The Sheikh did not bother to respond and a period of silence followed, during which Said watched a line of ants nimbly crawling along a fold in the mat. Suddenly the Sheikh said, 'Take a copy of the Koran and read.'
A little confused, Said explained apologetically, 'I just got out of jail today, and I have not performed the prayer ablutions.'
'Wash yourself now and read.'
'My own daughter has rejected me. She was scared of me, as if I was the devil. And before that her mother was unfaithful to me.'
'Wash and read,' replied the Sheikh, gently.
'She committed adultery with one of my men, a layabout, a mere pupil of mine, utterly servile. She applied for divorce on grounds of my imprisonment and went and married him.'
'Wash and read.'
'And he took everything I owned, the money and the jewelry. He's a big man now, and all the local crooks have become followers and cronies of his.'
'Wash and read.'
'It wasn't thanks to any sweat by the police that I was arrested.' Said went on, the veins in his forehead pulsing with anger. 'No, it wasn't.
I was sure of my safety, as usual. It was that dog who betrayed me, in collusion with her. Then disaster followed disaster until finally my daughter rejected me.'
'Wash and read the verses: 'Say to them: if you love God, then follow me and God will love you' and 'I have chosen thee for Myself.' Also repeat the words: 'Love is acceptance, which means obeying His commands and refraining from what He has prohibited and contentment with what He decrees and ordains.'
I could see my father listening and nodding his head with pleasure, looking at me with a smile as if saying: 'Listen and learn.' I had been happy then, hoping no one could see me, so I could climb the palm tree or throw up a stone to bring down a date, singing to myself along with those chanting men. Then one evening when I'd come back to the students' hostel in Giza I saw her coming towards me, holding a basket, pretty and charming, all the joys of heaven and torments of hell that I was fated to experience hidden within her.
What had it been about the chanting I'd liked, when they recited: 'As soon as He appeared the beacon of faith shone' and: 'I saw the crescent moon and the face of the beloved'? But the sun is not yet set. The last golden thread is receding from the window. A long night is waiting for me, the first night of freedom. I am alone with my freedom, or rather I'm in the company of the Sheikh, who is lost in heaven, repeating words that cannot be understood by someone approaching hell.
What other refuge have I?
THREE
Flipping eagerly through the pages of Also-Zahra until he found Rauf Ilwan's column, Said began to read while still only a few yards from the house where he'd spent the night, the house of Sheikh Ali al-Junaydi. But what was it that seemed to be inspiring Ilwan now?
Said found only comments on women's fashions, on loudspeakers, and a reply to a complaint by an anonymous wife. Diverting enough, indeed, but what had become of the Rauf Ilwan he'd known?
Said thought of the good old days at the students' hostel, and particularly of the wonderful enthusiasm that had radiated from a young peasant with shabby clothes, a big heart, and a direct and glittering style of writing. What was it that had happened in the world? What lay behind these strange and mysterious events? Did things happen that were similar to what took place in the Sayrafi alley? And how about Nabawiyya and Ilish and that dear little girl who rejected her father? I must see him, he thought. The Sheikh has given me a mat to sleep on, but I need money. I must begin life afresh, Mr. Ilwan, and for that purpose you are no less important than Sheikh Ali. You are, in fact, the most important thing I have in this insecure world.
He walked on until he reached the Zahra offices in Maarif Square, stopping in front of an enormous building where his first thought was that it would be very difficult to break into. The rows of cars surrounding it were like guards along a prison; the rumble of printing presses behind the grille of the basement windows was like the low hum of men sleeping in a dormitory. He joined the stream of people entering the building, presented himself at the information desk and asked in his deep 'public' voice for Mr. Rauf Ilwan. Staring back with some displeasure at the bold, almost impudent, look in his eyes, the reception clerk snapped, 'Fourth floor'. Said made for the lift at once, joining people among whom he looked rather out of place in his blue suit and gym shoes, the oddness emphasized by the glaring eyes on either side of his long aquiline nose. A girl caught his eye, which made him curse his ex-wife and her lover under his breath, promising them destruction.
From the corridor of the fourth floor he slipped into the secretary's office before an attendant had time to intercept him and found himself in a large rectangular room with one glass wall overlooking the street, but no place to sit. He heard the secretary talking to someone on the telephone, declaring that Mr. Rauf was at a meeting with the editor-in-chief and would not be back for at least two hours. Feeling alien and out of place, Said poised himself with bravado, staring at the other people in the room almost defiantly, remembering a time when he would have fixed his gaze on people like them as if he wished to cut their throats.
What were such people like nowadays, he wondered.
Rauf was now a very important man, it seemed, a great man, as great as this room. It isn't a suitable place for reunion of old friends. Rauf won't be able to behave naturally here. There was a time when he'd been nothing more than a scribbler with the magazine Also-Nadhir, tucked away in Sharia Muhammad Ali, a poor writer whose voice rang with demands for freedom. I wonder what you're like now, Rauf. Will he have changed, like you, Nabawiyya?
Will he disown me, as Sana has done? No, I must banish these evil thoughts. He's still a friend and mentor, a sword of freedom ever drawn, and he'll always be like that, despite this impressiveness, this plush office suite, and those puzzling articles. If this citadel will not allow me to embrace you, Rauf, I'll have to look in the telephone directory and find your home address.
Seated on the damp grass along the river bank beside Sharia al-Nil, he waited. He waited even longer near a tree silhouetted by the light of an electric lamp. The crescent moon had gone down early, leaving stars to glitter in a sky profoundly black, and a soft breeze blew, distilled from the breath of the night after a day of stunning, searing summer. There he sat, with his arms clasped round his knees and his back to the river, his eyes fixed on villa number eighteen.
What a palace, he thought. It was open on three sides, and an extensive garden lay on the fourth. The trees stood around the white body of the building like whispering figures.
A scene like this felt familiar, full of reminders of the good living he'd once enjoyed.
How had Rauf managed it? By what means? And in such a short time! Not even thieves could dream of owning a thing like this: I never used to look at a villa like this except when I was making plans to break into it. Is there really any hope of finding friendship in such a place now? You are indeed a mystery, Rauf Ilwan, and you must be made to reveal your secret.
Wasn't it strange that Ilwan rhymed with Mahran? And that that dog Ilish should grab and wallow in the fruits of my lifetime's labor?
When a car stopped in front of the villa gate he sprang to his feet. As the porter opened the gate he darted across the road and stood before the car, bending a little so the driver could see him. When the man inside apparently failed to recognize him in the dark, Said roared, 'Mr. Rauf, I am Said Mahran.' The man put his head close to the open window of the car and repeated his name, in obvious surprise, his low voice carefully modulated. Said could not read Rauf's expression, but the tone of voice was encouraging.
After a moment of silence and inaction, the car door opened and Said heard him say, 'Get in.'
A good beginning, he thought. Rauf Ilwan was the same man he knew, despite the glass-filled office-suite and the lovely villa. The car went down a drive that curved like the shape of a violin, towards a flight of steps leading to the main entrance of the house.
'How are you, Said? When did you come out?'
'Yesterday.'
