That phrase “wives of Nunu” attracted Ahmad’s attention. He wondered exactly how many wives Nunu had in his harem. Would he be prepared to share his domestic secrets with the same frankness as he had used to detail his personal philosophy? The only way he could see to find out was to ask a trick question: “God is always there to help us. You obviously have a large family.”
“Eleven stars,” the man replied simply, “and four suns. Oh, and a single moon!” he went on, pointing to himself.
“You have four wives?” Ahmad asked after a pause.
“As God wills.”
“Aren’t you afraid of not being fair to them all?”
“And who’s to say that I’m unfair?”
“Do you rent four separate houses for them?”
“No, like you, sir, I’ve just one apartment. It has four rooms, and there’s a mother and her children in each one.”
Ahmad’s expression showed his astonishment as he stared at his companion in disbelief.
Boss Nunu’s laugh was filled with a certain pride. “Why are you so astonished, Ahmad Effendi?” he asked.
At this point Ahmad discovered a sense of daring that was unusual for him. “Why haven’t you been satisfied with just one?” he asked.
“One?” came the reply. “I’m a calligrapher. Women are just like calligraphy; no single one can make up for the others. One’s naskh, another ruq’a, another thuluth, and a fourth farsi. The only thing I have one of is God Almighty.”
“But aren’t four more than you need?”
“If only they were enough. God be praised, I can satisfy an entire city of women. I’m Boss Nunu, and my recompense is with God!”
“But how can you keep them all in one apartment? Don’t you know what people say about women’s jealousy?”
Boss Nunu gave a contemptuous shrug of his broad shoulders, then spat on the ground. “Are you going to believe everything people have to say about women, their jealousies and cunning? It’s all a smokescreen created by puny men. At base woman is a moist, malleable dough; it’s up to you to shape it as you wish. She is a creature deficient in both mind and religion, and you have to use two things to make her function properly: shrewd tactics and the stick. Each one of my wives is totally convinced that she’s my favorite; none of them has ever needed more than one sound thrashing. You search in vain for a home that is as happy and serene as mine; my wives are unrivaled for their modesty and competitive desire to keep me happy. That’s why none of them ever dared to get me angry when they found out that I have a girlfriend!”
“A girlfriend?” Ahmad shouted.
“Good heavens!” Boss Nunu said, “You get shocked by the smallest trifles! Here’s what I say: the taamiya at home is delicious, but then what about the stuff you can buy in the market?”
“So are your wives happy about you having a girlfriend?”
“If you’re used to being content, then you’re content. With your own sense of manliness you can craft a woman just the way you want; she’ll do whatever you want and believe whatever you want. A strong man has no need to resort to divorce unless his own passions dictate that he should.”
“May God forgive you, Boss,” said Ahmad with a smile.
The man took some more puffs from his shisha. “And are you married, Ahmad Effendi?” he asked his guest.
“No,” he replied resentfully.
“Not even one?”
“Not even half of one.”
Boss Nunu laughed. “I get it,” he said with his habitual frankness, “you like to play the field.”
Ahmad gave a cryptic smile, neither confirming nor denying this statement.
“May you be forgiven too!” Nunu commented with a chuckle.
Boss Nunu had managed to get further with Ahmad than anyone else before him; he had delivered a violent jolt to his psyche. He represented Ahmad’s diametrical opposite in terms of forcefulness, health, and good humor, not to mention his verve for life, his success, and his happiness. Ahmad admired the man, something he derived from his awareness of his own inability to match the man’s accomplishments. At the same time he resented him for the things he did so well and for his contentment. But the resentment he felt was trivial and certainly did not compare with the sense of superiority that he felt toward the man. Thus the attraction he felt for him overcame his resentment and rekindled his desire to get to know him and his remarkable quarter a lot better.
“You should try the Zahra Café,” Boss Nunu said as Ahmad stood up to leave. “It’s small, but all the most respected government workers in the neighborhood congregate there. You’ll find the very elite among your neighbors. How about going there this evening?”
“If not this evening,” Ahmad said as he made to leave, “then tomorrow, God willing.”
Saying a grateful farewell, Ahmad now proceeded on his journey of exploration into the different parts of his new quarter.
6
Next evening Ahmad left the apartment building, heading for the Zahra Café. He found it at the start of Muhammad Ali Street, just before it turned into Ibrahim Pasha Street. It was as large as any store, with two entrances, one of which was on Muhammad Ali Street itself, while the other was on a long passageway leading to the New Road. There were dozens of cafés like this one in the quarter; he estimated that there must be a café per every ten inhabitants. He approached the café with a certain hesitation because he was not a habitué of such places and was not used to their atmosphere. But no sooner had he entered the place than he spotted Boss Nunu sitting in the middle of a group of government officials including some locals as well. Nunu noticed him and stood up with a smile.
“Welcome, Ahmad Effendi!” he shouted in his usual loud voice.
Ahmad moved over in his direction, with a bashful smile on his face. He held out his hand in greeting, and Nunu grabbed it with his own rough palm.
“This is our new neighbor, Ahmad Effendi Akif,” he said turning to the assembled group. “He’s a civil servant in the Ministry of Works.”
Everyone stood up in unison out of kindness and respect, something that made Ahmad even more nervous and shy. He went round shaking hands with everyone and being introduced by Boss Nunu: “Sulayman Bey Ata, primary school inspector; Sayyid Effendi Arif from the Survey Department; Kamal Khalil Effendi, also from the Survey Department; Ahmad Rashid, a lawyer; and Abbas Shifa, an eminence from the provinces.”
They cleared a space for him and made him feel very welcome. He started to feel more at home and forgot about his shyness and discomfort at coming to the café. Before long he was feeling happily superior to them all, although he managed to keep it well hidden by smiling sweetly and exchanging amiable looks.
There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that he was superior to these people in every conceivable way. After all, he was from al-Sakakini, and families who lived there were the children of quarters like al-Darrasa and al-Gamaliya. He was an intellectual, with a fully fashioned mind, while these folk had none of that. Indeed, he pictured his presence in their midst as a nice gesture of sympathy, an engaging display of humility on his part. What continued to baffle him was the question as to how he would make these people aware of his importance and introduce them to his sterling intellectual and cultural qualities. How on earth was he going to convince them that he was a person of real significance and earn their respect? Needless to say, as long as this new friendship developed and they continued to get together, such respect would inevitably follow; so there was no harm in delaying things for a couple of sessions.
He looked round at the people sitting there and studied them carefully. There was Sulayman Ata the inspector, fifty years old or more — ugly to the point of contempt, small, and with a stoop. His face reminded you of a monkey: sloping forehead, bulging cheeks, round, tiny eyes, wide jaw, and stub nose. Even so, he had none of the deftness and energy of monkeys. He wore a fixed glowering frown as though to reflect his own outrageous ugliness. The best thing about him was his amber rosary; his fingers were incessantly playing with the beads. The amazing thing is that, even though he looked so ugly, it did not provoke any hateful feelings, but rather sheer mockery and sarcasm.