“There was not a thing about this in the papers!”
He gave me a scornful look and said nothing. I imagined the earth heaving with hordes of rats as far as the eye could see and crowds of refugees wandering aimlessly in the desert. Good God, could such a thing come about? But what was so impossible about it? Had not God previously sent the Flood and the flocks of birds as mentioned in the Koran? Would people tomorrow cease their daily struggle and throw all they possessed into the raging fires of battle? And would they be victorious, or would this spell the end?
At the third meeting, Mr. A.M. appeared in cheerful mood. “Congratulations, gentlemen,” he said. “We are as active as can be. The losses are slight and will not, one hopes, recur. We shall become experts in matters of fighting rats, and perhaps we shall be called upon in the future in other places. His Excellency the Governor is extremely happy.”
One of our number began to complain. “The fact is that our nerves—.”
But he was cut short by Mr. A.M. “Our nerves? Do you want to spoil our success with a thoughtless word?”
“When will the rats begin their attack?”
“No one can give a definite answer to that, and it is of no consequence so long as we are prepared for the battle.” Then, after a pause, he continued. “Latest instructions are of special importance, relating as they do to windows, doors, and any apertures in walls or elsewhere. Close all doors and windows and examine in particular the lower part of any door. If any space is found through which a mere straw could pass, seal it up completely with wooden planks. When doing the morning cleaning, the windows of one room should be opened, and while one person sweeps, another, armed with a stick, should stand at the ready. Then you should close the windows and move to the next room, where the same procedure should be followed. On finishing the cleaning, the flat should be left like a firmly closed box, whatever the weather.”
We exchanged looks in glum silence.
“It’s impossible to go on like that,” said a voice.
“No, you must maintain the utmost precision in carrying out…”
“Even in a prison cell there’s…”
“We are at war, that is to say in a state of emergency. We are threatened not only with destruction but also with epidemics — God spare us. We must reckon with that.”
We went on submissively carrying out what we had been ordered to do. We became more deeply submerged in a morass of anticipation and wariness, with the boredom and depression that accompany them. The nervous tension increased and was translated into sharp daily quarrels between the man of the house and his wife and children. We continued to follow the news, while the Norwegian rat, with its huge body, long whiskers, and alarming glassy look, became a star of evil that roamed in our imaginations and dreams and occupied the major part of our conversation.
At the last meeting, Mr. A.M. had said, “I’ve got some good news — a team of experts has been assigned to the task of checking the buildings, flats and locations exposed to risk, and all without any demand for additional rates.”
It was indeed good news, and we received it with universal delight, the hope being that we would be able to relieve ourselves of some of the distress we had been suffering. Then one day the concierge informed us that a bureaucrat had inspected the entrance to the building, the stairwell, the roof, and the garage, and had pronounced favorably on the large bands of cats roaming about here and there. He had instructed the concierge to be extra vigilant and to inform him of any rat that might make its appearance, be it Norwegian or Egyptian.
One week after the meeting, the doorbell of our flat rang and the concierge gave us the good news that the bureaucrat was on his way and wished to have permission to make an inspection. The time was not convenient, because my wife had just finished preparing lunch, but I nevertheless hurried out to greet him. I found myself standing before a middle-aged, sturdily built man with a thick mustache, his square face with its short snub nose and glassy stare reminding me of a cat. I greeted him, concealing a smile that almost transformed itself into a laugh, and told myself that they really did have a flair for choosing their men. I walked ahead of him, and he proceeded to examine the traps and poisons, the windows and doors, nodding his head in approval. He did, however, find in the kitchen a small window covered over with a wire mesh of tiny holes, at which he said firmly, “Close the window.”
My wife was on the point of protesting, but he snapped at her. “The Norwegian rat can gnaw through wire.”
Satisfied that his order had been carried out, he sniffed at the smell of food, thus proclaiming his commendation. I therefore invited him to eat. “Only a mean man refuses generosity,” he answered simply.
Immediately we prepared a table for him alone, telling him that we had already eaten. He sat down as though in his own home and began gobbling up the food without any restraint or shyness — and with quite extraordinary voracity. Out of politeness, we left him to it. However, after a while I thought it best to check on him in case he might be in need of something. I gave him another helping, and while doing so I became aware of a dramatic change in his appearance. It seemed that his face reminded me no longer of a cat but of a rat, in fact of the Norwegian rat itself. I returned to my wife with my head spinning. I did not tell her what I had noticed but asked her to be pleasant to him and make him welcome. She was away for a minute or two, then returned, pallid, and stared at me in stupefaction. “Did you see what he looks like when he eats?” she breathed.
I nodded, and she whispered, “It’s quite amazing, unbelievable.”
I indicated my agreement with a movement of my spinning head. It seems that our utter astonishment caused us to forget the passage of time, and we only came to when we heard his voice from the hallway calling joyfully, “May your house ever prosper!”
We rushed out, but he had reached the front door before us and had gone. All we glimpsed of him was his swaying back, then a swift about-face as he bade us farewell with a fleeting Norwegian smile. We stood behind the closed door looking at each other in bewilderment.
His Majesty
A son of the earth, a scion of weeds, he had been brought up and had grown and developed in the garden that had once surrounded the old square of al-Ataba. From the unknown he had sprouted, to be tended by filthy hands that fed him with a crust, clothed him in a galabeya and robbed him of his humanity. Then one day, when he had grown big and strong, a passerby pointed him out and said to his companion in a loud, laughing voice, “He looks just like the king!”
The king! He knew there was a king, and from a distance he had seen the king’s mounted escort. What did the man mean? The pointing and the surprised glance occurred again. Did he really resemble the king? Can such a thing really happen? He hurried off and found a mirror at the entrance of a furniture shop in al-Azhar Street, and took a look at himself, to see the king. So this was the king! Neither the raggedness of the galabeya nor the filthy state of his face could mask his appearance.
Having washed his face and combed his hair, he began to go back and forth across the square. He obtained one success after another, being pointed out and prompting comments. He continued on, smiling proudly at his priceless appearance. With the passage of time he became known in the district as “His Majesty,” “His August Majesty.” People scoffingly explained the extraordinary likeness by the well-known promiscuity of the late king, father of the present one. Who was to know whether perhaps…? Was it not conceivable that…? Was it so out of the question that…? Thus it was that scornful remarks attributed to him the honored blue blood of the Mohammed Ali dynasty. He himself knew nothing about either a father or a mother, so anything was possible. Found lying on the ground, naked or in a bundle, he had grown up in the arms of nature, like his earliest forebears in olden times.