The Mirage (22 page)

Was I doomed to be deprived of her sweet glances? Had she decided to counter my inaction with rejection and disregard? I was overcome with grief, despair, and shame. My position was embarrassing, of that there was no doubt. Then something occurred to me that made my limbs grow cold. I wondered fearfully: Might one of the men who were
vying with me for her affection have something to do with this new turn of events? If so, then what would I have left in life? Tell me, my love, by your tender youth: is this estrangement spawned by an affection that could bear to wait no longer, or rejection by a heart that’s attained its desire elsewhere? Never will I forget the misery of that day, nor of the days that followed. My beloved vanished from my life’s horizon. She avoided appearing on the balcony when I was at the tram stop, and on the rare occasions when we happened to meet in the morning, she made certain not to allow her glance to fall on me. I began devouring the balcony and the window with ravenous, weary eyes. I’d sometimes see the mother scrutinizing me, the brother eyeing me strangely, and the little sister looking at me with interest. As for my beloved, she’d disappeared from view, leaving the tree of life bare, its bark yellowed, and its roots withered and dry. Lord! This wasn’t simply indifference. If it had been truly indifference, it wouldn’t have required such vigilance, and her glance would have fallen on me the same way it would happen to fall on other people and objects in the street. She was avoiding me consciously and deliberately. She was displeased and angry. The story of the young man who seemed to be in love was sure to have filled the house. Nor was there any doubt that his peculiar inaction had become the subject of commentary, criticism, and inquiry. How could I have failed to anticipate the embarrassment and confusion I was causing my beloved? Ashamed and humiliated, I heaved a deep sigh and my forehead was moist with perspiration. I was bitter and angry over my miserable luck, and the flames of my rage extended to my mother, who stood invisibly behind everything! So vexed was I, it was as though a hot,
beastly wind had scattered its dust over my soul, and I could find no one on whom to vent my resentment, anguish, and rage but myself. It was a long-standing bad habit of mine, when I was at my wits’ end, to rake myself over the coals, criticizing and satirizing myself and exposing all my faults and shortcomings. Hence, I denounced my utter helplessness, my all-encompassing fear of the world, people, and all other creatures, and the phony pride that made me act the tyrant for no reason at home and then, the minute it encountered the lowliest government employee, would turn me into a spineless, dutiful yes-man. I gave myself over to this type of morose thinking until I looked to myself like nothing but a mass of ugliness and ignominy. I was someone who didn’t deserve to live. The most trifling task filled me with such terror and foreboding that I found myself wishing there were some way besides a promotion to get a raise so that I’d never find myself responsible for any assignment of importance. I’ll never forget the fact that I did my best to make sure that the folks in the warehousing section assigned me the typewriter as a way of avoiding menial tasks that didn’t go beyond multiplication, addition, and subtraction. I was nothing but a bizarre, outlandish creature that had deviated from life’s true path, as evidenced by the fact that I paid no attention to anything in the world but myself and whatever happened to concern me directly. In fact, I didn’t even read the newspapers. Imagine my colleagues’ amazement when they found out by chance that I still didn’t know the name of the prime minister months after he’d taken office. They started making wisecracks about my ignorance while I sat there in morose silence. It’s as though I weren’t part of society, since I didn’t know a thing about its hopes and sufferings,
its leaders and rulers, its parties and organizations. I don’t know how many times I heard the other employees talking about the economic crisis, the decline in cotton prices, and the change of constitution without making any sense of what they were saying and without it registering any response in me. I had no homeland or society, not because I’d gone beyond patriotism, but rather because I hadn’t yet realized what patriotism meant! I may have felt at times that I loved all people—people as a general, spiritual entity—but there wasn’t a single person who’d come in direct contact with me but that he’d aroused in me a feeling of alienation and dislike. Even my deep faith hadn’t been able to deliver me from this frightening savagery. Rather, all it had done was burden me with anxiety and a troubled conscience over the crazy habit that had such a hold on me.

Hence, when dream day came, I’d take off straightaway for my new pub in the vegetable market, then order the infernal carafe that had become my only consolation in life.

A
s I stood at the tram stop before sundown, I still peered up at the balcony and the window. However, from the time she’d spurned me, my beloved had shown me no mercy. On the contrary, she’d shunned me cruelly, and my life had been consumed with grief. Winter was at its coldest, black clouds cast their heavy shadow on the ground, and a frigid wind was blowing. Standing there wrapped in my black coat, I would cast the beloved house an occasional look of longing and despair.

Then suddenly I heard a gentle voice saying, “Excuse me, sir.…”

I turned around in surprise, and my surprise intensified and mingled with dread when I saw before me one of the two men I suspected of loving my sweetheart. It was the dignified-looking gentleman who lived in her building.

“Pardon?” I muttered disconcertedly.

In a calm, placid voice and with an air of solemnity he said, “Would you mind if we walked together for a bit?”

“What for?” I asked uncertainly, though my heart sensed what he wanted to say to me.

“There’s something I’d like to speak with you about,” he replied with a smile.

“Of course,” I said, seeing that I had no real choice in the matter.

Looking up at the sky, he said, “It’s quite cold. What do you say we take the tram to Ismail Square and sit in the café? I’d just like to speak with you for a couple of minutes? Do you mind?”

So we got on the tram, got off, and sat down. Realizing beforehand what the subject of conversation would be, I felt afraid. However, my sense that the conversation would revolve around my sweetheart left me no choice but to accompany him without hesitation. In fact, I went with him out of an irresistible longing. I kept wondering what he was going to say and what he hoped to accomplish. As we sat together at a small table, I got a close look at him for the first time. He was around forty, with a thin face and delicate, small features. One of his fingers was adorned with a diamond ring, and his thick spectacles made the look in his eyes appear sharper than it really was. Fiddling with the chain to a gold watch that dangled from the buttonhole in his vest, he asked me politely what I preferred to drink, and when I made no reply, he ordered tea.

“Pardon me for this intrusion,” he said, “but you’re certain to appreciate my position once you know what’s led me to extend you this invitation. But first of all, allow me to introduce myself: Muhammad Gawdat, director of operations at the Ministry of Works.”

The word “director” struck terror in my heart.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, bey,” I replied. “I’m Kamil Ru’bah Laz, an employee at the Ministry of War.”

As the waiter brought glasses of tea, I was thinking about the huge disparity between us as employees: he a director of operations, and I a typist in the warehousing section. Behind him I caught sight of a mirror on the wall, and I saw my image reflected on its surface. As I looked at my rectangular face and green eyes, I was consoled by a sense of satisfaction and admiration.

As for my companion, he said to me, “Mr. Kamil, I’ve invited you to a brotherly consultation, and I hope you’ll appreciate the desire of a man like me—whom you can count as your older brother—for honest mutual understanding. I’m not one to accuse others for no reason. However, I hope we can be frank.”

Feigning surprise, I said, “I hope you’ll tell me what’s on your mind, sir, and you’ll find me at your service.”

He chuckled softly. Then, after some hesitation he said, “Will you forgive me if I ask a question I have no right to ask?”

Lord! I was dying to hear it. True, I was certain that his question wouldn’t bring glad tidings. Even so, to me it seemed like the one thing most to be desired.

“Of course,” I replied with an awkward smile.

Resting his elbows on the table and weaving his fingers together, he said, “I’ve noticed that you take special interest in a particular person. Perhaps you know who I’m referring to.” Here my heart pounded violently. “I hope you won’t hold it against me if I ask you about the true nature of this interest of yours. Is there a particular desire or intention on your part, or some bond between you?”

I nearly pretended to be surprised again and claim ignorance of the matter. However, I thought better of it. How many times had our eyes met at the tram station, and how many times had I seen him watching me as I looked up at the balcony? Similarly, he’d seen me watching him as he aimed his gaze at the same target. Hence, he knew everything, and he knew that I knew. So what would be the use of claiming ignorance if he was going to expose my lies?

Consequently, I forced a smile and said, “You’ve misunderstood, sir. You’ve concluded that I’m interested in a particular person, when in fact, I look at her the way I look at everyone else. It’s nothing but a bad habit!”

I laughed, pretending to think the whole thing an amusing joke. He smiled at me and in his eyes I could see a look of disbelief.

Then he added, “You’re a gentleman as I’d expected you would be. So I ask you please just to tell me honestly: Do you have a relationship with this girl? If you answer me in the affirmative, I’ll shake your hand in congratulation and go my way.”

My heart breaking inside, I said, “I have no relationship with her.”

He hesitated for a few moments. Then with no little embarrassment he asked, “Haven’t you thought of asking for her hand?”

A succession of conflicting emotions came over me. At first I felt indescribable torment, after which I felt a kind of covert pleasure because I was sure that the man addressing me was a coward like me, since otherwise, he would have made his way to my sweetheart’s house without thinking twice about me. In fact, I was convinced he must be afraid of me, which satisfied my pride in a way that mitigated
some of my pain. Then, feeling myself compelled to make false claims for myself, I said unequivocally, “If I’d thought of doing what you’ve suggested, there would have been nothing to prevent me from doing it long ago.”

Silence then reigned. He began looking searchingly into my face with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. What would have prevented me? How ironic. Everything seemed like a bizarre dream. Were we really talking about my sweetheart? And had I truly never thought of asking for her hand nor felt a desire to do so? Lord! What a cruel torment this was! I was gripped by a despair the likes of which I hadn’t known in all the years of my despair-ridden life.

Then at last the bey emerged from his silence, saying, “I apologize again for my intrusiveness. The fact is that, now that the considerations that have kept me for so long from thinking of marriage no longer apply, I’ve finally decided to ask for the young woman’s hand. I thought it best to speak with you about the matter for fear of trespassing on someone else’s territory. And now, all I can do is thank you.”

He was the weak type, or so it seemed to me. However, he happened to have met someone weaker than he was, so he was lucky, of that there was no doubt. Seeing that there was no more reason for me to stay, I got up to leave, saying, “Congratulations.”

He rose politely and extended his palm. As he squeezed my hand gratefully, I imagined him squeezing my neck, and toward the joy that danced in his eyes I felt a burning hatred. Then I bade him farewell and left the café. My feet took me aimlessly hither and yon and I let them take the lead, since I had nowhere in particular to go. Taking a deep breath, I said to myself, “Praise be to God.” Then I said it again out loud as though I were congratulating myself. Perhaps
I was really congratulating myself on my despair, while holding out the hope of deliverance from the anxiety, torment, and pained longing that had been my constant companions over the long months since love had taken up residence in my heart. I’m happy, I said to myself, and no one deserves happiness more than I do. My sufferings are over for good. It seemed to me that if I’d thrown myself off al-Malik al-Salih Bridge the way I should have done that day in the past, I would have flown rather than fallen, so happy was I! I tasted the sweetness of despair with a kind of weird, frenzied pleasure, and I passed through moments of madness. Now I knew why it was that my sweetheart had disappeared from view. I began coming out of my ludicrous, ill-founded rapture as jealousy plunged its venomous fangs into my heart. Could this really be happening? I couldn’t believe it. Why? Maybe it was on account of my unshakable faith in the merciful God and His providence. Yet who could have believed that fortune would lead me to the state I was in now? As I heaved a bitter sigh of despair, a shiver went through me from the biting cold. It was the first time I’d noticed the chill in the air since I left the café, and I wrapped my coat more tightly about me for fear of catching cold as I tended to do during the winter. Then a strange desire came over me, namely, to be bedridden. With a kind of satisfaction I imagined myself lying there, surrounded by tender, loving care. Then without warning, my nerves collapsed under the terrible pressure I’d endured, and I had a dreadful urge to cry. Encouraged by the darkness that surrounded me on all sides, I surrendered to it and wept. I gave in to the urge more and more until I began to gasp and sob like a little boy.

A
t ten o’clock the next morning, I was on my way to Hilmiya to see my father. How had I come to this, especially given the fact that not even a month had passed since my last, harrowing visit? It was desperation. I’d had a miserable, sleepless night in which I hadn’t so much as closed my eyes. I’d pondered my situation long and hard until my thoughts took on human flesh and shouted at me, “Go to your father no matter what, no matter what it costs!” Hesitation wasn’t an option in a situation like mine. I’d lost my senses, and pain had distracted me from my usual feelings of hesitation, shyness, and fear. Besides, my father—despite everything—was the only hope I had left.