Then he said earnestly, “Madame, I would rather have died before this noble household closed its doors.”
Unable to contain her emotions, my mother cried and, infected by her sorrow, I cried too. I was going through a time of pain and ignominy the likes of which I’d never felt before. Before the month was out we’d moved into a small flat on the second floor of an old three-story house on Qasim Street just off Manyal Street. The house was located halfway between Manyal Street and the Nile. As for the flat, it consisted of three small rooms that we fitted out with some of our old furniture, the rest of which we sold for a pittance. I wondered apprehensively: Will my mother be able to handle the burdens of household service after a lifetime of leisure and comfort? She was approaching her mid-sixties, and all the domestic help she had left was a young servant. How would she endure this new life? As for me, my existence was growing all the more troubled, and I was bitter and angry at everything. Even so, my mother took to her new domestic chores with such gusto that she succeeded in making me believe that she was happy with our new life, as though all her days she’d been suppressing a fervent desire to labor and be of service.
With a satisfaction that I could sense in her tone of voice and the smile in her eyes, she said, “There’s no greater happiness for me than to serve your household.”
I drank in the new life drop by drop — this life that had added a new longing to my old ones, namely, the longing to return to the life of ease and, in particular, to drinking. I made up my mind to stint myself enough to be able to afford to get drunk even just once a month. And it’s no wonder, since to me, liquor wasn’t mere amusement and frivolity. Rather, it was an imaginary existence into whose arms I would flee from the pain of odious reality.
One day when my mother sensed that I was receptive to what she had to say, she commented, “Perhaps you realize now why I’ve refused any marriage that wouldn’t be fitting for you.”
I understood immediately what she meant. It was as if she were saying, “What would you have done with your life if you’d been the head of a family!”
I didn’t doubt for a moment the accuracy of her observation. For truly, if I’d been the head of a family, I would have been several times more miserable in life than I was at present. Even so, I didn’t like what she’d said. To my broken spirit, her words sounded like a gleeful “I told you so.” Consequently, I was gripped with bitterness and anger, and it was only with great difficulty that I kept my emotions in check.
26
Another autumn rolled around. Autumn was the season I loved, since it heralded the opening of the schools, which meant that my beloved would return to our usual meeting place at the tram stop. My beloved was the only flower that bloomed in the autumn, when trees were stripped bare of their leaves and flowers withered and faded. I noticed that the times when she left the house weren’t regular the way they had been before. Was it possible she’d begun her life as a teacher? The thought gave me pleasure, and my body trembled with joy. At the same time, though, I couldn’t forget that the course of my life had changed and that I was languishing under the burden of poverty and despair. Consequently, my beloved was a lost cause. But hopelessness only caused me to fall more passionately in love, kindling grievous longings in my heart. How quickly an impossible love turns into an uprising against life! Isn’t it a kind of mockery that we should be created for a certain life, only to be prevented from living it? And what made me even more lovesick was that there were many times when I imagined her eyes to be casting me a look filled with life. What life? I didn’t know, but it was sufficient to drive my imagination wild. One such look would inebriate me with a magical intoxication that would stay with me until I was shocked awake again by some bitter reality in my life.
Meanwhile, the people in her household had begun scrutinizing me with such intensity that I could almost hear them wondering aloud: What do you want? Why do you devour her with your eyes? What kind of a man are you? Isn’t a year and a half enough for you? You’re right, by God. You’re absolutely right. But what can I do? Put yourselves in my place, and tell me what you’d do. Do you have a solution to helplessness and indigence?
My girl’s two other admirers gave me no rest. On the contrary, they kept hovering about her until I’d come to fear them as much as I feared helplessness and poverty, and until I loathed them as much as I loathed the wretchedness that was tightening the noose around my neck. The most enjoyable thing about this sort of life was running away from it. As a result, I found a way to get to the pub no matter what it took. Alfi Bey Street wasn’t a suitable haunt for me anymore. Hence, I sought assistance from my carriage driver — my number two advisor on worldly affairs after my mother. I asked him to take me to a modest sort of pub, and where should the man take me but the vegetable market! He himself, or so he told me, used to go there from time to time, and as evidence of the appropriateness of his choice, he said to me, “The big pubs are just showy places that steal people’s money. But booze is booze, and the best booze is the type that gets you drunk for the cheapest price!”
I listened to his lecture in a state of pained embarrassment that was echoed by a profound sorrow in my soul, as though he was lamenting my end and consoling me over the loss of times gone by. Taking my leave of him hurriedly, I proceeded in the direction of a small pub at the head of one of the side streets leading to the market. As I did so, I got the distressing feeling that I was descending into the abyss that had swallowed up my father before me. However, neither this nor anything else was going to stop me from doing what I was destined to do.
The run-down, dingy-looking pub was a small, square-shaped place with just a few tables in it. Its waiter was an old, bleary-eyed Greek, and its clientele were lower-class folk and some down-and-out government employees. But, as the carriage driver had said, booze is booze, and I can’t deny that I brightened at the sight of the bottles that lined the long shelf. In fact, I was so happy to see them, I forgot the sting of the lowliness to which penury had bound me. I also saw a new type of container for liquor. A carafe of cognac sold for ten piasters, a price so negligible that I’d be able to come to the pub twice a month or more. I drank and yielded to wandering dreams in longing and delight. Then coincidence supplied me with new fuel for my dreams when I was approached by a man peddling lottery tickets. “A thousand pounds!” he cried as he waved a piece of paper at me. I reached out and took it from him, paid him for it, then folded it up and slipped it into my pocket. Indeed, new fuel for dreams on a par with liquor’s intoxication. Lord! What would the world be without dreams! I was now the exclusive owner of a thousand pounds! The earth was solid under my feet, unshaken by fear and poverty. The world was smiling, and it was sure to laugh out loud if my father bit the dust! From now on it wouldn’t do to hesitate. I’d meet my sweetheart’s venerable father and tell him straight from the shoulder, “I’d like the honor of being your in-law.” Then I’d give him my card. After all, I thought, who doesn’t know the Laz family? It’s true, of course, that my job is a humble one, but I own a sizable fortune, and I’ll be inheriting another one as well. The man would have no choice but to welcome me. I saw myself being escorted down a candle-lined aisle, my bride promenading alongside me like the moon.
I couldn’t bear to stay any longer once I’d downed the carafe’s contents, so I left the pub and went wandering aimlessly through the streets, looking about me dreamy-eyed and pleased with myself and the world. I wouldn’t go home until I’d sobered up again. However, before the intoxication had worn off completely, I found myself in front of my beloved’s house, so I didn’t head for Manyal. It was nearly two in the morning. The deserted street was enveloped in thick darkness, and there was a silence so deep you could almost have heard the thoughts going through someone’s head. I stood on the sidewalk looking at the sleeping household. My gaze settled on her bedroom window, my spirit slipped through it, and I imagined myself feeling her rhythmic, fragrant breaths. My faith in the spirit knew no bounds. After all, hadn’t it drawn her glance my way in the past? If so, then it could insinuate itself into her dreams and cause her to see me, and even to hear me if I called out to her.