22
Summer had arrived, which meant — as far as my heart was concerned — that my beloved would stop going to the institute, as a result of which I’d only be able to see her on the balcony or in the window. She knew me well by now, as did everyone in her household — the young man who was constantly on the lookout for her, who gazed at her with eyes full of admiration and love, and who had persevered in doing so with astounding patience for nearly a year, yet without making a single move. And what was even more astounding was that I would catch her looking back at me from time to time, and I would go mad with delight. I could almost hear her wondering what I wanted. In fact, I could hear all of them asking themselves this same question, which made me happy and miserable at the same time. The fact is that I love you, sweetheart, with everything in me, and if you should ask why I don’t make a move in your direction, the answer is that never in my life have I known how to make a move in anybody’s direction.
I have a mother standing behind me, as it were, and limited good fortune. So how am I to overcome these obstacles? Tell me, my love, and I’ll come flying to you without wings!
It was a strange day in my life.
I began the morning with my usual ardor-filled pause and impassioned gazes outside her window, after which I went to the ministry, with bliss and desolation doing battle in my heart as they did every morning. As the employees began the day with their usual chatter, the one sitting next to me said, “I got so plastered yesterday, I didn’t know which way was up!”
My interest suddenly piqued, I thought of my father. What the man had said left an impression on me that was lost on those sitting around me. And it was no wonder, since alcohol had written the history of my family and determined its destiny.
Hardly aware of what I was doing, I turned to the employee who’d spoken and asked him in a whisper, “Why do you drink?”
Realizing immediately the error I’d committed in my haste, I was flustered and embarrassed. Never in the entire time I’d worked there had I spoken to anyone in the department about anything that wasn’t work-related. In fact, I was so quiet that they’d nicknamed me “Gandhi,” because he’d been known for his custom of vowing himself to silence one day a week.
Delighted with my nosiness, the man pointed at me and said in a loud voice, “He finally spoke!”
“Who?” one of them asked as they all peered in my direction.
“Gandhi.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said, ‘Why do you drink?’ ” replied the man with a laugh.
The other said, “He keeps his mouth shut for an eternity, then when he opens it, he blasphemes!”
They all guffawed as I melted into my seat without a word. Most of them then started talking to me about alcohol and the euphoria, pleasure, and oblivion it brings, and I regretted having asked a question that had made me the butt of their jokes and sarcasm. I thought about the matter for a long time. Then, to my amazement, I woke from my reverie to find myself dying to try it myself! In the days that followed, I continued to be amazed at the uncharacteristic yearning that had come over me after twenty-six years of life on this planet, years that I’d spent in a near-ascetic existence (with the exception, of course, of the secret pleasure in which I indulged, and which subjected me to the bitterness of guilt and remorse). Had this desire really sprung up overnight? On the surface, it appeared that it was the conversation which had taken place among the employees that day that had brought it on. On the other hand, I thought, would it make sense for a scrupulous person like me to fall into temptation in response to such a passing, trivial event? Ridden by a mad impulse, I hoped the day would be over quickly so that I could knock at last on pleasure’s closed door and break the chains to which I’d submitted all my life. As though it were a stranger speaking, I said to myself: Tonight I’m going to try women and wine! My resolution brought me a sense of relief, since it was certainly better than anxiety and indecision, and since I held out the hope that in this way I might find release from the terrible pressure that weighed me down. Not once all day was I plagued by hesitation — that odious companion. But when late afternoon rolled around and the tram took me to Ataba, I stood in the square feeling lost, not knowing where the pubs were. Then I saw a carriage, so I hailed its driver and got in.
In a low, diffident voice I said to him, “A pub … any pub, please.”
The man shot me a strange stare. Then, as he stung the horses’ backs with his whip, he said, “I’ll take to you Alfi Bey Street, and there you can choose whichever one you like.”
As the carriage set out, it reminded me of our old Victoria and its bygone glory days. In my wallet I had twenty pounds and some loose change; although my salary was modest in and of itself, I could keep the entire thing for myself, and it was enough for my needs and more. When I sensed that the carriage was nearing the longed-for destination, my heart began pounding wildly, and I was so agitated that I paid no attention to the streets down which the carriage was taking me. It came to a halt at the head of a long street in the center of which cars and carriages were parked in a long line.
Waving his whip, the driver said, “The bars are on both sides of this street.”
After paying the driver, I got out and found myself in front of a small tavern that was no larger than a good-sized room, and whose waiters were standing at the door since it hadn’t received any customers yet. I had my first twinge of hesitation and thought of going back home. I stood there ambivalently, and there came over me the feeling I’d had on the day I’d run out to the railing of al-Malik al-Salih Bridge to throw myself into the Nile. But I went in anyway. Once inside, I saw a door leading out into a small garden that took up the space outside, and in the center of which there was a fountain. It was shaded by a grape arbor, and there were tables along either side. It seemed like a safe place for someone coming there in stealth, so I went out into the garden area and sat at a table a good distance away from the entrance. My nerves were tense, but I’d stopped thinking of running away. A Nubian waiter clad in black trousers and a white jacket came up to me, smiled politely, and stood waiting for my order.