Now they had moved. Even so, did they feel any safer in their new location? The apartment blocks were newly constructed and sturdy; they all had bomb shelters that were models of their kind, and it was in the al-Husayn neighborhood. But then, castles could fall and mosques be destroyed! Oh my, how often we find ourselves being tortured by our love of life, and done to death by fear! But, when all is said and done, death knows no mercy. Merely thinking about it turns anything noble into mere trivia.
How often had Ahmad endured feelings of sorrow and anger that were almost intolerable? And why? With that thought he heard the radio announcing the royal good-night and realized that he had lain there awake and fearful for a good two hours. That worried him, and he started putting such thoughts aside in a quest for some sleep. But he failed, and instead the thoughts took over. He found himself inundated with this flood of memories. He recalled how he had suggested to his parents that they move to Asyut where his younger brother worked and they could be really far away from danger.
“No,” his mother had told him, “we’re going to stay near you. Either we stay together, or else.…” And with that she had chuckled and asked for God’s protection.
He wondered what he would be doing now if his parents had moved south. The best solution would have been to live in a pension. Truth to tell, he would have welcomed the idea, because, although he wasn’t aware of it himself, he relished change. How could it be otherwise when he was still a bachelor, someone who had spent forty years living in a single house and enduring a routine that never changed from one day or year to the next and left him with a devastating sense of isolation? However inured he was to such an existence, something deep inside him was bound to push him toward change, even if he himself was not aware of it; it would need to be a complete change at that.
On this occasion, however, he did not completely surrender to his thoughts because a strange smell managed to bring his dreams to a grinding halt; it penetrated his nostrils as though carried by some previously dormant breeze. What made him aware of it was that he had never smelled anything like it before. He could not describe it: neither sweet-smelling nor foul, yet pleasant. There was a serenity and depth about it, allowing it to penetrate to the very core of his senses. For a while it would disappear, only to come back again. Were people really burning incense at this hour of the night? Or was it that this strange new quarter possessed its own particular scents that hovered over the depths of the night’s silence?
All this made him forget his previous thoughts. Without even being aware of it he started to doze off and, before very long, slumber invaded his eyelids and closed them tight.
4
Next morning at seven o’clock he was seated at the table eating his breakfast. It normally consisted of a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and some bread along with a few pieces of cheese and some olives. Leaving the apartment, he went out into the hall. Before he reached the stairs, he heard the soft sound of feet behind him. Looking round he saw a young girl wearing a blue school-jumper with a satchel of books under her arm. For a fleeting second their eyes met, then he looked away feeling all confused, something that always happened whenever he looked at a female. He could not decide whether it was more polite to go ahead of her or to let her pass. That made him even more confused than before, and he blushed. So here was the philosopher of the Archives Department in the Ministry of Works acting just like an immature teenager falling over himself out of sheer embarrassment. The girl looked surprised and stopped where she was, while the extent of his confusion conveyed itself to her. The only thing he could do was to stand to one side.
“After you, Miss,” he whispered in a barely audible voice.
The girl went on down the stairs, while he was left to follow her, wondering whether he had done the right thing or not. What impression did she get from his hesitation and confusion? When he reached the building’s main door, his thoughts were rudely interrupted by a loud voice shouting, “Damn the world!” Looking to his left he saw Nunu opening his store, just as he had suspected. He relaxed a bit and gave a smile, before muttering, “O God, Opener, All-Knowing!” With that he went on his way, with the girl just a short distance ahead of him. When she reached the New Road, she branched off to the left toward al-Darrasa, while he made his way to the trolley stop.
All he had seen of her was her eyes. Once he had realized she was there, he had been looking straight at them. They were large and limpid, with honey-colored irises; her lashes were so long that they looked as though she had used kohl. They managed to suggest both softness and attraction and made their way straight into his affections. The girl was obviously only just approaching the age of maturity; she could not be more than sixteen. He, on the other hand, was forty; over twenty years between them! If he had married at the age of twenty-four — that being the sensible age at which to marry — he might well be father to a young girl of her age and youthful vigor. As he got on the trolley he was still thinking about that fatherhood that had never come to pass.
The powerful impact of those two eyes soon faded, as did his nostalgic enthusiasm for fatherhood. In their place came a vicious and black feeling that beset him every time he was near a female. And all because his love for women was the forbidden love of a middle-aged man that made him as afraid of them as a shy novice. He hated them all as a desperate old man. Every time he saw a pretty girl, he felt a strong emotional pull, a blend of love, fear, and loathing. His early childhood had had a profound effect on his peculiar instincts in this matter: he had been exposed to a father who dealt with him strictly and a mother who doted on him. The father’s strictness had regarded oppression as a sign of affection, while his mother spoiled him to such a degree that, if she had had her way, he would never have learned to walk in case he fell down. As a result he had grown up with a peculiar mélange of fear and coddling, afraid of his father, people, and the world in general, and escaping from all his fears in the affection of his mother. She had done everything for him, even the things he should have done for himself. As a result he was still a child at the age of forty, afraid of the world, going into despair at the slightest failure, and recoiling immediately from any kind of confrontation. In such cases his only weapons were the ones he had had from the start, tears or self-torture. But by now they were useless. The world did not consist of his loving mother; it didn’t care if he stopped eating, nor would it soften when he started weeping. Quite the opposite, it would turn away in disinterest and leave him to his own devices, sinking still deeper into his isolation and mulling over his own agony. Would his parents have ever imagined, one wonders, that this balding failure of a man was actually a victim of the way they had brought him up?