Yes, it was no longer out of the ordinary for Yasin to address his father. He might say, for example, 'I visited Ridwan at his grandfather's house yesterday. He sends you his greetings and kisses your hand.'
Al-Sayyid Ahmad would not consider such a statement to be impudent or out of line and would answer simply, 'May our Lord preserve him and watch over him.'
It was not out of the question at such a moment for Kamal to ask his father politely, 'When will custody of Ridwan revert to his father, Papa?' In that way he demonstrated the dramatic transformation of his relationship to his father.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad had replied, 'When he turns seven,' instead of screaming, 'Shut up, you son of a bitch.'
One day Kamal had attempted to establish the last time his father had insulted him. He had finally recalled that it had been about two years before, or a year after he had fallen in love, for he had begun to date events from that moment. At the time, he had felt that his friendship with young men like Husayn Shaddad, Hasan Salim, and Isma'il Latif demanded a large increase in his pocket money, so that he could keep up with them in their innocent amusements. He had complained to his mother, asking her to request the desired increase from his father. Although it was not easy for the mother to raise such an issue with the father, it was less difficult than it had once been, because of the change that had occurred in his treatment of her after Fahmy's death. Commending the new ties of friendship to important families with which h er son had been honored, she had mentioned the request to her husband. Al-Sayyid Ahmad had then summoned Kamal and poured out his anger on the boy, yelling, 'Do you think I'm at the beck and call of you and your friends? Cursed be your father and their fathers too.'
Thinking the matter at an end, Kamal had left disappointed. To his surprise, the following day at the breakfast table the man had asked about his friends. On hearing the name Husayn Abd al-Hamid Shaddad, he had inquired with interest, 'Is your friend from al-Abbasiya?'
Kamal had answered in the affirmative, his heart pounding.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad had said, 'I used to know his grandfather Shaddad Bey. I know that his father Abd al-Hamid Bey was exiled, because of his ties to the Khedive Abbas…. Isn't that so?'
Kamal had replied in the affirmative once more, while contending with the strong emotion aroused by this reference to the father of his beloved. He had remembered immediately what he knew of the years her family had spent in Paris. His beloved had grown up in the brilliance of the City of Light. He had been seized by a feeling of renewed respect and admiration for his father along with redoubled affection. He had considered his father's acquaintance with the grandfather of his beloved to be a magical charm linking him, however distantly, to the home from which his inspiration flowed and to the source of everything splendid. Shortly thereafter his mother had brought him the good news that his father had agreed to double his allowance. Since that day Karnal had not been cursed by his father again, either because he had done nothing to merit it or because his father had decided to spare him further insults.
Kamal stood beside his mother on the balcony, which was enclosed with latticework. They were watching al-Sayyid Ahmad walk along the street and respond with dignity and grace to the greetings of Uncle Hasanayn the barber, al-Hajj Darwish, who so'd beans, al-Fuli the milkman, Bayumi the drinks vendor, and Abu Sari' who sold seeds and other snacks.
When Kamal returned to his room, he found Yasin standing in front of the mirror, grooming himself patiently and carefully. The boy sat on a sofa between the two beds and studied his older brother's body, which was tall and full, and his plump, ruddy face with its enigmatic smile. He harbored sincere fraternal affection for Yasin, although when he scrutinized his brother visually or mentally he was never able to overcome the sense of being in the presence of a handsome domestic animal. Although Yasin had been the first person to make his ears resound with the harmonies of poetry and the effusions of stories, Kamal, who now thought that love was the essence of life and the spirit, would wonder whether it was possible to imagine Yasin in love. The response would be a laugh, whether voiced or internal. Yes, what relationship could there be between love and this full belly? What could this beefy body know of love? What love was there in this sensual, mocking look? He could not help feeling disdain, softened by love and affection. There were times, though, when he admired or even envied Yasin, especially when his love was troubled by a spasm of pain.
Yasin, who had once personified culture for him, now seemed almost totally lacking in it. In the old days Kamal had considered him a scholar with magical powers over the arts of poetry and storytelling. What little knowledge Yasin had was based on superficial reading confined to the coffee hour, or a portion of it, as he went back and forth, without subjecting himself to effort and strain, between al-Hamasa, which was a medieval anthology of poetry, and some story or other, before he rushed off to Ahmad Abduh's coffeehouse. His life lacked the radiance of love and any yearnings for genuine knowledge. Yet Kamal's fraternal affection for his brother was in no way diminished by such realizations.
Fahmy had not been like that. He was Kamal's ideal, both romantically and intellectually, but eventually Kamal's aspirations had reached beyond Fahmy's. He was afflicted by a compelling doubt that a girl like Maryam could inspire genuine love of the sort illuminating his own soul. He was also skeptical that the legal training his late brother had chosen was really equivalent to the humanitieshe was so eager to study.
Kamal uninhibitedly considered those around him with an attentive and critical eye but stopped short when it came to his father. The man appeared to him to be above any criticism, a formidable figure mounted on a throne.
'You're like a bridegroom today. We're going to celebrate your academic achievements. Isn't that so? If you weren't so skinny, I could find nothing to criticize.'
Smiling, Kamal replied, 'I'm content to be thin.'
Yasin cast a last glance at himself in the mirror. Then he placed the fez on his head and carefully tilted it to the right, so it almost touched his eyebrow. He belched and commented, 'You're a big donkey with a baccalaureate. Relax and take time to enjoy your food. This is your vacation. How can you feel tempted to read twice as much during your school holiday as you do during the academic year? My God, I'm not guilty of slenderness or of association with it'. As He left the room with his ivory fly whisk in his hand, he added, 'Don't forget to pick out a good story for me. Something easy like 'Pardaillan' or 'Fausta' by Michel Zevaco. Okay? In the old days you'd beg me for a chapter from a novel. Now I'm asking you to provide me with stories.'
Kamal rejoiced at being left to his own devices. He rose, muttering to himself, 'How can I put on weight when my heart never slumbers?'
He did not like to pray except when he was alone. Prayer for him was a sacred struggle in which heart, intellect, and spirit all participated. It was the battle of a person who would spare no effort to achieve a clear conscience, even if he had to chastise himself time and again for a minor slip or a thought. His supplications after the prescribed prayer ritual were devoted entirely to his beloved.
74
Abd al-Muni'm: 'The courtyard's bigger than the roof. We've got to take the cover off the well to see what's in it.'
Na'iina: 'You'll make Mama, Auntie, and Grandma angry.'
Uthman: 'No one will see us.'
Ahmad: 'The well's disgusting. Anyone who looks in it will die.'
Abd al-Mun'im: 'We'll get the cover off, but look at it from a distance'. Then he continued in a loud voice, 'Come on. Let's go.'
Blocking the door to the stairway, Umm Hanafi protested, 'I don't have any strength left to keep going up and down. You said, 'Let's go up on the roof,' so we did. You said, 'Let's go down to the courtyard,' and we did. 'Let's go up to the roof So we came up another time. What do you want with the courtyard? … The air's hot down there. Up here we have a breeze, and soon the sun will set.'
Na'ima: 'They're going to take the cover off the well to look ink.'
Umm Hanafi: 'I'll call Mrs. Khadija and Mrs. Aisha.'
Abd al-Muni'm: 'Na'ima's a liar. We won't raise the lid. We won't go anywhere near it. We'll play in the courtyard a little and then come back. You stay here till we return.'
Umm Hanafi: 'Stay here!.. I have to follow your every step, may God guide you. There's no place in the whole
