Cairo Modern (15 page)

“Why?” Mahgub asked in astonishment.

The other man replied calmly, “To sign your marriage contract.”

Mahgub replied uneasily, “Wouldn’t it be better to postpone that till after my appointment?”

“Why?”

Smiling, the young man replied, “So I can deck myself out a little.”

“Mr. Mahgub, the best good deed is the most expeditious one. You’ll be paid a respectable amount that you can use for your wedding until you receive your first salary payment. The wedding won’t set you back anything. Your apartment is waiting for you. All you need to do is to buy some new clothes.”

The young man, who had never imagined that everything was already organized this way, was bowled over. The trap was fully baited, just waiting for the mouse, and now the mouse had fallen for it. Would he find honey or poison?

“Won’t you give me a week’s delay?”

“The marriage contract will be signed today to reassure the hearts of the bride’s parents. The wedding ceremony will come after you’re appointed.”

Mahgub sighed submissively and asked, “Where is the bridegroom’s apartment?”

“Nagi Street, the Schleicher Building, number 4.”

The young man said with astonishment, “That’s an expatriate neighborhood, and rents are doubtless high.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

Mahgub asked uneasily, “Why not?”

“You’re long on questions and short on patience. Sir, the bey has leased the apartment for a year.”

The young man’s mind felt muddled. He commented shrewdly, “If the choice were left to me, I would choose an Egyptian neighborhood.”

Al-Ikhshidi smiled in a way that showed his contempt for his companion’s cunning. He said scornfully, “Expatriate dwellings lack noseyparkers. Thus if the bey decides to visit you, he may do so free of meddlers.”

Mahgub glanced at the speaker and found that he was pretending to look at some papers. He felt the blood rush to his head again. His heart pounded violently. He remembered—he was not sure why—his pal Ahmad Badir and Mrs. Ikram Nayruz’s party. He imagined himself seated at such an event and his friend the journalist stealthily pointing him out from a distance and talking about him. Always people. People always. Would he allow people to destroy his happiness?

Which would he prefer? To be one of the fortunate few and let Ahmad Badir say whatever he wished or to be one of the wretched masses about whom journalists found nothing to report. He frowned angrily. Was he still hesitating? How could he have forgotten his cherished “tuzz”? What a despicable coward he was. His anger intensified. Then he looked at his companion and said sharply, “So be it.”

Al-Ikhshidi replied, “I’ll expect you this afternoon.”

As Mahgub left the office manager’s room, his gaze fell on the facing room, which bore a plaque reading “Private Secretary.” His heart pounded. As he went outside, he began to tell himself: An idiot considers a cuckold’s horns disgraceful, whereas I see them as a precious ornament. The two horns cause no harm, whereas hunger … I may be
anything, but I’m not a fool. A fool angrily refuses a position on account of something he terms honor. A fool kills himself for the sake of something he refers to as his fatherland. A fool is someone who denies himself a pleasure because of one of the fantastic notions that humanity has contrived. All this is true and beautiful, but I still react emotionally and rebelliously. Why? That’s because the intellect is not the only factor guiding our conduct. While the intellect proffers wisdom, the emotions spawn foolishness. So wisdom must eradicate foolishness. Let al-Ikhshidi be my role model. That resourceful fellow obtained his position through treachery and has risen through the ranks because he’s a pimp. So forward, ever forward.

Clenching his right fist, he brandished it in the air and quickened his pace as a glimmer of light shone from his protruding eyes.

H
e left his room that afternoon after donning his suit carefully and trying hard to look elegant and nicely turned out. He headed to the road to al-Munira, to al-Ikhshidi’s residence. Throughout the day he had been brooding, and his reflections had been punctuated by expressions of wonderment. He would tell himself incredulously: I’m getting married today. The paper on which he had jotted down the main points of his article on the charity event of the Society for Blind Women was still on his desk. How could things have progressed so far? The doors to government service had sprung open, and here he was marching off to pay the price. Marriage? He shouldn’t let the word scare him. It was only a word. Frequently what we think of as facts or values are really just words. It was a social custom. In some countries people were polyandrous and in others polygynous. Adultery might be permitted in one country and free love was the law in some societies. There was no absolute law for marriage. So he should deck himself out with his customary courage and daring. He was telling himself such things en route when he remembered his parents and then felt depressed in spite of himself. He was dismayed. His brow dripped with sweat. In his mind’s eye he could see his mother, who believed he would never do anything wrong. He could see his rural father, who was eminently good, pious, and jealous. He was getting married without informing them. He did not know when they would hear about it. Was it possible that they
would ever learn the truth? Neither his philosophy nor his nerves could help him confront such a challenge. The memory of his parents was a frightening specter that must be expelled from his imagination. How badly he needed to be clear-headed now, as well as quick-witted and self-possessed. Wasn’t his bride awaiting him? This fact seemed much more like an imaginary fantasy. Who might his bride be? What would she look like? Who was her family? What were her manners and circumstances? His heart told him she was beautiful; otherwise she would not have attracted someone like Qasim Bey. Likewise, she was doubtless poor. His selection as her bridegroom suggested that, and a rich girl would have no trouble finding a husband. Only the poor are handicapped by honor. What would his conjugal life be like? How would she feel about him? What was the true nature of the tie that would bind them together? How would he receive the bey if he came to visit? What a life! What an experiment! Tomorrow his philosophy and strength would be tested. He would proceed toward his goal, allowing nothing to distract him. His mind could find no solution then for all these problems that the future had tucked away for him. If he confronted them head on, he would know how to overcome them and would emerge victorious as he always had in the past. He felt confident, vain, and conceited. His two feet were striking the pavement resolutely by the time he reached al-Ikhshidi’s dwelling. The man opened the door himself. Escorting him to his bedroom, he asked, “Are you ready?”

Mahgub, who smiled to reassure himself, replied, “As you can see, bey.”

He glanced at al-Ikhshidi and detected nothing to justify his previous veneration for him. Deep inside, he felt a desire to challenge and demean the man.

Al-Ikhshidi said, “The ma’dhun will arrive shortly.”

“An Islamic marriage clerk!” Mahgub smiled incredulously.

Al-Ikhshidi, who was smiling too, said, “My friend, you’re entering a different world. Now allow me to introduce you to the bride and her parents.” With a pounding heart, he followed al-Ikhshidi, an inquisitive look of embarrassment and hesitation in his eyes. He kept appealing to his daring and insolence as his eyes flashed ahead to catch sight of his future. Al-Ikhshidi preceded him into the room, saying, “Here’s a new member for your honorable family.”

He entered next. His eyes fell on an unexpected face, for he saw Ihsan Shihata, Ihsan Shihata Turki herself, not anyone else. Their eyes turned away.

I
t really was Ihsan Shihata, but not the pure girl Ali Taha had loved so deeply that they had pledged to love and marry each other. Her new story had begun with a single look, which was followed by other things. That had happened when she was returning from school one afternoon, at the corner of Rashad Pasha Street and Giza Street, in front of the mansion known as the “Green Villa.” How often she had passed this villa going each way for years! But this day, two handsome and discerning eyes lit on her. They were infatuated with all her comely beauty, and the girl felt the piercing gaze, which left an imprint on her. She saw a distinguished gentleman—if not a pasha surely a bey—of elegant appearance, with a handsome face and a charming, tiny mustache. He looked quite grand and handsome, even though his body was diminutive and he was rather short. Perhaps that fact alone explains why she glanced back after she was several paces beyond him. Then she found he was looking at her. She felt his eyes’ penetration and heat with embarrassment. The villa had belonged to an Italian firm’s manager, who had sold it to this bey a few months before. It was said at the time that he was an important government official. Some people had jocularly praised him, but she had forgotten all about that. By the time she reached her dilapidated house, she had almost forgotten the bey and his gaze. The afternoon of the following day—also as she returned from school—she saw him in the same place as before. The
two comely eyes devoured her as she approached and followed her once she passed. She wondered whether he was there this time by coincidence as on the previous day or whether he had made a point of waiting for her. She walked by without looking back, although she pondered the matter. Halfway down the street, she sensed that an automobile was approaching from behind. She turned her head left and saw a car almost beside her. It was a magnificent vehicle—like a villa on wheels. Gleaming through its windows were the bey’s eyes, which directed toward her a curious look that combined a veiled smile, frank admiration, and scandalous impudence. The automobile slowed to her pace. She felt embarrassed and perplexed. She quickened her steps and moved inside on the sidewalk. When she reached the student hostel, the car sped off, turning onto the road to the university and disappearing from sight. Her doubts were discarded. He was flirting with her. Delight and conceit filled her heart. A lightness of spirit and a coquetry she had inherited from her mother overwhelmed her. She sang to herself: The taxi’s waiting for me at the door. Then she told herself: This isn’t a taxi. It’s a limo! Even so, hers was an innocent feeling caused by youthful vanity. The imposing, handsome gentleman, for his part, did not hold his fire. In fact, he carried his flirtation further day by day. So she felt obliged to show him her disapproval and displeasure. Her eyes told him, “This is inappropriate behavior.” But he paid no attention to her warning. One day she saw sitting beside him in the automobile a second person with a triangular face and circular eyes. Then the pursuit continued and intensified until the girl grew anxious. She loved Ali Taha and thought it logical that she should end this importunate pursuit. On the other hand, the handsome bey had not made a bad impression on her. To the contrary—her soul rejoiced
at his desire and the look of his attractive eyes. She told herself with pain that even though the man was older than Ali he was better looking and more awe-inspiring. She said to herself: If I allowed my heart to speak, I wouldn’t know how to discourage it from choosing the mighty owner of the limousine. She began to wonder with rage: Has he repented? When will he get out of my sight? When will he stop dogging my steps? But was she sincere? Or, how sincere was she? She had no candid response to this question. She continued to feel perplexed about what she herself wanted. She began to tell herself almost apologetically that she was pleased he was chasing her. Her feminine conceit and her reaction to his high position in society could have explained that. But one day her father asked her in an insinuating tone, on her return from school, “Haven’t you returned to your senses yet?”

Her heart was troubled, and she blushed. Did the man know what was happening on Rashad Pasha Street? Good Lord! Was he still spying on her? She gave him an inquisitive, innocent look. So he said, as her mother joined him, “A man whose status is comparable to a government minister’s, although he himself is wealthier and more venerable. Haven’t you seen his automobile? Haven’t you seen his mansion? What do you want?”