” I said.

  “Wine is the music of journeys,” the man murmured.

  I ate till I was satisfied, then asked if I might sit wit
h him on the bench. He was very welcoming, so we sat with the evening slipping by under a moon not quite full. I received sweet breezes quite different from the boiling heat of the day, and soon a sense of peaceful languor crept over me.

  “There are tents where there’s music and dancing—just what the stranger would wish for,” said Fam.

  “Let’s put that off for the time being,” I said.

  “Did you like what you saw?”

  “The only thing worth seeing is the palace,” I said listlessly. “But I need information which one ordinarily doesn’t get on the street.”

  “You’re right.”

  “The king’s palace is a real wonder.”

  “There’s no king in the land of Mashriq,” he said, smiling.

  Perhaps he read the astonishment in my face, for he continued, “Mashriq consists of a capital and four towns. Each town has an overlord who is its owner; he owns the pastures, the cattle, and the herdsmen. The people are his slaves, they submit to his will in exchange for a sufficiency of subsistence and security. So the palace you saw is that of the overlord of the capital. He is the greatest and richest of the overlords, but he has no control over any of the others. Each overlord has his own armed force of mercenaries whom he usually brings from the desert.”

  What a strange system! It reminded me of the tribes in Arabia in the times before Islam, and yet it was different. It also reminded me of the landowners in my homeland, but again with a difference. They all represent different degrees of injustice. In any event, our own erring, in the land of Revelation, is more shocking than that of the rest of mankind. On my guard, I contented myself with listening and withheld my critical observations, as befits a stranger. “How was this splendid palace put up, when all the overlord’s subjects are simple herdsmen?” I asked.