The Time and the Place (2 page)

Finally I became convinced that I had to find Sheikh Zaabalawi.

The first time I had heard his name had been in a song:

Oh what's become of the world, Zaabalawi?

They've turned it upside down and taken away its taste
.

It had been a popular song in my childhood, and one day it had occurred to me to demand of my father, in the way children have of asking endless questions:

“Who is Zaabalawi?”

He had looked at me hesitantly as though doubting my ability to understand the answer. However, he had replied, “May his blessing descend upon you, he's a true saint of God, a remover of worries and troubles. Were it not for him I would have died miserably—”

In the years that followed, I heard my father many a time sing the praises of this good saint and speak of the miracles he performed. The days passed and brought with them many illnesses, for each one of which I was able, without too much trouble and at a cost I could afford, to find a cure, until I became afflicted with that illness for which no one possesses a remedy. When I had tried everything in vain and was overcome by despair, I remembered by chance what I had heard in my childhood: Why, I asked myself, should I not seek out Sheikh Zaabalawi? I recollected my father saying that he had made his acquaintance in Khan Gaafar at the house of Sheikh Qamar, one of those sheikhs who practiced law in the religious courts, and so I took myself off to his house. Wishing to make sure that he
was still living there, I made inquiries of a vendor of beans whom I found in the lower part of the house.

“Sheikh Qamar!” he said, looking at me in amazement. “He left the quarter ages ago. They say he's now living in Garden City and has his office in al-Azhar Square.”

I looked up the office address in the telephone book and immediately set off to the Chamber of Commerce Building, where it was located. On asking to see Sheikh Qamar, I was ushered into a room just as a beautiful woman with a most intoxicating perfume was leaving it. The man received me with a smile and motioned me toward a fine leather-upholstered chair. Despite the thick soles of my shoes, my feet were conscious of the lushness of the costly carpet. The man wore a lounge suit and was smoking a cigar; his manner of sitting was that of someone well satisfied both with himself and with his worldly possessions. The look of warm welcome he gave me left no doubt in my mind that he thought me a prospective client, and I felt acutely embarrassed at encroaching upon his valuable time.

“Welcome!” he said, prompting me to speak.

“I am the son of your old friend Sheikh Ali al-Tatawi,” I answered so as to put an end to my equivocal position.

A certain languor was apparent in the glance he cast at me; the languor was not total in that he had not as yet lost all hope in me.

“God rest his soul,” he said. “He was a fine man.”

The very pain that had driven me to go there now prevailed upon me to stay.

“He told me,” I continued, “of a devout saint named Zaabalawi whom he met at Your Honor's. I am in need of him, sir, if he be still in the land of the living.”

The languor became firmly entrenched in his eyes, and it would have come as no surprise if he had shown the door to both me and my father's memory.

“That,” he said in the tone of one who has made up his mind to terminate the conversation, “was a very long time ago and I scarcely recall him now.”

Rising to my feet so as to put his mind at rest regarding my intention of going, I asked, “Was he really a saint?”

“We used to regard him as a man of miracles.”

“And where could I find him today?” I asked, making another move toward the door.

“To the best of my knowledge he was living in the Birgawi Residence in al-Azhar,” and he applied himself to some papers on his desk with a resolute movement that indicated he would not open his mouth again. I bowed my head in thanks, apologized several times for disturbing him, and left the office, my head so buzzing with embarrassment that I was oblivious to all sounds around me.

I went to the Birgawi Residence, which was situated in a thickly populated quarter. I found that time had so eaten away at the building that nothing was left of it save an antiquated façade and a courtyard that, despite being supposedly in the charge of a caretaker, was being used as a rubbish dump. A small, insignificant fellow, a mere prologue to a man, was using the covered entrance as a place for the sale of old books on theology and mysticism.

When I asked him about Zaabalawi, he peered at me through narrow, inflamed eyes and said in amazement, “Zaabalawi! Good heavens, what a time ago that was! Certainly he used to live in this house when it was habitable. Many were the times he would sit with me talking of bygone days, and I would be blessed by his holy presence. Where, though, is Zaabalawi today?”

He shrugged his shoulders sorrowfully and soon left me, to attend to an approaching customer. I proceeded to make inquiries of many shopkeepers in the district. While I found that a
large number of them had never even heard of Zaabalawi, some, though recalling nostalgically the pleasant times they had spent with him, were ignorant of his present whereabouts, while others openly made fun of him, labeled him a charlatan, and advised me to put myself in the hands of a doctor—as though I had not already done so. I therefore had no alternative but to return disconsolately home.

With the passing of days like motes in the air, my pains grew so severe that I was sure I would not be able to hold out much longer. Once again I fell to wondering about Zaabalawi and clutching at the hope his venerable name stirred within me. Then it occurred to me to seek the help of the local sheikh of the district; in fact, I was surprised I had not thought of this to begin with. His office was in the nature of a small shop, except that it contained a desk and a telephone, and I found him sitting at his desk, wearing a jacket over his striped galabeya. As he did not interrupt his conversation with a man sitting beside him, I stood waiting till the man had gone. The sheikh then looked up at me coldly. I told myself that I should win him over by the usual methods, and it was not long before I had him cheerfully inviting me to sit down.

“I'm in need of Sheikh Zaabalawi,” I answered his inquiry as to the purpose of my visit.

He gazed at me with the same astonishment as that shown by those I had previously encountered.

“At least,” he said, giving me a smile that revealed his gold teeth, “he is still alive. The devil of it is, though, he has no fixed abode. You might well bump into him as you go out of here, on the other hand you might spend days and months in fruitless searching.”

“Even you can't find him!”

“Even I! He's a baffling man, but I thank the Lord that he's still alive!”

He gazed at me intently, and murmured, “It seems your condition is serious.”

“Very.”

“May God come to your aid! But why don't you go about it systematically?” He spread out a sheet of paper on the desk and drew on it with unexpected speed and skill until he had made a full plan of the district, showing all the various quarters, lanes, alleyways, and squares. He looked at it admiringly and said, “These are dwelling-houses, here is the Quarter of the Perfumers, here the Quarter of the Coppersmiths, the Mouski, the police and fire stations. The drawing is your best guide. Look carefully in the cafés, the places where the dervishes perform their rites, the mosques and prayer-rooms, and the Green Gate, for he may well be concealed among the beggars and be indistinguishable from them. Actually, I myself haven't seen him for years, having been somewhat preoccupied with the cares of the world, and was only brought back by your inquiry to those most exquisite times of my youth.”

I gazed at the map in bewilderment. The telephone rang, and he took up the receiver.

“Take it,” he told me, generously. “We're at your service.”

Folding up the map, I left and wandered off through the quarter, from square to street to alleyway, making inquiries of everyone I felt was familiar with the place. At last the owner of a small establishment for ironing clothes told me, “Go to the calligrapher Hassanein in Umm al-Ghulam—they were friends.”

I went to Umm al-Ghulam, where I found old Hassanein working in a deep, narrow shop full of signboards and jars of color. A strange smell, a mixture of glue and perfume, permeated its every corner. Old Hassanein was squatting on a sheepskin rug in front of a board propped against the wall; in the middle of it he had inscribed the word “Allah” in silver
lettering. He was engrossed in embellishing the letters with prodigious care. I stood behind him, fearful of disturbing him or breaking the inspiration that flowed to his masterly hand. When my concern at not interrupting him had lasted some time, he suddenly inquired with unaffected gentleness, “Yes?”

Realizing that he was aware of my presence, I introduced myself. “I've been told that Sheikh Zaabalawi is your friend; I'm looking for him,” I said.

His hand came to a stop. He scrutinized me in astonishment. “Zaabalawi! God be praised!” he said with a sigh.

“He
is
a friend of yours, isn't he?” I asked eagerly.

“He was, once upon a time. A real man of mystery: he'd visit you so often that people would imagine he was your nearest and dearest, then would disappear as though he'd never existed. Yet saints are not to be blamed.”

The spark of hope went out with the suddenness of a lamp snuffed by a power-cut.

“He was so constantly with me,” said the man, “that I felt him to be a part of everything I drew. But where is he today?”

“Perhaps he is still alive?”

“He's alive, without a doubt…. He had impeccable taste, and it was due to him that I made my most beautiful drawings.”

“God knows,” I said, in a voice almost stifled by the dead ashes of hope, “how dire my need for him is, and no one knows better than you of the ailments in respect to which he is sought.”

“Yes, yes. May God restore you to health. He is in truth, as is said of him, a man, and more….”

Smiling broadly, he added, “And his face possesses an unforgettable beauty. But where is he?”

Reluctantly I rose to my feet, shook hands, and left. I continued wandering eastward and westward through the quarter, inquiring
about Zaabalawi from everyone who, by reason of age or experience, I felt might be likely to help me. Eventually I was informed by a vendor of lupine that he had met him a short while ago at the house of Sheikh Gad, the well-known composer. I went to the musician's house in Tabakshiyya, where I found him in a room tastefully furnished in the old style, its walls redolent with history. He was seated on a divan, his famous lute beside him, concealing within itself the most beautiful melodies of our age, while somewhere from within the house came the sound of pestle and mortar and the clamor of children. I immediately greeted him and introduced myself, and was put at my ease by the unaffected way in which he received me. He did not ask, either in words or gesture, what had brought me, and I did not feel that he even harbored any such curiosity. Amazed at his understanding and kindness, which boded well, I said, “O Sheikh Gad, I am an admirer of yours, having long been enchanted by the renderings of your songs.”

“Thank you,” he said with a smile.

“Please excuse my disturbing you,” I continued timidly, “but I was told that Zaabalawi was your friend, and I am in urgent need of him.”

“Zaabalawi!” he said, frowning in concentration. “You need him? God be with you, for who knows, O Zaabalawi, where you are.”

“Doesn't he visit you?” I asked eagerly.

“He visited me some time ago. He might well come right now; on the other hand I mightn't see him till death!”

I gave an audible sigh and asked, “What made him like that?”

The musician took up his lute. “Such are saints or they would not be saints,” he said, laughing.

“Do those who need him suffer as I do?”

“Such suffering is part of the cure!”

He took up the plectrum and began plucking soft strains from the strings. Lost in thought, I followed his movements. Then, as though addressing myself, I said, “So my visit has been in vain.”

He smiled, laying his cheek against the side of the lute. “God forgive you,” he said, “for saying such a thing of a visit that has caused me to know you and you me!”

I was much embarrassed and said apologetically, “Please forgive me; my feelings of defeat made me forget my manners.”

“Do not give in to defeat. This extraordinary man brings fatigue to all who seek him. It was easy enough with him in the old days, when his place of abode was known. Today, though, the world has changed, and after having enjoyed a position attained only by potentates, he is now pursued by the police on a charge of false pretenses. It is therefore no longer an easy matter to reach him, but have patience and be sure that you will do so.”

He raised his head from the lute and skillfully fingered the opening bars of a melody. Then he sang:

“I make lavish mention, even though I blame myself, of those I love
,

For the stones of the beloved are my wine.”

With a heart that was weary and listless, I followed the beauty of the melody and the singing.

“I composed the music to this poem in a single night,” he told me when he had finished. “I remember that it was the eve of the Lesser Bairam. Zaabalawi was my guest for the whole of that night, and the poem was of his choosing. He would sit for a while just where you are, then would get up and play with my children as though he were one of them. Whenever I was overcome by weariness or my inspiration failed me, he would
punch me playfully in the chest and joke with me, and I would bubble over with melodies, and thus I continued working till I finished the most beautiful piece I have ever composed.”