Cairo Modern

Meanwhile Iffat began, “It’s pointless to object. The best thing would be for you to listen to _______. The yacht will be at Qasr al-Nil at the time you all specify. A charming buffet and one bottle of whiskey for every three people. Let me count you.”

The roar of approval mounted and Ihsan joined in their delight. Mahgub started glancing anxiously at their faces, a meaningless smile inscribed on his lips. There was no way for him to opt out of this trip to al-Qanatir. He would stroll through the gardens there in the moonlight. Wasn’t it likely that he would encounter a resident who knew him? Yes, indeed; this was likely. Therefore the best thing he could do was to find some excuse for staying on the yacht. Yes, he could not resist the rowdy, obstinate fun-lovers. So he would go, because he was forced to. At any rate the gardens were far removed from the train station, far from the dilapidated, miserable abode.

41

F

or four days he derived pure enjoyment from his important position. All the employees — junior and senior staff — who came in contact with him sensed that he was a presumptuous official who would have to be accorded his due in full measure, who would pardon no error, and who spoke only to command. The more accommodating his staff members became — and they had no choice about this — the more extreme and despotic he was. He enjoyed this aggressive despotism so much that he would at times have liked to spend his entire day at the ministry, commanding and scolding.

Then it was Thursday, the appointed time for the excursion. The couple left their home and proceeded toward Qasr al-Nil. As they walked along, Ihsan muttered, “You’re perhaps the only member of the group who doesn’t own a car!”

Laughing, Mahgub replied, “Slow means safe.”

Her comment, however, prompted him to flag down a taxi, even though they did not have far to go. Thinking of her grumbling tone, he commented sarcastically to himself: It’s shocking that Uncle Shihata Turki’s daughter doesn’t have a car of her own. Then he remembered the burdens that his new life imposed on him like his desire to rent and furnish a room, budgeting a few pounds from his salary for his father, and his need for other luxuries and expenses. The matter frightened him. He commiserated with himself: No matter how long I live, I’ll always be short of cash. They soon reached the yacht’s mooring. Leaving the taxi behind them, they headed toward their waiting friends as the night’s gloom descended on the horizons. They were warmly received. Iffat Bey came toward the couple, shook hands with them, and then offered his arm to Ihsan. She accepted and the pair led the first group onto the yacht. Mahgub did not like the yacht’s owner. He had started to dislike him ever since accepting his invitation to the Fantasio. He could see in the man’s handsome eyes telltale signs of infatuation with his wife. So he was annoyed, felt outraged, and glared at the other man’s red hair, light complexion, and athletic body with angry, hate-filled eyes.

The vessel was small but beautiful and elegant. It had two levels. The lower held the cabins and the upper was a deck surrounded by a railing against which cozy seats were arranged in a circle. At the bow, they found tables covered with delectable edibles. Iffat Bey gave the order to hoist the anchor. So the yacht left its mooring and headed north, guided by the splendid moon at the center of the eastern horizon, where it was rising behind the palm trees. Thus the voyage began.

The friends, who sat facing each other, started to chat, enjoying the pleasant, moist air. Mahgub began to glance at the beaming faces and slender physiques. This array of youthful good looks dazzled him. He discovered that his wife was surrounded by a halo of admiration and admirers some distance away. He recalled the days when he admired her from the window of his room in the hostel, although he recognized that she was even more radiantly beautiful and enchanting now. He sensed the profound gulf that separated them. Quick, agitated images passed before his mind’s eye. He saw Ali Taha both joyful and sad, Uncle Shihata Turki, the Minister, Salim al-Ikhshidi, and his own bedchamber in the Schleicher Building. He found himself wondering whether he would rather have Ihsan’s heart and body for his own in a quiet, honorable, conjugal dwelling, even if that meant he was merely an inglorious, low-ranking government employee. He had no ready answer for this question. Yes, his ambition was as strong as his emotion. Indeed, his ambition possibly was the stronger, but what was the use of the comparison? To distract himself he glanced at the Nile and then looked up at the full moon, which was gradually rising higher and becoming more limpid. The darker the night became, the more luminous and radiant it was. He was not, however, the type of person entranced by nature’s charms. He liked to say, “Rapturous love of nature spoils the intellect and, since the beginning of time, has been the source of superstitions that still shackle us.” He remembered his friend Ma’mun Radwan, who would wake at dawn for prayer and devotions. He would gaze at the stars and recite in a loving voice, his clear eyes gleaming like bright stars, the Qur’anic verses, By night when it descends and By the heavens and by the night star. Did any of the young men and women present love nature? He scrutinized them but found them too preoccupied with personal matters to show any interest in the physical world.

He heard Miss Fifi suggest seductively, “Why don’t we dance?”

Ali Iffat immediately replied, “Dance if you want to, but can you dance without music?”

Ahmad Asim piped up, “Here’s good news. I’ve brought my accordion.”

People exclaimed appreciatively and glanced about to search for a sweetheart. Ahmad Asim took out his instrument and began to play, swaying in his seat to the dance tunes. Everyone rose to dance, except for Ihsan and Mahgub, who did not know how to, and Iffat Bey, who chose to keep them company. They began to watch the dancers with silent admiration. Then Iffat Bey announced that he was skeptical about Ihsan’s claim that she did not know how to dance. He encouraged Ihsan, “I’ll teach you. This is something you need to know. What do you think?”

With her eyes fixed on the dancers, she stammered, “I don’t know.”

“A person who doesn’t know how to dance will feel out of place at fancy balls. Don’t you agree, Mahgub Bey?”

Mahgub sensed the danger encompassing him and wanted to evade it. So he remarked casually, “I don’t think so.…”

Iffat laughed out loud and said, “What a nineteenth-century couple!”

Ihsan laughed along with him and said, “We may be your pupils one day.”

The young man’s eagerness showed in his face and gushing with delight he said, “Any time you want.”

Mahgub said nothing. He was pretending to watch the dancers with interest while repressing his resentment and outrage. This idiotic young man, who was preoccupied by his own good looks, was preparing to assault his honor and would clearly act if he found an unguarded moment. Mahgub, however, was certainly going to deny him the opportunity. No fool like this was going to cause a new pair of horns to sprout on his head. He had volunteered his head for the golden horns, horns of glory and power. But how would she respond to this flirtation? Would this mysterious, fascinating young woman prove an easy target? He felt the fangs of venomous jealousy rip into his breast.

The dancing continued until Ahmad Asim grew tired or bored and stopped playing. Then the couples separated and returned to their seats with beaming faces. The full moon had risen into the heavens and its light had been appropriated by the Nile’s undulating waters, which reflected it back and forth, sprinkling it around like pearls that ravished the eye.

Someone asked, “When can we start the buffet?”

A companion answered, “Not till the yacht is moored at the garden, you hungry scamp.”

Someone else asked, “Why don’t we play cards?”

Many people, however, objected to this suggestion, complaining that it would spoil the pristine character of the excursion. So they resumed their chatting. Mahgub was drawn out of his reflections by the voice of Mr. Husni Shawkat, who was saying, “How can it not be important? The Nazi Party’s successful rise to power is a very grave matter.”

Ahmad Asim protested, “But the personal prestige of President Hindenberg will most probably swallow Hitler.”

“Look ahead. Don’t you see that Hitler’s in the prime of his youth while the president’s at the end of his life?”