The ether man restrained his rage and said, "You're nothing but a headache for me. You get promoted without deserving it and then resent the least remark, no matter how appropriate. Don't blame us. Congratulations. Congratulations, sir. I just hope you'll pull yourself together. You're head of your section now."
Encouraged by the way the director had backed down, Yasin, without modifying his own sharp tone, replied, "I've been a civil servant lor more than twenty years. I'm forty-two. Do you think the sixtb level is too good for me? Boys are appointed at this rank merely because they've graduated from the University."
"The important thing is for you to pull yourself together. I hope] '11 find you as reliable as the others. When you were the school disciplinarian at al-Nahhasin School, you were a diligent and exemplary employee. Had it not been for that incident long ago…"
"Thai's ancient history. There's no need to mention it now. Everyone makes mistakes."
"You're a mature adult. If you play around, it will be hard to carry out your duties. When you stay out late every night, what condition is your brain in the next morning when you're supposed to work? I want you to shoulder your responsibilities. That's all there is to it."
Yasin was offended by the reference to his conduct and said, "I won't let anyone comment on my private life. Once I'm outside the ministry I'm free to do what I want."
"And inside it?"
"I will do as much work as any other section head. I've toiled enough over the years to suffice for the rest of my life."
When Yasin returned to his desk, despite the anger raging in his breast, he sported a smile. As the news spread, he was showered with congratulations.
Ibrahim Fath Allah leaned over to whisper spitefully to his neighbor, "His son! That's the whole story. Abd al-Rahim Pasha Isa… you understand? Disgusting!"
142
Seated in a large chair on the latticed balcony, al-Sayyid Ahmad Abd al-Jawad gazed alternately at the street and at al-Ahram, the newspaper spread across his lap. The gaps between the spindles of the latticework allowed patches of light to fall on his ample house shirt and on his skullcap. He had left the door to his room open so he could hear the radio from the sitting room. He appeared gaunt and wasted, and the dull look in his eyes suggested sorrowful resignation. From his perch on the balcony, he seemed to be discovering the street for the first time. In the past, he had never experienced it from this angle. Back then, he had slept most of the time he was at home. Nowadays the only amusement he had left, except for the radio, was sitting on the balcony and peering out between the spindles to the north and the south. It was a lively, charming, and entertaining street. Moreover, it had a special character distinguishing it from al-Nahhasin, which he had observed for roughly half a century from his shop, the one he had owned. Here were the establishments of Hasanayn the barber, Darwish the bean seller, al-Fuli the milkman, Bayumi the drinks vendor, and Abu Sari', who grilled snacks. Known for their location on this street, they were also the features by which Palace Walk was identified.
"What good companions and neighbors… I wonder how old these men are. Hasanayn the barber has a good build, the kind that rarely shows a man's age. Almost nothing about him has changed except his hair, but he's certainly over fifty. God's grace has preserved these men's health. And Darwish? Bald… he always was. But he's in his sixties. What a powerful body he has! I was like that when I was sixty, but now I'm sixty-seven. That's old! I've had my dothes cut down to fit what's left of my body. When I look at the photo hanging in my room, I can't believe I'm that same person. Poor blind al-Fuli is younger than Darwish. Without his apprentice, he wouldn't be able to make his rounds. Abu Sari' is an old man. Old? But he's still working. None of them has given up his shop. It's a shattering experience for a man to abandon his store. Afterward all you have left is sitting in your house, staying home day and night. If only I could go out for an hour every day! I have to wait for Friday and then I need both my stick and Kamal to assist me. Praise God, Lord of the universe, in any case. Bayu-mi's the youngest of them and the luckiest. His prominence began with Mary am's mother, and mine ended with her. Today he owns the most modern building in the neighborhood. That's what became of Mr. Muhammad Ridwan's home. Where it once stood, Bayumi has built a juice shop lit by electricity. A man's good fortune may start with a woman's treachery. Glory to God who gives all things. May His wisdom be exalted. Everything's been modernized. The roads have been paved with asphalt and illuminated with streetlights. Remember how pitch-black the nights were when you used to return home? What a long time it's been since you did that! Every shop has electricity and a radio. Everything's new, except me, an old man of sixty-seven who can only leave his home once a week. Even then I'm short of breath. My heart! It's all the fault of my heart that loved, laughed, rejoiced, and sang for so many years. Today it dictates calm, and there's no way to reject its decree. The doctor said, 'Take your medicine, stay home, and keep to the diet I've prescribed.' I told him, 'Fine. But will that make me strong again? Or give me back at least some of my strength?' He replied, 'Warding off further complications is the most we can hope for. Any exertion or movement puts you at risk.' Then he laughed and wanted to know, 'Why do you want to regain your strength?' Yes, why? It's ridiculous and pathetic."
All the same, al-Sayyid Ahmad had answered, "I want to be able to come and go."
The physician had commented, "Every condition has its own special pleasures like sitting quietly. Read the newspapers, listen to the radio, enjoy your family, and on Friday ride to the mosque of al-Husayn. That's enough for you."
"The matter's in God's hands," he thought. "Mutawalli Abd al-Samad is still stumbling about in the streets…. He says, 'Enjoy your family.' Amina no longer stays home. Our roles have been reversed. I'm confined to the latticed balcony while she roams around Cairo, going from mosque to mosque. Kamal sits with me for fleeting moments, as if he were a guest. Aisha? Alas, Aisha, are you alive or dead? And then they want my heart to recover and to feel contented."
"Master…"
He turned around and saw Umm Hanafi carrying a small tray with a bottle of medicine, an empty coffee cup, and a glass half rilled wi th water.
"Your medicine, master."
Kitch en fragrances wafted from the black dress of this woman who in the course of time had become one of the family. Picking up the glass, he poured out enough water to fill the cup halfway and then, after removing the medicine bottle's stopper, added four drops to the water in his cup. In anticipation of the taste, he made a face and then swallowed.
"May it bring you health, master."
"Thanks. Where's Aisha?"
"In her room. May God grant her forbearance."
"Call her, Umm Hanafi."
In her room or on the roof… what difference did it make? The radio's cheerful songs were in ironic contrast to the mournful atmosphere of this otherwise silent dwelling. Al-Sayyid Ahmad had been confined to the house for only the last two months. A year and four months had passed since Na'ima's death. When the mari had asked to listen to the radio in view of his urgent need for entertainment, Aisha had replied, "Of course, Papa. May God find ways to console you for being forced to stay home."
Heanng the rustling of a dress, he turned and saw Aisha approaching in her black attire. Although the weather was warm, she had a black scarf wrapped around her head. Her fair complexion had a strange blue cast to it. "That's a symptom of her depression," he thought. Then he said tenderly, "Get a chair and sit with me a little."
But she did not budge and replied, "I'm comfortable like this, Papa."