'I still have a hundred.'
'You've done well,' he said sarcastically. 'So the bridegroom's not short of cash'. Then he continued in a serious and mournful tone: 'Yasin, listen to me. I'm your father. Watch out. Reform your conduct. You're a father yourself. Don't you think of your son and his future?'
Yasin protested vehemently, 'The monthly support payment gets to mm down to the last millieme.'
'Is it just a matter of money? I'm talking about his future … and about die future of other children still unborn.'
'Our Lord creates and provides sustenance,' Yasin said with calm assurance.
His lather yelled disapprovingly, 'Our Lord creates and you fritter away your sustenance. Tell me. …' He sat up straight and then, focusing his eyes forcefully on his son, commented, 'Rid-wan's almost seven. What are you going to do with him? Are you going to take him and have him grow up under your wife's supervision?'
Yasin's plump face looked uneasy. He asked in turn, 'What should I do, then? I haven't thought about it.'
The man shook his head sadly and ironically. He said, 'May God preserve you from the evil of thinking. Do you have any time to waste on it? Let me think for you. Allow me to tell you that Ridwan must stay in the custody of his maternal grandfather.'
Yasin reflected for a moment. Then he expressed his agreement by lowering his head. He said obediently, 'Whatever you think best, Father. No doubt that's in his best interest.'
His lather replied sarcastically, 'It seems to be in your best interest too. That'll save you from troubling yourself with such trivial matters.'
Yasir/s only comment was a smile that implied: 'I'm sure you're teasing me, but that's all right.'
'I thought it would be hard to convince you to surrender custody.'
'It's the confidence I place in your opinion that made it so easy to convince me.'
With ironic astonishment al-Sayyid Ahmad asked, 'Do you really place so much confidence in my opinion? Why don't you oact on it in other matters?' Sighing sadly, he continued: 'What's the point? … May our Lord guide you. The guilt's all yours. I'll speak to Muhammad Iffat tonight about retaining custody of Ridwan, with the understanding that you'll bear all the boy's expenses. Perhapshe'll agree.'
Yasin rose then, said goodbye to his father, and headed for the shop door. He had only taken two steps when he heard his father's voice ask, 'Don't you love your son like any other father?'
Stopping to look back, Yasin said reproachfully, 'Is there any doubt of that, Father? He's the dearest thing in my life.'
Al-Sayyid Ahmad raised his eyebrows. Shaking his head cryptically, he said, 'Goodbye.'
104
An hour before his departure for the Friday prayer service, Ahmad Abd al-Jawad summoned Kamal to his room. He never called a member of his family to see him unless the subject was important, and something was indeed troubling him. He was impatient to interrogate his son about a matter that had disturbed him. The previous evening some friends had directed his attention to an article in al-Balagh attributed to 'the young writer Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad'. The men had not read any of the article except its title, 'The Origin of Man,' and the credit, but they took advantage of it to congratulate and tease al-Sayyid Ahmad, offering various comments. Concerned that such praise might attract the evil eye, he had seriously considered commissioning Shaykh Mutawalli Abd al- Samad to prepare a special talisman for the young man.
Muhammad Iffat had said, 'Your son's name is printed in the same magazine with those of important authors. Take heart! Pray that God will prepare a career for him as dazzling as theirs.'
Ali Abd al-Rahim had told him, 'I heard from a reliable source that the late writer al-Manfaluti bought a country estate with the profits of his pen. So hope for the best.'
Others had mentioned how writing had opened the way for many to find favor with the ruling elite, citing the authors Shawqi, Hafiz, and al-Manfaluti.
Ibrahim al-Far had used his turn to kid him: 'Glory to the One who created a scholar from the loins of a fool.'
Al-Sayyid Ahmad had cast one glance at the title and another at the reference to the 'young writer' before placing the magazine on his cloak, which he had removed because of the June heat and a warm feeling derived from whiskey. He had postponed reading the article until he was alone — at home or in his store — and had continued to feel happy, boastful, and proud throughout the evening's festivities. In fact, for the first time he had begun to reconsider his hostility toward Kamal's choice of the Teachers College, telling himself it seemed 'the boy' would amount to 'something,' in spite of that unfortunate choice. He started to fantasize about 'the pen,' gaining favor with the elite, and al-Manfaluti's country estate. Yes, who could say? Perhaps Kamal would not be just a teacher. He might really make a better life for himself than al-Sayyid Ahmad had dreamed possible.
The following morning, after prayers and breakfast, al-Sayyid Ahmad made himself comfortable on the sofa and opened the magazine with interest. He began to read it out loud to get the sense of it. But what did he find? He could read political articles and understand them without difficulty. But this essay made his head turn and agitated his heart. He read it aloud again carefully. He came across a reference to a scientist named Darwin and his work on some distant islands. This man had made tedious comparisons between various different animals until he was astonished to reach the strange conclusion that man was descended from animals; in fact, that he had evolved from a kind of ape. Al-Sayyid Ahmad read the offensive paragraph yet another time with increasing alarm. He was stunned by the sad reality that his son, his own flesh and blood, was asserting, without objection or discussion, that man was descended from animals. He was extremely upset and wondered in bewilderment whether boys were really taught such dangerous ideas in government schools. Then he sent for Kamal.
Kamal arrived, not having the least idea of what was on his father's mind. Since he had been summoned a few days before so his father could congratulate him on his promotion to the third year of the Teachers College, he did not suspect that this new invitation implied anything unpleasant. He had grown pale and emaciated of late. His family attributed this to the exceptional effort he put out before an examination. The real secret was hidden from them. It was the pain and torment he had suffered for the last five months as a prisoner of hellishly tyrannical emotion, which had almost killed him.
Al-Sayyid Ahmad gestured for him to sit down. Kamal sat at the end of the sofa, facing his father politely. He noticed that his mother was seated near the wardrobe, busy folding and mending clothes. Then his father threw the copy of al-Balagh down in the space between them on the sofa and said with feigned composure, 'You've got an article in this magazine. Isn't that so?'
The cover caught Kamal's eye. His look of astonishment made it clear that he had certainly not been expecting this surprise. Where had his father acquired this new familiarity with literary journals? In a magazine called al-Sabah, Kamal had previously published some 'reflections,' or innocent philosophical speculations and emotional laments in both regular and rhymed prose. He was quite sure his father did not know about them. The only member of the family who did was Yasin. Kamal himself had read them to his brother. Yasin's comment had been: 'This is the fruit of my early guidance. I'm the one who taught you about poetry and stories. It's beautiful, Professor. But this philosophy's really deep. Where'd you pick that up?' Yasin had teased him: 'What pretty gin inspired this delicate complaint? Professor, one day you'll learn that nothing works with women except beating them with a shoe.'
But now his father had read the most dangerous thing he had written this essay that had stirred up the devil of a battle in his breast when he was thinking about it. His mind had almost been incinerated in that furnace. How had this happened? What explanation could there be unless some of his father's friends who were Wafd Party loyalists made a point of buying all the papers and journals affiliated with the party? Could he hope to escape safely from this predicament? He looked up from the magazine. In a tone that did not even begin to convey his inner turmoil, he answered, 'Yes. I thought I'd write something to bolster what I was learning and to encourage myself to continue my studies….'
With spurious calm, al-Sayyid Ahmad commented, 'There's nothing wrong with that. Writing for the papers has been and still is a wa) to gain prestige and recognition from the elite. What's important is the topic a person writes about. What did you intend by this article? Read it and explain it to me. It's not clear what you were getting
