Khan Al-Khalili (12 page)

“I wonder how Ramadan is being celebrated this year in our old quarter?” Ahmad could not help asking.

“How much of our city have you even seen, my boy?” his father asked with a smile. “Did you ever see the
beginning of Ramadan in this new quarter of ours before the war started? Everything filled with light and happiness; nights spent awake, nights replete with conversation, recitations, and innocent games. In the good old days when we were all young and healthy, a group of friends and I would walk for an hour before the dawn fast-breaking all the way from al-Sakakini to this quarter. Once here we would eat a breakfast of trotters and sheep’s head meat in the al-Husayn Café and smoke a shisha. We used to listen to Shaykh Ali Mahmud recite the call to prayer and then return home in the early morning.”

“When was that?” Ahmad asked.

“When you were ten,” his father replied without even having to think.

Ah, what a wonderful time those childhood days were, days of merriment, happiness and being spoiled! That was an era that both father and son could cry over.

That evening Ahmad indulged in his new habit, making his way to the Zahra Café. By so doing he was cutting his reading time in half, but he found that the company gave him quite as much pleasure as did reading and seclusion. There he met the group of friends whom he was getting to know much better, as they were him. The conversation revolved around Ramadan nights and how they were going to spend them.

“Don’t wear yourselves out thinking about it,” was the raucous advice offered by Abbas Shifa (the husband of the so-called “husband lover”). “We have our own past Ramadan nights to use as a model. After we’ve broken the fast, we come to the café and stay here until midnight. Then we make our way to ‘you-know-where’ and spend the rest of the night there until the dawn fast-breaking.”

Ahmad pricked up his ears when he heard the phrase “you-know-where” and wondered to himself if the group indulged themselves in sinful practices during the month of repentance. But he decided that his own plan was clear enough: he would stay with them in the café for as long as they did and then return home. Once there, he could read until dawn and keep doing that until the month came to an end.

O
n the first day of the fast Ahmad Akif felt really tired; he found it difficult not to drink his cup of coffee and have a cigarette whenever he felt like it. As he made his way to work, his head was throbbing and he kept yawning. He was feeling so completely exhausted that his eyes started tearing from all the yawning and his eyelids were drooping. At that point he remembered that Ahmad Rashid and his like would not be suffering the way he was, and the contempt and superiority that he felt gave him a small dose of pleasure.

When he returned home at noontime, he was totally wiped out. He threw himself on his bed and immediately fell fast asleep. An hour before the end of the fasting period he woke up again; heading for the bathroom he splashed some water on his face. On his way back to his room he noticed his father sitting cross-legged on his prayer rug reading the Qur’an and walked by in silence. He poked his head into the kitchen and saw his mother working there
with her sleeves rolled up. The very thought of the kitchen led him to pause by the door for a moment. Looking round, he could sniff a big tray full of salad ingredients—parsley, watercress, carrots, onions, and tomatoes, and bright green and red peppers; all of which made him unconsciously lick his lips in anticipation. When he turned his attention to the tureen full of beans, he could not stand it any longer.

Abandoning his spot by the doorway he walked past the table in the big room and noticed that it was already laid: bread in one corner, cups of water placed in front of each chair, and a plateful of radishes in the center. He hurried back to his own room and shut the door. The last hour before people broke their fast was known to be by far the toughest to live through, so he had made it a hard and fast rule to divert himself during that period by doing some concentrated reading. When he had finished the task, he took a look at the clock and saw that he still had another half-hour to wait. That brought a frown to his brow, but he decided that the best thing to do as a way of killing time was to open the window and look outside.

There was Boss Nunu closing his store. His children, who were standing there waiting for him, almost blocked the entire street. Once he had finished, he went on his way, surrounded by young bodies, with the young ones grabbing on to his legs and the whole assemblage causing enough din to make a radio station envious. Apart from a few yogurt sellers, the street was now virtually empty. Ahmad watched as the last rays of the sun gradually faded from the walls on the buildings opposite his window behind the large square of stores. Open windows served to
advertise tables heavily loaded with food inside. Pitchers had been put outside on balconies to cool, and plates of fruit compote garlanded with egg had been laid out. The evening breezes carried with them the smell of food being fried and the crackle of roasts. Ahmad allowed himself to wander off into a reverie inspired by the magic realm of food.

He left the window, went over to the other one that looked out on the old part of Khan al-Khalili, opened it, and leaned on the sill. That part of the quarter seemed quiet and still; the domes of the al-Mu’izz period loomed in the sky, almost as though doing obeisance to the setting sun. Immediately opposite this window was the left-hand side of the apartment building with its closed windows. Just at that moment he heard a slight movement from above. Looking up he could see his neighbor’s balcony, opposite his window but higher up. A young girl was sitting there embroidering a shawl, the end of which twirled into her lap. She was sitting there on a chair, legs crossed. He recognized her at once—almost before he looked up—and his heart jumped. He hadn’t realized that Kamal Khalil’s apartment was on the side of the building facing his room or that his daughter was this close. He was overjoyed. The girl looked up, gave him a quick glance, and then went rapidly back to her needles. He looked at those honey-colored eyes for a third time. At that fleeting moment when their eyes met, his emotions overcame him and he blushed deep red in sheer embarrassment. He did not know how to behave or what was the best way to get out of this predicament. He lowered his balding head, dearly wanting to move away from the window while he caught his breath.
He wondered whether she was looking at him again. Could she see his bald patch? He could actually feel the part of his head where her gaze would be falling getting hot, just as leaves will burn up under the concentrated rays of the sun.

He had no idea how much time went by, but he came to himself when he heard the scraping sound of her chair. Looking up again, he saw her get up and go back inside. As she did so, he thought he caught the tiniest glimpse of a smile. As he made his way over to the other window, he wondered what exactly that smile might imply. Why had she smiled? Was it to scoff at his baldness? Was she laughing because he had looked so confused and bashful? Or perhaps she was pleased to have the amorous attentions of a man who was her father’s age. Good heavens, that was right—her father’s age! Needless to say, if he’d married at the appropriate point in his life, he might have had a daughter who by now would be of her age. Then it would have been impossible for a fleeting glance to embarrass him and send him into such a dither. But fate had decreed that he would lose his mind over this particular girl. The most innocent of glances had managed to make him feel both hungry and bashful.

He allowed himself a sheepish smile of despair, one that revealed his yellowing teeth. Just then, the cannon went off, and all the children started shouting. He was amazed that the last half-hour had passed without him even thinking about how hungry and thirsty he was. The muezzin chanted, “God is great, God is great,” in a beautiful voice, to which Ahmad audibly responded, “There is no god but God!” Moving away from the window, he headed for the
main room. All three of them gathered around the table. To quench their thirst they all downed some apricot juice, then the mother brought in a plateful of beans. They all devoured it with relish and left the plate completely clean.

“It would have been a good idea, I think,” said the father as he sipped some water, “if we’d kept the beans back for a while until we’d eaten some of the other dishes. We’ll fill ourselves up on beans alone!”

“You say that every year,” the mother replied, “but you never remember until the beans have been eaten!”

In fact there was still plenty of room inside their stomachs. Lima beans were brought in, followed by stuffed peppers and roasted meat. Hands, eyes, and teeth all cooperated in silent resolution. It was not just the food that Ahmad was enjoying so much. His small balding head was teeming with happy thoughts, triggered, no doubt, by his enjoyment of the food. That lovely girl was his neighbor; her apartment overlooked his own. They would inevitably encounter each other; their gazes might well meet again, sentiments would certainly fly, and emotions were sure to be roused. Who knows what might happen after that? He planned to toss his heart into a bottomless ocean topped by hope and with disillusion as its seabed; hope in one direction, despair in the other. The darkness on the horizon worried him, but at the same time a safe haven on the far shore gave him some reassurance. How could he possibly know where security lay and when the final goal would be reached? It was surely enough that happiness had managed to waken a moribund heart; the very process brought its own particular delights, even though they might well cost a man his own blood and peace of mind. How
could he possibly deny the fact that his heart was frozen stiff from the cold? It had long since tired of sleep and peace of mind. But now, here it was, alert and awake again; the scene on the balcony suggested that it would continue that way. Who knows what the outcome might be? For the time being he was so happy that he didn’t care what the morrow might bring. Let the horizon have its sunrise or its sunset! Fate might either smile or frown on him. For him it was enough that his heart was alert. For days now he had been quivering with nervous energy, happily unsettled, joyfully perplexed, hopefully confused, fearfully hoping, and joyously scared. Yes indeed, this was life, and life was better than death, even though the living might endure hardships and the dead find peace.

A
fter dinner he went to the Zahra Café to join his friends. They started chatting and sipping tea. Conversation revolved around fasting and the way that many people, particularly in Cairo, were not keeping the obligatory fast and for the feeblest of excuses.

Sayyid Arif decided to poke fun at both Boss Zifta and Abbas Shifa.

“Both of them can stop eating and drinking,” he said with a chuckle, “but when it comes to hashish … that’s entirely different, and religion isn’t in the picture!”

“Wouldn’t you rather be a real man, like us?” Abbas Shifa replied with a scoff, “even if it meant embracing some illicit activities?”

“There’s a readily available medicine for my illness,” Sayyid Arif commented, “but there’s no known cure for what you have, my dear ‘Thou Lord of all husbands’!”

Without blushing or batting an eyelid, Abbas Shifa simply shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t blame me, and I won’t blame you.”

“No, no!” retorted Sayyid Arif, “we’ll ask Boss Nunu to adjudicate. So, who would you rather be: Abbas Shifa or Sayyid Arif?”

“May I never have to make such a choice!” Boss Nunu replied with one of his enormous guffaws.

“Praise be to God who can revive decaying bones. Tomorrow those pills will prove all those scheming enviers wrong,” said Sayyid Arif fervently.

Abbas Shifa gave a salacious laugh. “When that happens we can all congratulate ourselves,” he said.

Sulayman Ata told them to stop this obscene kind of talk during the holy month of Ramadan. It was not that he was either sincere in his beliefs or annoyed with them for soiling the holy month with this kind of chatter, but rather that the refrain of “those pills” had long since become tedious; no one had any illusions about coming up with any new witticisms on the topic.

Kamal Khalil started reminiscing about Ramadan nights less than a quarter century ago before the current wave of irresponsible conduct had arrived to overwhelm all the established religious traditions. He talked about the way that the mansions of the patriarchs of the quarter would remain open throughout the night to welcome all kinds of visitors. Famous Qur’an reciters would be asked to perform until the break of dawn. He told them all that his own home—his father’s house in other words—had always been one of those mansions crammed with visitors. Ahmad Akif wondered whether the man was actually telling the truth or merely emulating his corpulent wife?

They chatted for a full hour, and then, having exhausted the conversation, started playing games. Once again,
Ahmad Akif found himself alone with the young lawyer. This time, he realized, there would be argument and confrontation; however, as he eyed his adversary, he gave no sign of the pent-up anger inside him. But before either of them had a chance to utter a single word, a group of boys and girls came walking past the café waving lanterns, chanting Ramadan songs, and asking for coins. The young lawyer watched them as they disappeared into the distance and their loud voices diminished.

“We’re a nation of beggars,” he commented, turning to his companion.

Ahmad looked at him and smiled. He had started having deep doubts about the wisdom of engaging the other Ahmad in conversation, despite an apparent disregard. He embarked on a furious confrontation.

“Yes, a nation of beggars,” Ahmad Rashid repeated in exactly the same tone of voice, “and a handful of millionaires. Cheap labor and begging, those are the only jobs available to Egyptians. And cheap labor is no better than begging.”

Ahmad Akif shook his head and gave his companion a blank look. He remained silent, silence in such circumstances being by far the safest strategy since he could avoid getting involved in topics he knew nothing about and at the same time prepare a secure groundwork for grabbing opportunities when they arose.