The Time and the Place (3 page)

“Does he know anything about music?”

“He is the epitome of things musical. He has an extremely beautiful speaking voice, and you have only to hear him to want to burst into song and to be inspired to creativity….”

“How was it that he cured those diseases before which men are powerless?”

“That is his secret. Maybe you will learn it when you meet him.”

But when would that meeting occur? We relapsed into silence, and the hubbub of children once more filled the room.

Again the sheikh began to sing. He went on repeating the words “and I have a memory of her” in different and beautiful variations until the very walls danced in ecstasy. I expressed my wholehearted admiration, and he gave me a smile of thanks. I then got up and asked permission to leave, and he accompanied me to the front door. As I shook him by the hand, he said, “I hear that nowadays he frequents the house of Hagg Wanas al-Damanhouri. Do you know him?”

I shook my head, though a modicum of renewed hope crept into my heart.

“He is a man of private means,” the sheikh told me, “who from time to time visits Cairo, putting up at some hotel or other. Every evening, though, he spends at the Negma Bar in Alfi Street.”

I waited for nightfall and went to the Negma Bar. I asked a waiter about Hagg Wanas, and he pointed to a corner that was semisecluded because of its position behind a large pillar with mirrors on all four sides. There I saw a man seated alone at a table with two bottles in front of him, one empty, the other
two-thirds empty. There were no snacks or food to be seen, and I was sure that I was in the presence of a hardened drinker. He was wearing a loosely flowing silk galabeya and a carefully wound turban; his legs were stretched out toward the base of the pillar, and as he gazed into the mirror in rapt contentment, the sides of his face, rounded and handsome despite the fact that he was approaching old age, were flushed with wine. I approached quietly till I stood but a few feet away from him. He did not turn toward me or give any indication that he was aware of my presence.

“Good evening, Mr. Wanas,” I greeted him cordially.

He turned toward me abruptly, as though my voice had roused him from slumber, and glared at me in disapproval. I was about to explain what had brought me when he interrupted in an almost imperative tone of voice that was nonetheless not devoid of an extraordinary gentleness, “First, please sit down, and second, please get drunk!”

I opened my mouth to make my excuses, but, stopping up his ears with his fingers, he said, “Not a word till you do what I say.”

I realized I was in the presence of a capricious drunkard and told myself that I should at least humor him a bit. “Would you permit me to ask one question?” I said with a smile, sitting down.

Without removing his hands from his ears he indicated the bottle. “When engaged in a drinking bout like this, I do not allow any conversation between myself and another unless, like me, he is drunk, otherwise all propriety is lost and mutual comprehension is rendered impossible.”

I made a sign indicating that I did not drink.

“That's your lookout,” he said offhandedly. “And that's my condition!”

He filled me a glass, which I meekly took and drank. No sooner had the wine settled in my stomach than it seemed to ignite. I waited patiently till I had grown used to its ferocity, and said, “It's very strong, and I think the time has come for me to ask you about—”

Once again, however, he put his fingers in his ears. “I shan't listen to you until you're drunk!”

He filled up my glass for the second time. I glanced at it in trepidation; then, overcoming my inherent objection, I drank it down at a gulp. No sooner had the wine come to rest inside me than I lost all willpower. With the third glass, I lost my memory, and with the fourth the future vanished. The world turned round about me, and I forgot why I had gone there. The man leaned toward me attentively, but I saw him—saw everything—as a mere meaningless series of colored planes. I don't know how long it was before my head sank down onto the arm of the chair and I plunged into deep sleep. During it, I had a beautiful dream the like of which I had never experienced. I dreamed that I was in an immense garden surrounded on all sides by luxuriant trees, and the sky was nothing but stars seen between the entwined branches, all enfolded in an atmosphere like that of sunset or a sky overcast with cloud. I was lying on a small hummock of jasmine petals, more of which fell upon me like rain, while the lucent spray of a fountain unceasingly sprinkled the crown of my head and my temples. I was in a state of deep contentedness, of ecstatic serenity. An orchestra of warbling and cooing played in my ear. There was an extraordinary sense of harmony between me and my inner self, and between the two of us and the world, everything being in its rightful place, without discord or distortion. In the whole world there was no single reason for speech or movement, for the universe moved in a rapture of ecstasy. This lasted but a short while. When I opened
my eyes, consciousness struck at me like a policeman's fist, and I saw Wanas al-Damanhouri peering at me with concern. Only a few drowsy customers were left in the bar.

“You have slept deeply,” said my companion. “You were obviously hungry for sleep.”

I rested my heavy head in the palms of my hands. When I took them away in astonishment and looked down at them, I found that they glistened with drops of water.

“My head's wet,” I protested.

“Yes, my friend tried to rouse you,” he answered quietly.

“Somebody saw me in this state?”

“Don't worry, he is a good man. Have you not heard of Sheikh Zaabalawi?”

“Zaabalawi!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet.

“Yes,” he answered in surprise. “What's wrong?”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know where he is now. He was here and then he left.”

I was about to run off in pursuit but found I was more exhausted than I had imagined. Collapsed over the table, I cried out in despair, “My sole reason for coming to you was to meet him! Help me to catch up with him or send someone after him.”

The man called a vendor of prawns and asked him to seek out the sheikh and bring him back. Then he turned to me. “I didn't realize you were afflicted. I'm very sorry….”

“You wouldn't let me speak,” I said irritably.

“What a pity! He was sitting on this chair beside you the whole time. He was playing with a string of jasmine petals he had around his neck, a gift from one of his admirers, then, taking pity on you, he began to sprinkle some water on your head to bring you around.”

“Does he meet you here every night?” I asked, my eyes not
leaving the doorway through which the vendor of prawns had left.

“He was with me tonight, last night, and the night before that, but before that I hadn't seen him for a month.”

“Perhaps he will come tomorrow,” I answered with a sigh.

“Perhaps.”

“I am willing to give him any money he wants.”

Wanas answered sympathetically, “The strange thing is that he is not open to such temptations, yet he will cure you if you meet him.”

“Without charge?”

“Merely on sensing that you love him.”

The vendor of prawns returned, having failed in his mission.

I recovered some of my energy and left the bar, albeit unsteadily. At every street corner I called out “Zaabalawi!” in the vague hope that I would be rewarded with an answering shout. The street boys turned contemptuous eyes on me till I sought refuge in the first available taxi.

The following evening I stayed up with Wanas al-Damanhouri till dawn, but the sheikh did not put in an appearance. Wanas informed me that he would be going away to the country and would not be returning to Cairo until he had sold the cotton crop.

I must wait, I told myself; I must train myself to be patient. Let me content myself with having made certain of the existence of Zaabalawi, and even of his affection for me, which encourages me to think that he will be prepared to cure me if a meeting takes place between us.

Sometimes, however, the long delay wearied me. I would become beset by despair and would try to persuade myself to dismiss him from my mind completely. How many weary people in this life know him not or regard him as a mere myth! Why, then, should I torture myself about him in this way?

No sooner, however, did my pains force themselves upon me than I would again begin to think about him, asking myself when I would be fortunate enough to meet him. The fact that I ceased to have any news of Wanas and was told he had gone to live abroad did not deflect me from my purpose; the truth of the matter was that I had become fully convinced that I had to find Zaabalawi.

Yes, I have to find Zaabalawi.

“The time has come for you to be useful,” said my mother to me. And she slipped her hand into her pocket, saying, “Take this piaster and go off and buy some beans. Don't play on the way and keep away from the carts.”

I took the dish, put on my clogs, and went out, humming a tune. Finding a crowd in front of the bean seller, I waited until I discovered a way through to the marble counter.

“A piaster's worth of beans, mister,” I called out in my shrill voice.

He asked me impatiently, “Beans alone? With oil? With cooking butter?”

I did not answer, and he said roughly, “Make way for someone else.”

I withdrew, overcome by embarrassment, and returned home defeated.

“Returning with the dish empty?” my mother shouted at me. “What did you do—spill the beans or lose the piaster, you naughty boy?”

“Beans alone? With oil? With cooking butter?—you didn't tell me,” I protested.

“Stupid boy! What do you eat every morning?”

“I don't know.”

“You good-for-nothing, ask him for beans with oil.”

I went off to the man and said, “A piaster's worth of beans with oil, mister.”

With a frown of impatience he asked, “Linseed oil? Vegetable oil? Olive oil?”

I was taken aback and again made no answer.

“Make way for someone else,” he shouted at me.

I returned in a rage to my mother, who called out in astonishment, “You've come back empty-handed—no beans and no oil.”

“Linseed oil? Vegetable oil? Olive oil? Why didn't you tell me?” I said angrily.

“Beans with oil means beans with linseed oil.”

“How should I know?”

“You're a good-for-nothing, and he's a tiresome man—tell him beans with linseed oil.”

I went off quickly and called out to the man while still some yards from his shop, “Beans with linseed oil, mister.”

“Put the piaster on the counter,” he said, plunging the ladle into the pot.

I put my hand into my pocket but did not find the piaster. I searched for it anxiously. I turned my pocket inside out but found no trace of it. The man withdrew the ladle empty, saying with disgust, “You've lost the piaster—you're not a boy to be depended on.”

“I haven't lost it,” I said, looking under my feet and round about me. “It was in my pocket all the time.”

“Make way for someone else and stop bothering me.”

I returned to my mother with an empty dish.

“Good grief, are you an idiot, boy?”

“The piaster…”

“What of it?”

“It's not in my pocket.”

“Did you buy sweets with it?”

“I swear I didn't.”

“How did you lose it?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you swear by the Koran you didn't buy anything with it?”

“I swear.”

“Is there a hole in your pocket?”

“No, there isn't.”

“Maybe you gave it to the man the first time or the second.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you sure of nothing?”

“I'm hungry.”

She clapped her hands together in a gesture of resignation.

“Never mind,” she said. “I'll give you another piaster but I'll take it out of your money-box, and if you come back with an empty dish, I'll break your head.”

I went off at a run, dreaming of a delicious breakfast. At the turning leading to the alleyway where the bean seller was, I saw a crowd of children and heard merry, festive sounds. My feet dragged as my heart was pulled toward them. At least let me have a fleeting glance. I slipped in among them and found the conjurer looking straight at me. A stupefying joy overwhelmed me; I was completely taken out of myself. With the whole of my being I became involved in the tricks of the rabbits and the eggs, and the snakes and the ropes. When the man came up to collect money, I drew back mumbling, “I haven't got any money.”

He rushed at me savagely, and I escaped only with difficulty. I ran off, my back almost broken by his blow, and yet I was utterly happy as I made my way to the seller of beans.

“Beans with linseed oil for a piaster, mister,” I said.

He went on looking at me without moving, so I repeated my request.

“Give me the dish,” he demanded angrily.

The dish! Where was the dish? Had I dropped it while running? Had the conjurer made off with it?

“Boy, you're out of your mind!”

I retraced my steps, searching along the way for the lost dish. The place where the conjurer had been, I found empty, but the voices of children led me to him in a nearby lane. I moved around the circle. When the conjurer spotted me, he shouted out threateningly, “Pay up or you'd better scram.”

“The dish!” I called out despairingly.

“What dish, you little devil?”

“Give me back the dish.”

“Scram or I'll make you into food for snakes.”

He had stolen the dish, yet fearfully I moved away out of sight and wept in grief. Whenever a passerby asked me why I was crying, I would reply, “The conjurer made off with the dish.”

Through my misery I became aware of a voice saying, “Come along and watch!”

I looked behind me and saw a peep show had been set up. I saw dozens of children hurrying toward it and taking it in turns to stand in front of the peepholes, while the man began his tantalizing commentary to the pictures.

“There you've got the gallant knight and the most beautiful of all ladies, Zainat al-Banat.”

My tears dried up, and I gazed in fascination at the box, completely forgetting the conjurer and the dish. Unable to overcome the temptation, I paid over the piaster and stood in front of the peephole next to a girl who was standing in front of the other one, and enchanting picture stories flowed across our vision. When I came back to my own world I realized I had lost both the piaster and the dish, and there was no sign of the conjurer. However, I gave no thought to the loss, so taken up was I with the pictures of chivalry, love, and deeds of daring. I forgot my hunger. I forgot even the fear of what threatened me at home. I took a few paces back so as to lean against the ancient wall
of what had once been a treasury and the chief cadi's seat of office, and gave myself up wholly to my reveries. For a long while I dreamed of chivalry, of Zainat al-Banat and the ghoul. In my dream I spoke aloud, giving meaning to my words with gestures. Thrusting home the imaginary lance, I said, “Take that, O ghoul, right in the heart!”

“And he raised Zainat al-Banat up behind him on the horse,” came back a gentle voice.

I looked to my right and saw the young girl who had been beside me at the performance. She was wearing a dirty dress and colored clogs and was playing with her long plait of hair. In her other hand were the red-and-white sweets called “lady's fleas,” which she was leisurely sucking. We exchanged glances, and I lost my heart to her.

“Let's sit down and rest,” I said to her.

She appeared to go along with my suggestion, so I took her by the arm and we went through the gateway of the ancient wall and sat down on a step of its stairway that went nowhere, a stairway that rose up until it ended in a platform behind which there could be seen the blue sky and minarets. We sat in silence, side by side. I pressed her hand, and we sat on in silence, not knowing what to say. I experienced feelings that were new, strange, and obscure. Putting my face close to hers, I breathed in the natural smell of her hair mingled with an odor of dust, and the fragrance of breath mixed with the aroma of sweets. I kissed her lips. I swallowed my saliva, which had taken on a sweetness from the dissolved “lady's fleas.” I put my arm around her, without her uttering a word, kissing her cheek and lips. Her lips grew still as they received the kiss, then went back to sucking at the sweets. At last she decided to get up. I seized her arm anxiously. “Sit down,” I said.

“I'm going,” she replied simply.

“Where to?” I asked dejectedly.

“To the midwife Umm Ali,” and she pointed to a house on the ground floor of which was a small ironing shop.

“Why?”

“To tell her to come quickly.”

“Why?”

“My mother's crying in pain at home. She told me to go to the midwife Umm Ali and tell her to come along quickly.”

“And you'll come back after that?”

She nodded her head in assent and went off. Her mentioning her mother reminded me of my own, and my heart missed a beat. Getting up from the ancient stairway, I made my way back home. I wept out loud, a tried method by which I would defend myself. I expected she would come to me, but she did not. I wandered from the kitchen to the bedroom but found no trace of her. Where had my mother gone? When would she return? I was fed up with being in the empty house. A good idea occurred to me. I took a dish from the kitchen and a piaster from my savings and went off immediately to the seller of beans. I found him asleep on a bench outside the shop, his face covered by his arm. The pots of beans had vanished and the long-necked bottles of oil had been put back on the shelf and the marble counter had been washed down.

“Mister,” I whispered, approaching.

Hearing nothing but his snoring, I touched his shoulder. He raised his arm in alarm and looked at me through reddened eyes.

“Mister.”

“What do you want?” he asked roughly, becoming aware of my presence and recognizing me.

“A piaster's worth of beans with linseed oil.”

“Eh?”

“I've got the piaster and I've got the dish.”

“You're crazy, boy,” he shouted at me. “Get out or I'll bash your brains in.”

When I did not move, he pushed me so violently I went sprawling onto my back. I got up painfully, struggling to hold back the crying that was twisting my lips. My hands were clenched, one on the dish and the other on the piaster. I threw him an angry look. I thought about returning home with my hopes dashed, but dreams of heroism and valor altered my plan of action. Resolutely I made a quick decision and with all my strength threw the dish at him. It flew through the air and struck him on the head, while I took to my heels, heedless of everything. I was convinced I had killed him, just as the knight had killed the ghoul. I did not stop running till I was near the ancient wall. Panting, I looked behind me but saw no signs of any pursuit. I stopped to get my breath, then asked myself what I should do now that the second dish was lost? Something warned me not to return home directly, and soon I had given myself over to a wave of indifference that bore me off where it willed. It meant a beating, neither more nor less, on my return, so let me put it off for a time. Here was the piaster in my hand, and I could have some sort of enjoyment with it before being punished. I decided to pretend I had forgotten I had done anything wrong—but where was the conjurer, where was the peep show? I looked everywhere for them to no avail.

Worn out by this fruitless searching, I went off to the ancient stairway to keep my appointment. I sat down to wait, imagining to myself the meeting. I yearned for another kiss redolent with the fragrance of sweets. I admitted to myself that the little girl had given me lovelier sensations than I had ever experienced. As I waited and dreamed, a whispering sound came from behind me. I climbed the stairs cautiously, and at the final landing I lay down flat on my face in order to see what was beyond, without
anyone being able to notice me. I saw some ruins surrounded by a high wall, the last of what remained of the treasury and the chief cadi's seat of office. Directly under the stairs sat a man and a woman, and it was from them that the whispering came. The man looked like a tramp; the woman like one of those Gypsies that tend sheep. A suspicious inner voice told me that their meeting was similar to the one I had had. Their lips and the looks they exchanged spoke of this, but they showed astonishing expertise in the unimaginable things they did. My gaze became rooted upon them with curiosity, surprise, pleasure, and a certain amount of disquiet. At last they sat down side by side, neither of them taking any notice of the other. After quite a while the man said, “The money!”

“You're never satisfied,” she said irritably.

Spitting on the ground, he said, “You're crazy.”

“You're a thief.”

He slapped her hard with the back of his hand, and she gathered up a handful of earth and threw it in his face. Then, his face soiled with dirt, he sprang at her, fastening his fingers on her windpipe, and a bitter fight ensued. In vain she gathered all her strength to escape from his grip. Her voice failed her, her eyes bulged out of their sockets, while her feet struck out at the air. In dumb terror, I stared at the scene till I saw a thread of blood trickling down from her nose. A scream escaped from my mouth. Before the man raised his head, I had crawled backward. Descending the stairs at a jump, I raced off like mad to wherever my legs might carry me. I did not stop running till I was breathless. Gasping for breath, I was quite unaware of my surroundings, but when I came to myself I found I was under a raised vault at the middle of a crossroads. I had never set foot there before and had no idea of where I was in relation to our quarter. On both sides sat sightless beggars, and crossing from all directions were people who paid attention to no one. In terror
I realized I had lost my way and that countless difficulties lay in wait for me before I found my way home. Should I resort to asking one of the passersby to direct me? What, though, would happen if chance should lead me to a man like the seller of beans or the tramp of the waste plot? Would a miracle come about whereby I would see my mother approaching so that I could eagerly hurry toward her? Should I try to make my own way, wandering about till I came across some familiar landmark that would indicate the direction I should take?

I told myself that I should be resolute and make a quick decision. The day was passing, and soon mysterious darkness would descend.