He went on to tell me how they had found undreamed-of freedom at university. Their student days could not be subjected to the kind of authoritarian prudery that governed their movements in Da‘bas Alley, where there had had to be a valid reason or excuse for every single absence or lateness. As a result of this new-found freedom, they had spent many long hours together and had got to know each other’s friends. She had joined him and become one of the regular customers at Karnak Café; she had been arrested when he was. Her personality had developed in a way that he had never imagined.
“We found ourselves beset by the issue of sex,” he went on with a laugh. “For a long time we both fumbled around, not really knowing what to do about it. We were both fully aware, of course, that we were surrounded by a variety of temptations urging us to indulge in experiments in free love that were all the rage.
“ ‘We’re in love,’ I told her one day as I gave her a warm hug, ‘there’s no doubt about that. We’re definitely going to get married. So what do you say?’
“ ‘I promised my father I wouldn’t,’ she replied.
“ ‘That’s stupid,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t you hear what people are saying?’
“ ‘I’m not sure about it,’ she replied testily, ‘nor are you!’
“The result was that we both suffered a good deal over the subject.”
So how far is this Isma‘il a genuine revolutionary? I asked myself. He makes no attempt to hide his religious belief, so he’s obviously a particular type of revolutionary. I wanted to ask him about his personal views on sexual freedom, but I was afraid he might get the impression that I wanted to pry into Zaynab’s secrets. With that in mind, I decided not to take him down a path that might lead him to reveal things he preferred not to be public knowledge.
“In spite of everything people believe,” he said, “true love can provide a bulwark against temptation.”
There was something else he told me as well, and I can never forget it.
“In prison we felt a terrible sense of loss, and it managed to shake the entire foundation of our love for each other.”
That reminded me that violent convulsions in a man’s life are followed by cries for help in sexual guise that often verge on the insane. What did it all mean? I wondered. But he seemed reluctant to return to the subject, so I changed the subject.
“What about Hilmi Hamada?” I asked.
“He kept on breaking with tradition and always did it with enormous intensity.”
“Was he from the same background as you?”
“No, certainly not! His father was a teacher of English, and his grandfather worked on the railroad.”
“Was he really in love with Qurunfula?”
“Certainly,” he replied, “I have absolutely no doubt about that. It may have been purely by chance that we initially found the café, but he insisted on going back to it. I can remember him saying, ‘Let’s go back to that woman’s café. She’s very attractive. Didn’t you notice?’ To tell the truth, we wanted to go back too, since we had grown fond of her as friends.”
I had no doubts about Qurunfula’s attractiveness either, since I had fallen under the same spell. But was all that enough to counteract the powerful impression I had that Hilmi Hamada had been in love with Zaynab? Wasn’t it possible, I asked myself, that he had publicized his love for Qurunfula as a way of hiding his true feelings?
“Yes, he really loved Qurunfula. Mind you, his motives may not have been entirely flawless. What he was looking for may have been something similar to love without actually being true love itself. Even so, he was loyal to her and showed her genuine affection. He never gave in to the urge to exploit her feelings, however easy that might have been. There was an idealistic side to his behavior as well. Beyond that his financial situation was fine; on that score all we need tell you is that my general education, and Zaynab’s too, came about thanks to the books that we borrowed from his library.”
“Perhaps he felt some pangs of sympathy for her glorious past?”
“We all used to sit there listening to her talk and pretending to believe it all,” Isma‘il replied with a laugh. “In fact, he didn’t believe a word of it. We loved her for what she is now. Even so, he did poke fun at her claims to have modernized art and to have been the only one of her profession who behaved in a model fashion.”
“With regard to both art and morals,” I commented as a neutral observer, “she was certainly a model for emulation.”
“It’s too late to convince Hilmi of that now,” he replied.
But why had Isma‘il al-Shaykh been put in prison? As before, I was afraid that he would not respond to that question, but the radical change in circumstances seemed to have led him to adopt a different attitude.
“It was nighttime,” he said. “I was asleep on a bench in the yard. In spring and fall I always do that so as to leave the single room for my father. I was sound asleep. Gradually I became aware of daylight impinging on my sleep like a dream. Someone was shaking me roughly. I woke up, opened my eyes, but found myself blinded by a powerful light shining right into my eyes. I sat up with a start.
“ ‘Where’s the al-Shaykh house?’ a voice asked.
“ ‘This is it,’ I replied. ‘What do you want? I’m his son, Isma‘il.’
“ ‘Fine,’ said the voice.
“The flashlight went out, and everything went dark. After a while I could make out some figures.
“ ‘Come with us.’
“ ‘Who are you?’
“ ‘Don’t worry, we’re police.’
“ ‘What do you want?’
“ ‘You just need to answer a few questions. You’ll be back home before daybreak.’
“ ‘Let me tell my father and put my suit on.’
“ ‘There’s no need for that.’
“A hand grabbed me by the shoulder, and I submitted. Wearing only my nightshirt I was frog-marched barefoot outside and thrust into a car. One of them sat on either side of me. Even though it was still pitch-dark, they put a blindfold over my eyes and tied my hands. My knees were left untied.
“ ‘Why are you treating me like this when I’ve done nothing wrong?’ I asked.
“ ‘Shut up!’
“ ‘Take me to someone in authority, and you’ll see.’
“ ‘That’s exactly where you’re going now.’
“With that I felt a deathly terror. I started wondering what the charge might be. I wasn’t a Communist, a member of the Muslim Brotherhood, or a feudalist. I had never uttered a single word to undermine the honor of that historical period which I had come to consider my own ever since I had reached the age of awareness.
“Somewhere or other, the car stopped, and I was taken out. With two men holding on to my arms, I was led blindfolded into some building. My arms were released, and I could hear the sound of footsteps retreating and the door creaking as it was shut and locked. My hands had been untied and the blindfold taken off, but I could not see a thing. I felt as though I had lost my sight. I cleared my throat, but there was no response. I expected the darkness to dissipate a little as soon as my eyes were used to it, but that did not happen. There was not a single sound. What kind of place could this be? I stretched out my arms and started feeling my way around, moving very cautiously. The floor felt cold to my bare feet. The only thing I came into contact with was the walls; there was absolutely nothing in the room, no chairs, no rug, nothing standing at all. Darkness, emptiness, despair, terror, that was it. In a dark and silent environment like that, time stops altogether; since I had no idea when they had picked me up, that was even more the case. I had no idea when the darkness was supposed to disappear or when some form of life would emerge from this all-embracing corpse of a place.