“Would I translate some pieces?”
“Yes, articles … humorous pieces. Take my card to him. I’ll speak with him about you by phone. You must excuse me now; I’m going to present my files to the bey. Isn’t this the most honorable and expeditious solution for you?”
Al-Ikhshidi stood up, and — taking a file in his left hand — held out his right to the youth. Shaking hands, the miserable young man asked, “Does this kind of work pay well?”
Al-Ikhshidi laughed — Mahgub hated him intensely then — and said, “Perhaps you’ve heard about the wealth of journalists! It will be enough for you if your immediate needs are satisfied.” Al-Ikhshidi preceded him to the door. Mahgub felt extremely apprehensive and was about to shout to request a few piasters, but the door opened before he could, and the office messenger’s tall, burly body appeared. So he quit the room carrying away the card. He left the ministry gloomy and anxious, since his crisis was unresolved. The Star magazine, even if his initiative met with success, was a long-range solution. So what was he to do? How could he get hold of the cash? It was going on three p.m. and the weather was as cold as it had been that morning. He was walking along the street aimlessly, his mind clouded by despondency. The whole world had rejected him. Making a threatening fist, he said resentfully and angrily, in a voice that was almost a sob, “The whole world will pay for all my pains!” He had realized that his only hope was to ask Ali Taha and Ma’mun Radwan. He hated asking them but had no alternative now. The inevitable is inevitable. As he headed for the tram he wondered which would be better. Each of them was a noble young man, but he did not love Ali whereas he did not hate Ma’mun. Moreover, Ma’mun was a religious, God-fearing person who could be trusted to keep a secret, leaving it in the realm of mystery. He would most likely be forbearing if he was late in repaying his debt.
He went to the hostel and headed for Ma’mun Radwan’s room. The young man welcomed him with delight and asked, “Why did you skip class today?”
Mahgub replied, “Bad stuff, brother. I’m really in a bind.”
With his large, black eyes, Ma’mun examined his face and was alarmed by how emaciated and despondent it looked. He asked with concern and compassion, “What’s wrong, Mr. Mahgub?”
Without beating around the bush, he replied, “Rough times. I’ve lost my last millieme. I don’t have even a millieme to buy the text for Latin.”
Ma’mun stood up without uttering a word, went to the clothes rack, thrust his hand into the pocket of his jacket, and took out three ten-piaster bills, which he handed to the young man. Incredulous, Mahgub took them. He opened his mouth to thank his friend, but Ma’mun hastily put a finger to his lips, mumbling, “Hush.”
Mahgub left the hostel, oblivious to everything. He did not even give a fleeting glance to Ihsan’s house. He was both pleased and furious; pleased at obtaining the money and furious that he was indebted to Ma’mun Radwan.
17
he day for the Friday rendezvous arrived, and he went to the bus station shortly before the appointed time, wondering whether they would be true to their word. A magnificent automobile pulled up in front of the station right on time, and the beautiful face peered out of the window. His heart pounded and he hastened toward her. A door was opened for him and he took his place. Only then did he realize that Tahiya had come alone. He was amazed by that, but his amazement did not last long, because an all-encompassing delight overwhelmed him. Even so he asked with mock disapproval, “Where’s Fadil Bey?”
The girl ordered the chauffeur to drive on. Then she turned to Mahgub and said in a critical tone, “We set out together, but on the way he saw ‘some people’ and renounced the trip, leaving me to make his apologies to you.”
Mahgub looked down to hide his delight. He asked politely, “How are your excellent parents?”
“Praise God … they thank you for this lovely excursion.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
In an expectant voice she said, “We’ll see amazing things, isn’t that so?”
Although he was going there for the first time, he assured her, “Absolutely.”
Then they were silent. The girl was looking out the window, and he began to peer at her stealthily. This was the first time he had ever been alone with a female who really deserved to be described as feminine. And where were they? In a magnificent automobile that would “turn people green with envy”—he preferred that expression to saying, “turn heads.” His nostrils were intoxicated by a sweet fragrance — instead of the smell of sweat encased in dirt. He could have been a man gasping for air who is brought into a room pumped full of oxygen. He had not an iota of preparation for the creation of pure, celestial images. Thus his desire was channeled into one representation: that of throwing himself upon her. He felt his lust beginning to pulse through his blood. Looking outside, he wondered what had detained Fadil. Had he seen a pretty girl and chased after her? Or, had Tahiya herself contrived to get rid of him? His sexual conceit beguiled him. So he told himself that he and she were of one blood and that, as they say, “Blood creates sympathy.” Nothing was impossible. He told himself: If intuition can be trusted, you’ll see delightful things to your heart’s content. The chauffeur? He doesn’t count.
He couldn’t imagine that one and the same person could be both rich and chaste. “No doubt these drivers are trained to turn a blind eye. Yes, yes — why else would she have come alone?” An exceptionally beautiful maxim states, “When a man is alone with a woman, Satan is also present.” Where was Satan so he could bow and kiss his feet? He had long followed the devil as his disciple; wouldn’t the devil reward him affectionately for his loyalty? He moved his eyes back inside and felt moved to draw her into conversation. So he asked, “Are you at the university?”
She shook her head no and said with a smile, “Banat al-Ashraf College.”
He said delightedly, “Marvelous … marvelous.”
Tahiya asked him, “What do you plan to do once you’ve earned your degree?”
Her question caught him off guard. His contemporaries spoke of the future with sorrow and despair. Recent graduates hunched behind desks in ministries, where they used their diplomas to fan brows made feverish by the humiliation of government service at the eighth level. With typical audacity, however, he freed himself from his bewilderment and replied with confident certainty, even though he knew he was lying, “I’ll have to choose one of two paths: either entering diplomatic service or continuing on to a Ph.D. and teaching at the university.”
“Marvelous,” she commented, smiling.
Why did she use the same word he had? Was this she-devil mocking him or did she know nothing about such matters? Wishing to sound her out, he asked, “Which would you prefer?”
“Me? This is your concern.”
With shrewd cunning, he explained, “It concerns you too, since we’re related.”
Blushing, she said, “Diplomacy is nicer.”
He pictured Hamdis Bey going to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to recommend his appointment. Then he said, “That’s what I think. How beautiful it would be to spend one’s whole life stationed in Brussels, Paris, and Vienna.”
She giggled and asked, “Or in Damascus, Ankara, and Addis Ababa?”
He laughed along with her but added cleverly, “These are not capitals to which a relative of Hamdis Bey would be posted.”
They both smiled. He told himself contentedly that a discerning person grasps indirect allusions; and that sufficed for him at the moment. As for the future, his heart told him that this girl would never disappear from his life without a trace. Who could say? He did not lack boldness; indeed, perhaps he was too bold for his own good. He surrendered to the stream of his thoughts until he saw that the automobile was climbing the twisting road to the Pyramids Plateau. They left the car at the foot of the Great Pyramid.