Cairo. You naturally know of an establishment — or probably several… one that's very private, naturally….'
Smiling, Kamal replied, 'A teacher, like a public prosecutor, must always take care to be discreet.'
'Excellent. We'll get together soon. I'm busy arranging the new apartment now, but we'll have to spend some evenings together.'
'Agreed.'
They left the room together, and Kamal accompanied his friend all the way to the street. Passing by the first floor on his return, he met his mother, who stood waiting for him at the door. She inquired anxiously, 'Didn't he say anything to you?'
He understood what she meant, and that tormented him terribly. But he pretended not to understand and asked in turn, 'About what?'
'Na'ima?'
He answered resentfully, 'Absolutely not.'
'Amazing!'
They exchanged a long look. Then Amina continued: 'But al-Hamzawi spoke to your father about it.'
Concealing his fury as best he could, Kamal said, 'Perhapshe spoke without having consulted his son.'
Amina retorted angrily, 'What a silly idea. Doesn't he know how lucky he would be to get her? Your father should have reminded him who he is.'
'Fuad's not to blame. Perhaps his father, with all the best intentions, spoke rashly, without thinking it over.'
'But he must have told his son. Did Fuad refuse… that boy who was transformed into a distinguished civil servant by our money?'
'There's no need to talk about that.'
'Son, this is unimaginable. Doesn't he know that accepting him into our family does us no honor?'
'Then don't be upset if it doesn't happen.'
'I'm not upset about it. But I'm angered by the insult.'
'There has been no insult. It's just a misunderstanding.'
He returned to his room, sad and embarrassed, telling himself, 'Na'ima's a beautiful rose. Yet, since I'm a man whose only remaining merit is love of truth, I must ask whether she is really a good match for a public prosecutor. Although he comes from a modest background, he will be able to find a spouse who is better educated, from a more distinguished family, wealthier, and prettier too. His good-natured father was too hasty. But he's not to blame. Still, Fuad's remarks to me were impudent. He certainly is impertinent. He's bright, honest, competent, insolent, and conceited, although it's not his fault. It's the result of the factors dividing, men from each other. They infect us with all these maladies.'
130
Al-Fikr magazine occupied the ground floor of number 21 Abd al-Aziz Street. The barred window in the office of its proprietor, Mr. Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti, overlooked the tenebrous Barakat Alley, and therefore the light inside was left on both night and day. Whenever Kamal approached the magazine's headquarters, the gloomy premises and shabby furniture reminded him of the status of thought in his land and of his own position in his society. Mr. Abd al-Aziz greeted him with an affectionate smile of welcome. This was hardly surprising, for they had known each other since 1930, when Kamal had begun sending the magazine his essays on philosophy. During the past six years his collaboration with the editor had been mutually supportive, if unremunerated. In fact, the magazine paid none of its writers for their efforts, which were undertaken solely for the advancement of philosophy and culture.
Abd al-Aziz welcomed all volunteer contributors, even specialists in Islamic philosophy, which was his own field. After receiving an Islamic education at al-Azhar university, he had traveled to France, where he spent four years doing research and auditing lectures without obtaining a degree. His real estate holdings, which provided him with a monthly income of fifty pounds, spared him from having to earn a living. He had founded al-Fikr magazine in 1923 and had kept publishing it, even though the profits were not commensurate with the labor he poured into it.
Kamal had scarcely taken a seat when a man his own age entered. Wearing a gray linen suit, he was tall and thin, although less so than Kamal, and had a long profile, taut cheeks, and wide lips. His delicate nose and pointed chin lent a special character to his full face. Smiling, he came forward with light steps and stretched out his hand to Mr. Abd al-Aziz, who shook it and presented the visitor to Kamal: 'Mr. Riyad Qaldas, a translator in the Ministry of Education. He has recently joined the group writing for al-Fikr, infusing fresh blood into our scholarly journal with his monthly summaries of plays from world literature and his short stories.'
Then he introduced Kamal: 'Mr. Kamal Ahmad Abd al-Jawad. Perhaps you've read his essays?'
The two men shook hands, and Riyad said admiringly, 'I've read them for years. They are essays of value, in every sense of the word.'
Kamal thanked him cautiously for this praise. Then they sat down on neighboring chairs in front of the desk of Mr. Abd al-Aziz, who remarked, 'Mr. Riyad, don't wait for him to return your compliment and say that he has read your valuable stories. He never reads stories.'
Riyad laughed engagingly and revealed gleaming regular teeth with a gap between the middle incisors. 'Don't you like literature?' he asked. 'Every philosopher has a special theory of beauty arrived at only after an exhaustive examination of various arts literature included, naturally.'
Rather uneasily, Kamal ventured, 'I don't hate literature. For a long time, I've used it for relaxation, enjoying both poetry and prose. But I have little free time.'
'That must mean you've read what short stories you could, since modern literature consists almost entirely of short stories and plays.'
Kamal replied, 'Over the years I've read a great number, although I…'
Smiling in a knowing way, Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti interrupted: 'It's up to you, Mr. Riyad, to convince him of the truth of your new ideas. For the moment it will suffice if you realize that he's a philosopher whose energies are concentrated on thought'. Then, turning toward Kamal, he asked, 'Do you have your essay for this month?'
Kamal brought out an envelope of medium size and silently placed tt in front of the editor, who took it. After extracting the article and examining it he said, 'On Bergson? … Fine!'
Kamal explained, 'The idea is to give an overview of the role his philosophy has played in the history of modern thought. Perhaps later I'll follow up on it with some detailed studies.'
Riyad Qaldas was listening to the discussion with interest. Gazing at Kamal in an endearing way, he asked, 'I've read your articles for years, starting with the ones you did on the Greek philosophers. They have been varied and occasionally contradictory, since they have presented rival schools of philosophy. I realize that you're a historian of ideas. Yet all the same I've tried in vain to discover your own intellectual position and the school of philosophy with which you're affiliated.'
Abd al-Aziz al-Asyuti observed, 'We're relative newcomers to the field of philosophical studies. So we must commence with general presentations. Perhaps in time Professor Kamal will develop a new philosophy. Possibly, Mr. Riyad, you'll become one of the adherents of Kamalism.'
They all laughed. Kamal removed his spectacles and began to clean the lenses. He was capable of losing himself rapidly in a conversation, especially if he liked the person and if the atmosphere was relaxed and pleasant.
Kamal said, 'I'm a tourist in a museum where nothing belongs to me. I'm merely a historian. I don't know where I stand.'
With increasing interest Riyad Qaldas replied, 'In other words, you're at a crossroads. I stood there for a long time before finding my way. But I wager there's a story behind your current posture. Usually it's the end of one stage and the beginning of another. Haven't you believed strongly in various different causes before reaching this point?'
The melody of this conversation revived the memory of an o]d song that was rooted in Kamal'sheart. This young man and this conversation…. The previous barren years had been completely devoid of spiritual friendship. Kamal had grown accustomed to addressing himself whenever he needed someone to talk to. It had been a long
