Ahmad Rashid gave a cryptic smile but then let the subject drop. In fact, he felt some sympathy for the sentiments that Ahmad Akif was expressing about university degrees. Beyond that, he was well aware of the passion with which the opinion was being expressed. All of which led him to surmise that there had to be other reasons for adopting the posture beyond the ones that had already been discussed. Ahmad Akif in turn was delighted by Ahmad Rashid’s withdrawal from the argument because he assumed it meant he had won in front of the group of plebeians he was sitting with in the café.
For a moment no one said anything. Boss Nunu started pouring more tea into the cups. Ahmad Akif looked around. For the first time he noticed a young boy sitting on a chair alongside Kamal Khalil Effendi; he could not decide whether the boy had been there when he arrived or whether he had come in while Ahmad was preoccupied with his argument about degrees. However, it took no more than a moment to confirm that the boy was Kamal’s son; even a passing glance made the family resemblance clear. Ahmad looked around some more, but soon focused on the boy again. There was something about his face, but he could not put his finger on it. He obviously could not stare at him for a long time, so he started sneaking perplexed glances in the boy’s direction from behind his teacup, from which he kept taking sips. What was it that so attracted his attention to that face and made him almost forget about the fierce argument he had just been having? He had a vague feeling that he had seen him before, particularly those wide eyes with their sweet, simple expression. Such feelings will nag their owner till some recollection will shed light on memories shrouded by the past. As a result he fell back on asking himself where and when he had seen that face before. Was it in al-Sakakini? On the trolley? At the ministry? In response to his stubborn inquiries, his memory treated him with a cruel mockery: an image would float up into his consciousness with glimpses back into times and places past, and he would tell himself he almost had it, but then everything would vanish into a profound darkness. The image would disappear, leaving behind yet more obscurity, ambiguity, and despair.
Eventually he reached the point of not wanting to recall anything that was not relevant to his chief concern, but the truth of the matter was that at this point his memory was not the only thing impinging upon his consciousness and confusing him. In fact, deep down he could feel something pulling his heart back in the direction of those honey-colored eyes and their sweet, simple expression. Every time he sneaked a look in that direction, a wave of longing and attraction swept over him. He was totally confused and felt abashed by the whole thing. The watchful eyes of the assembled company were warning enough. Clutching the handle of his teacup he stared at the floor, his heart pounding. Yet his imagination totally refused to forget about the boy, something that showed in both his facial expression and the look in his eyes, while his heart overflowed with affection and longing. His eyes were on the point of giving him away, but a combination of fear and anger managed to keep them under control. What on earth had come over him, he wondered.
It was Boss Nunu who dragged him out of these personal reveries. “Do you play any recreational games?” he asked.
Ahmad looked at him, his expression that of someone who has just been jolted awake. “I don’t know anything about games,” he said.
Kamal Khalil laughed. “Our professor, Ahmad Rashid, is exactly the same,” he said. “You can chat to each other while we play a game for an hour or so.…”
“Come on, Muhammad,” he said turning to his son, “It’s time to go home.”
Ahmad’s heart gave a flutter. He looked at the boy once again and followed their progress as they made their way toward the door and then vanished from sight. Once again he asked himself in frustration how it was he could not remember where he had seen that boy before. By now the company had split up into separate groupings: Boss Nunu and Kamal Khalil were playing dominoes; Sulayman Ata and Sayyid Arif were playing backgammon; and Abbas Shifa had moved his chair so he could sit with the group around the café owner. Ahmad Rashid moved his chair to make room for the game players and came over to sit beside Ahmad Akif. The latter realized that he had come over, and that made the feelings he had just been having disappear, to be replaced once again by argument and conflict. Out went all notions of love, and in came anger and hatred.
“How are you, sir?” Ahmad Rashid asked, turning in his direction. “By the way, I don’t want you to think that I’ve known Khan al-Khalili for a long time. I came here just two months before you.”
Ahmad was delighted that the other man wanted to befriend him. “Was it the air raids that made you move as well?” he asked.
“Pretty much. The fact is that our old house in Helwan was vacated for military reasons. I thought that a move into Cairo would mean I was much closer to work. I found it difficult to locate a vacant apartment until a friend happened to point me to this district.”
Ahmad Akif lowered his voice. “What an unsettling neighborhood it is!”
“You’re right. Even so, it has its consolations. It’s weird, but it’s also full of art and amazing examples of humanity. Just take a look at the café owner to whom Abbas Shifa is talking. Notice the drowsy look in his eyes. He takes a dose of opium every four hours. He goes about his work without ever really waking up; or, to put it another way, without ever wanting to wake up.”
“And does this improve life?”
“I don’t know. The only thing that’s certain is that he and others like him totally abhor the state of wakefulness that we enjoy and try to maintain by drinking tea and coffee. Were he to be compelled for some reason or other to remain in a wakeful state, you would find him yawning all the time, bleary-eyed, bad-tempered, and completely incapable of staying on an even keel until he found a way of canceling the world and floating in the universe of delusion. So is it some kind of nervous pleasure habitually obtained, or a purely illusory sense of happiness to which the human soul resorts as a way of escaping the hardships of reality? Only the café owner can provide the answers to that.”
Ahmad told himself that he too was scared of the hardships of reality, just like one of these drug addicts. He too ran away from it regularly in order to seek refuge in his isolation and his books. Was he any happier than they were? He felt an urge to explore the subject further.
“How can I concentrate on my studies,” he asked with a changed tone of voice, “with all this hubbub going on?”
“Why not? The noise is very loud, it’s true, but habit is that much stronger. You’ll get used to the noise, and eventually you’ll be disturbed if it’s not there. At first, I found it annoying and despaired of ever getting anything done, but now I can write my briefs and review legal materials in a completely calm and relaxed fashion amid this incessant din. Don’t you think that habit is a weapon with which we can face anything except fate itself?”
Ahmad nodded his head in agreement. Not wanting the other to outdo him, even with such a trite phrase, he said: “Here’s what the poet Ibn al-Mu’tazz has to say on the subject: ‘Adversity brings a sting of distress; should a man suffer it for a while, it lessens.’ ”
Ahmad Rashid gave another of his cryptic smiles. He never memorized poetry and hated hearing it cited. “So, Professor Akif,” he asked agreeably, “are you one of those people who are always citing poetry?”
“What’s your opinion about that?” Ahmad asked dubiously.
“Nothing at all. It’s just that I notice that people never cite modern poetry, only the old stuff. What that means is that, if they cite poetry a lot, it is always ancient poetry. I hate looking back into the past.”