“Then the future holds a bloody war.”
“That seems reasonable, although France won’t wait for Germany to regain strength or prepare to pounce on it. There is a strong circle of states that are allied with France — like Poland, Czechoslovakia, and the Balkans. Don’t forget that mighty Italy considers itself to be Austria’s protector. If these nations make common cause— and perhaps Russia will join — the steel ring will slowly and gradually tighten till Germany is eventually strangled and annihilated.”
“How about England? Would it look the other way while Germany is being strangled?”
“Why not?”
“England’s too cunning to allow France — or any other country — to dominate Europe.”
Mahgub listened to this conversation with interest. Despite his vast familiarity with domestic politics, he was sublimely ignorant of world affairs. He advised himself to pay attention to foreign news so he would be able to offer an opinion when appropriate. He pretended to be contemplating the moon, oblivious to his surroundings, to keep anyone from noticing his silence. He actually did lose the train of the conversation for some minutes. When his attention reverted to the session, he found talk had somehow switched to domestic issues. He heard one of them say, “Any ruler can subdue Egypt without any risk.”
“As a matter of fact, any government established in Egypt becomes a dictatorship.”
“This is a country where people say, ‘I’m honored by your blow, sir.’ ”
Ahmad Asim stated categorically, “Egypt will never win its independence.”
“It’s used to being ruled by foreigners.”
Iffat laughed and asked, “Why does Egypt need to be independent? Its leaders fight each other for power, and the people are unfit to govern themselves.”
Mahgub thought this was a fitting opportunity to offer a moralizing comment in order to help shape a positive reputation for himself in line with a plan he had focused on since thinking about joining the Muslim Brotherhood. With a smile, he said, “Aren’t you ashamed to say something like this about your own nation?”
Iffat laughed again and replied in a loud voice, “I don’t have a drop of Egyptian blood in my veins.”
His remark provoked a storm of laughter, but Mahgub’s hatred for the man was doubled, not from chauvinistic anger but from disgust at his conceit. He remembered a ringing speech that Iffat’s father had delivered in the Senate. Thinking he had a stranglehold on the young man, he said in a victorious tone, “So how do you explain the speech your father, the pasha, gave in the Senate during a budget discussion in which he defended the peasant in a magnificently nationalist fashion?”
Iffat guffawed and replied a bit sarcastically, “That was in the Senate. At home we both agree — my father and I — that the best policy for the peasant is the whip.”
Everyone present — both men and women — laughed loudly. Mahgub smiled to mask his defeat. His fear had dissipated and he felt comfortable at being singled out as the defender of Egyptian nationalism. He told himself: Our true dress uniform is a cloak of hypocrisy. I won’t abandon that! He wondered sarcastically: How do you suppose Ali Taha would reform these noble people? How would he implement his ideals?
With the passage of time the yacht progressed through the waves as if swimming through the resplendent light. Mahgub was roused from his thoughts a third time when a young man explained, “Doubtless the wife obliged her husband, the pasha, to move into a hotel while she retained the chauffeur.”
A young woman asked with interest, “Did the pasha really make her choose between him and the chauffeur?”
“Yes.”
“Which one did she pick?”
“The chauffeur.”
He continued to listen selectively, to this person and that, feeling alert and attentive at times and absentminded and distracted at others, until al-Qanatir’s gardens appeared in the moonlight like the sweetest dreams. Then all the friends rose eagerly as Iffat Bey invited them to the buffet.
42
The young man laughed and remarked, “You might as well cover yourself with a veil of piety and head down to al-Sayyida Zaynab’s shrine to preach and counsel.”
Then he whispered in her ear, “Look at Hikmat. She can drink an entire bottle without ever divulging a secret.”
Ihsan saw that everyone was waiting for her to launch the party. So, she raised her glass a bit apprehensively and hands shot up with glasses to toast the office manager. Then they drained their glasses. Knives quickly sliced into the meat and forks pierced it to convey it to greedy mouths. The buffet area turned into a battlefield remarkable both for violence and delight as the casualties inflicted on food and drink multiplied. Ihsan noticed that Iffat Bey deliberately touched her each time he leaned forward to fill her glass and that his shoe had scuffed hers more than once — but she did nothing to encourage him. For his part Mahgub ate and drank voraciously, not because he felt like it but to escape from his emotions, since he had not stopped thinking about the house opposite the train station ever since the yacht anchored at the Barrages Garden quay. He was afflicted by a feeling of despair and fear he could not shake off. What might his parents be doing at that moment? Was his father still bedridden? What do you suppose his mother was doing? Had their money run out? Had they sold off some of the old furniture? Couldn’t they have put to good use some of these tables’ scraps? How could he free himself from this feeling of discomfort and despair? Who could help him train his emotions to obey the stern commands of his free intellect? He drank to excess and chattered on indiscriminately, making a good faith effort to evade his personal concerns and to impose himself on those around him, participating fully in the conversation. Someone asked the group of married couples whether marriage had lived up to their dreams. After exchanging anxious looks, the married couples burst into laughter. Another guest asked what the most enjoyable aspect of marriage was. A young husband replied, “It’s love.” Another said, “It’s being rid of love!” A third volunteered, “Birth control!” Mahgub observed privately, “No, it’s the golden horn!” Husni Shawkat volunteered for no apparent reason, “I lost fifteen pounds last week.”
His fiancée exclaimed, “The rest next week!”
Ahmad Asim observed, “They say: unlucky at the gaming table, lucky at love.”
A smiling young woman commented, “That’s because someone who is an ill-starred gambler doesn’t know how to cheat!”
Shawkat piped up again, “The strangest wager I ever witnessed was a young man who bet his sweetheart.”
Everyone seemed interested, and many asked, “Really? How could that be?”
The inebriated young man answered, “He’s a dear friend who once took his sweetheart to a private gaming club. He lost all his money, and eveyone had drunk so much they couldn’t think straight. Then a drunk suggested that he should bet his sweetheart against all his losses. That way he would get all his cash back or lose his girlfriend. He accepted the proposal, made the bet, and lost his sweetheart.”
“What did the woman think?”
“She was dead drunk. The winner acquired possession of her, or — put more accurately — she acquired possession of him.”
“Who could that friend of yours be?”
“I can’t tell you, because one of the parties is here.”
Looks of disbelief were exchanged, mouths smiled skeptically, and curiosity showed clearly on every face — especially the women’s. Ihsan asked Iffat Bey, “Who do you think the gambler is?”
Delighted by this question, the young man glossed it to fit his purposes, replying, “Only Mr. Shawkat knows that, and perhaps even he doesn’t know.”
“Do you approve of this type of wager?”
